In a previous post I described how Paco and I have been engaged in what I clumsily call "alternating authorial narrative." Examples of such narratives will be published in the future (Fex & Coo, Deathling Crown Lottery and The Museum of Indifference are in the works). A fresh example of this is Paco's response to my blog post entitled "Groiling." His piece is entitled, "Mr. Differently Has A Class to Teach."

Mr. Differently Has A Class to Teach

Mr. Differently was thrashing back and forth through the piles of thrash, searching for . . . searching for . . .

"Damme now, what was it?" said Differently, annoyed. "I've got a class to teach!"

"Boyp!" The sound came once from the thrash pile, then again: "Boyp! Boyp!"

Differently stopped his thrashing and listened for . . . listened for . . . oh yes, the Thrash Pile Voice. Finally, it came:

"That you, Boss, thrashin' again? Soychin' for?" came a reptilian-amphibian voice in reply, followed by another boyp.

"Yes, I'm Differently. I do things my way. Who are you?"

"Aw, Boss, you knows who I am. I'm always sittin' in your thrash pile, boypin' an' choypin' and eatin' doyty woyms. I'm Mr. Blackboyd, like the one you's always chalkin' on when you's teachin'."

"Excuse me?"

"Alright, yer 'scuzed," said Mr. Blackboyd, who, charmed by his own humor, finished with a prolonged, stuttering snort, "A-hunh, a-hunh, a-hunh!"

"If you please!" said Mr. Differently, almost shouting now.

"I 'spose you wanna go Goilin' today, with all them others," said the Thrash Pile Voice.

"No, I teach Koiling. That's my specialty. Koiling—get it? ing, ing, ing, not in' in' in'. And where's my chalk? Have you been eating my chalk again?"

"Chawk? You mean that white stuff?"

"Yes, the chawk—I mean, the chalk."

"Oh, yeah, maybe I did. Keeps me from boypin' so much. You know what it's like, eatin' all them doyty woyms all day. Didja need it or somethin'?"

"I just told you, I have a class to teach!"

"What time's yer klass?" said Mr. Blackboyd, unpertoybed, eyeing a doyty woym just emerging from the muck under the Thrash Pile.

"It starts when I get there!" said Differently, enunciating slowly and clearly, while clearly and slowly losing his temper. "So if you would be so kind as to evacuate my thrash pile, I'll get on with my search."

"Sorry, Boss. Won't do no good. I ate the chawk. You can thrash all day and you won't find it. Too late."

"Well, don't you have some hidden away? Some little stash in a grubby little hole somewhere? How else will I teach my class?" This was going differently from how Mr. Differently had planned his big Goiling Day Koiling Teaching Day.

"Got me, Boss. How many students ya got?"

"Well, how should I know? It depends on how many show up, don't it—I mean, doesn't it? Yes, Class Count goes differently on different Teaching Days," said Mr. Differently. "After all, it can't always be the same, not here anyway."

"Can't help ya, Boss. All I know is, I ate all the chawk, so it's gone. Poof. Poop. Oops. Just like that."

"This is an outrage!" Mr. Differently trembled as he spoke. "Well"—he paused, his breathing nearly convulsed—"it's the very last thing I want to do,"—tremble, tremble—"but I suppose I have no choice. I'm going to have to call in Lockhart. He'll have some cockamamie idea about what to do. After all, we're both teachers."

"Sounds like a plan, Boss, an' the only plan ya got."

"Mmmm," replied Mr. Differently, though bitterly begrudging his assent.

"Boyp!" replied Mr. Blackboyd, as a way of signing out, and with that he burrowed back into the thrash pile, where, we suppose, he intended to take his daily nap, leaving Mr. Differently to get Lockhart on the line.