Fantastic Metropolis

The owner of Slumberland resembled a bloated plutocrat of yore, a figure out of editorial pages of the old man’s youth. Seen in detail through the old man’s glasses on previous visits, the owner recalled no one so much to the old man as Nast’s indelible image of Boss Tweed.

Now, waddling like King Cole, his plummy cheeks visibly flaring even as half-distinguished by the old man’s weakened vision, his waistcoat straining against his girth, the owner had apparently been attracted by the commotion in Room 1905, and rushed in to take command.

In the midst of the uselessly fluttering workers and gawpers, the old man rediscovered his voice, enough to croak out a single name, a name that surprised him as much as it baffled the listeners.

“Flip. Please, Flip. Help, please, Flip–”

Flip

They had torn off his shirt and laid abrasive paddles against his chest, but not yet triggered the Frankenstein jolts that might convince his balky pump to labor uselessly on, prolonging a life that should have ended ninety years ago, for all the utility or joy or good deeds the old man could realistically chalk up against his anticlimactic, purposeless span.

A choir of blurry faces hung about his bed: the Candy Kid, Doctor Pill, King Morpheus, the Princess, Impie–
But no Flip! Where was Flip? Flip would save him, sure he would, that rascal….

That green-faced, unblinking, cigar-smoking amalgam of Penrod, Jiggs, and Moon Mullins, who had first appeared in pure ornery envious opposition to the young visitor from the realm of wakefulness, yet who had become, in some strange fashion, his best friend among the dreamfolk (though still inherently prone to causing disruptions, detours and disasters galore). Often and often had Flip extended a saving hand when danger threatened. Wouldn’t he trump death now, darting in from offstage during the crisis of this final act?

The paddles crackled to life, and, under their misplaced harshness, the old man’s heart burst.

Waves of crimson occluded his dying eyes. The shimmering red draperies boiled for an infinite moment, then were sucked down as into a whirlpool, pooling into a single red knot——the ember on the tip of Flip’s cigar.

“Feelin’ kinda punk there for a minute, hey, kid?”

The old man took stock of his bodily condition first: no pain, an effortless vitality flowing through his limbs, his wrinkled, palsied hands smoothed to youthful elasticity and steadied by confidence, his head full of wavy brown hair.

His surroundings? A white canvas, untouched by artist’s brush or pen.

His clothing: a soft flannel suit of footed pajamas.

His sole companion? Flip, in red-and-white striped pants, garish weskin with buttons the size of dinner plates, billowy yellow cravat, insouciant top hat.

The reborn boy stuck out his hand, and Flip gripped it with his typical rude vigor.

“Sorry to take so long fetchin’ ya back, kid, but we had a busy night here at the Palace since we last saw each other. Rogue herd of gogglemops got loose in the pantry. Devil’s own work corralling them. Chef fell in the birthday cake batter too.”

“One night? Was that all it was?”

“Yeah, just a single night. How come ya ask? Time kinda drag for ya?”

“A little, yes. It seemed like years.”

“Well, you’re too many for me, pal. But ya know ya won’t have that kinda headache here. Plenty to keep ya busy. Almost too much sometimes, ya ask me. Now let’s get movin’. Lotta folks waitin’ for ya—including one special little lady, if you get my drift. You don’t wanna miss yer own birthday party. Hope ya don’t mind if yer cake tastes a little like the Chef.”

“How do we get there?”

Flip smacked his forehead. “Wotta lunkhead! After all this time, ya gotta ask me! Use yer wits, peabrain!”

The boy thought a moment, then gripped twin handfuls of the canvas and pulled, tearing open a wide jagged split, to reveal—
The real Slumberland at last.

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“Slumberland” appears in Little Doors, Paul Di Filippo’s new collection due in November 2002 from Four Walls Eight Windows.