metal elbow.
“Excuse that, excuse it. Forgot to turn myself completely off. My first three wives were all the time complaining about that. Fourth one was tone deaf so she never . . . I’m Washboard Will, the One Man Band. You probably have some of my records in your collection.”
“I don’t believe so, no.”
Washboard Will was a lanky man, a combination of flesh and metal. His head was topped with a silver skull cap from which several whistle-like tubes extended. There was a row of dials and buttons built into his partially exposed flesh chest. “Sold over ten million albums in the Barnum System alone. And down in the Solar System. . . . Ever hear of that one? Down there, on a planet they call Jupiter, they have a Washboard Will Fan Club, with seventeen chapters. Idolize me on Jupiter.”
Pooty Toot!
“Did that come out of your ear?”
“Excuse me, excuse it.” Will reached up his metal hand to turn off his ear. “Built most of this equipment myself. Little things will go on the fritz. Drove my first three spouses to distraction. One would hug me, out would come a military march. A kiss on the cheek might produce a rousing polka. Once in bed with, the second one as I recall, a mere playful twist of my . . . but you’re probably not interested in my domestic troubles. Had breakfast?”
“Not really very hungry, thanks.” Tad glanced around the deck. Up forward was a stage and rows of seats. A striped canopy of blue and gold sheltered the stage and audience area. At the moment the seats were empty, an orange-toned man with four arms was juggling a variety of small furniture. “Was that you I heard playing earlier?”
“None other,” replied Will. “There’s only one Washboard Will, and his sound is unmistakable. See, unlike some of your one-man-band acts, I have a bigband sound. Sure, because I made all the modifications of myself. I remember vividly the morning I was hacking off my left arm so I could replace it with—”
“You mean this isn’t because of an accident?”
“Accident? Since when did great art result from an accident?” Will shook his head, the whistles built into his skull swayed. “My first wife was the same way as you. When she chanced to notice me whacking off the arm she let out an awful howl. And later, when I bestowed a friendly pat on the toke, she screamed like a stuck quilp. How many women, in their entire lives, get their fannies fondled by a hand that can make as beautiful music as this one?” He held it up, let the sun catch it. “Well, I’m off to the galley. Sure you won’t join me?”
“Not right now, thanks.” Tad continued along the deck, one hand resting on the railing. They were traveling through an uninhabited area, there was only thick forest on both sides of them.
“Don’t take another step, sonny boy!”
Tad halted. A plump old woman, a huge guitar strapped to her back, was down on her knees directly in his path.
She was muttering, slapping at the planks with her mottled hands. “I’ll have it in a minute.”
“Are you about to have some kind of attack?”
“Not on your life, sonny boy,” she replied. “I’m searching for my left eye.”
“How’d you—”
“That dumbell Washboard Willie gave me a heavy slap on the back by way of greeting.” she said. “His nitwit arm played several bars of a waltz and my glaz eye went flying.”
“Can I help you hunt?”
“Nope, thanks. I’m an old-fashioned soul. Certain parts of a woman’s body are personal, I believe. That includes the. . . . Ho! there’s the little dickens!” She scooped up something from the deck, inserted it in her face.
Tad extended a hand to help her rise. “I’m Tad . . . Jaxon, a guest of—”
“Know all about you.” A smile spread across her broad face. “You no doubt recognize me as Mother Zarzarkas.”
“Matter of fact, I don’t. See, I’m off planet so—”
“My ditties are famed all over this nitwit universe, sonny boy.” the old woman
“Excuse that, excuse it. Forgot to turn myself completely off. My first three wives were all the time complaining about that. Fourth one was tone deaf so she never . . . I’m Washboard Will, the One Man Band. You probably have some of my records in your collection.”
“I don’t believe so, no.”
Washboard Will was a lanky man, a combination of flesh and metal. His head was topped with a silver skull cap from which several whistle-like tubes extended. There was a row of dials and buttons built into his partially exposed flesh chest. “Sold over ten million albums in the Barnum System alone. And down in the Solar System. . . . Ever hear of that one? Down there, on a planet they call Jupiter, they have a Washboard Will Fan Club, with seventeen chapters. Idolize me on Jupiter.”
Pooty Toot!
“Did that come out of your ear?”
“Excuse me, excuse it.” Will reached up his metal hand to turn off his ear. “Built most of this equipment myself. Little things will go on the fritz. Drove my first three spouses to distraction. One would hug me, out would come a military march. A kiss on the cheek might produce a rousing polka. Once in bed with, the second one as I recall, a mere playful twist of my . . . but you’re probably not interested in my domestic troubles. Had breakfast?”
“Not really very hungry, thanks.” Tad glanced around the deck. Up forward was a stage and rows of seats. A striped canopy of blue and gold sheltered the stage and audience area. At the moment the seats were empty, an orange-toned man with four arms was juggling a variety of small furniture. “Was that you I heard playing earlier?”
“None other,” replied Will. “There’s only one Washboard Will, and his sound is unmistakable. See, unlike some of your one-man-band acts, I have a bigband sound. Sure, because I made all the modifications of myself. I remember vividly the morning I was hacking off my left arm so I could replace it with—”
“You mean this isn’t because of an accident?”
“Accident? Since when did great art result from an accident?” Will shook his head, the whistles built into his skull swayed. “My first wife was the same way as you. When she chanced to notice me whacking off the arm she let out an awful howl. And later, when I bestowed a friendly pat on the toke, she screamed like a stuck quilp. How many women, in their entire lives, get their fannies fondled by a hand that can make as beautiful music as this one?” He held it up, let the sun catch it. “Well, I’m off to the galley. Sure you won’t join me?”
“Not right now, thanks.” Tad continued along the deck, one hand resting on the railing. They were traveling through an uninhabited area, there was only thick forest on both sides of them.
“Don’t take another step, sonny boy!”
Tad halted. A plump old woman, a huge guitar strapped to her back, was down on her knees directly in his path.
She was muttering, slapping at the planks with her mottled hands. “I’ll have it in a minute.”
“Are you about to have some kind of attack?”
“Not on your life, sonny boy,” she replied. “I’m searching for my left eye.”
“How’d you—”
“That dumbell Washboard Willie gave me a heavy slap on the back by way of greeting.” she said. “His nitwit arm played several bars of a waltz and my glaz eye went flying.”
“Can I help you hunt?”
“Nope, thanks. I’m an old-fashioned soul. Certain parts of a woman’s body are personal, I believe. That includes the. . . . Ho! there’s the little dickens!” She scooped up something from the deck, inserted it in her face.
Tad extended a hand to help her rise. “I’m Tad . . . Jaxon, a guest of—”
“Know all about you.” A smile spread across her broad face. “You no doubt recognize me as Mother Zarzarkas.”
“Matter of fact, I don’t. See, I’m off planet so—”
“My ditties are famed all over this nitwit universe, sonny boy.” the old woman
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