BONUS STORY

Here is a BONUS STORY. Before reading it though, I suggest you read the Secret Life of Walter Mitty by James Thurber. It will make an awful lot more sense if you do so.

The Secret Life of Mrs. Mitty

There he was, sunk deeply inside of the old armchair by the window, with his stupid stubble and greasy hair, and that stupid look in his eyes-white as a ghost but with no light reflecting upon it. 

“I’ve been searching all over this hotel for you!” I said, curtly. “Why do you have to hide in this old chair? How do you expect me to find you?”

“Things close in,” Walter Mitty mumbled dreamily.

“What?” I said, “Did you get that what’s-its-name? The puppy biscuit? What’s in that box?”

“Overshoes,” he said, vaguely, off in his own little world. What a nuisance it is, having him for a husband. How can I expect him to do anything when the most paltry of matters distract him?

Humph. “Couldn’t you have put them on in the store?” I asked, annoyed. Talking to him was like speaking to a three year old- you can either receive the queerest and most confusing of ramblings, or simplest, the most blatant of answers. This man was the latter, a bewildering mass of simplicity that can drive the sanest person mad. You can never understand a quiet person who speaks in the tongue of one-word-sentences. 

“I was thinking,” Walter Mitty said. I scrutinized his expression carefully. Ruminative. How odd, he is usually dreamy, not a deep thinker. “Doesn’t it ever occur to you that I am sometimes thinking?” There he goes again, his simple statements that drove me mad.
“I’m taking your temperature when I get you home,” I said, adding later, “And this time, I’m driving.”
We later pulled into the driveway of our plain white house. I lead Walter Mitty to the front door of his house he trailed behind, his arms full of bags. Suddenly, he stumbled, and the bags all toppled on to the ground, scattered amongst the pavement. 

Ugh. What an inept oaf.  I went back to help, when I noticed his foggy, glazed over eyes. I picked up some of the bags, when I noticed something that didn’t seem quite right. I pulled open the bag from the convince store and pulled out the puppy biscuits, giving them a disdainful sniff. 

“These aren’t puppy biscuits, they’re kitten biscuits!  My, if Wilma Mitty has to get something done, she has to do it herself!” I shouted angrily, shaking with vexation.

I stormed over to the car, tossed my head over my shoulders, and gave a shuddering roar, “And you, Walter Mitty, stay HERE!”

I drove as fast as I could without frightening myself to the convenience store, where I purchased a bag of puppy biscuits, and then returned home. 

Inside of the house, Walter Mitty was tidying up the kitchen, but his eyes were white and unfocused once more. 

“I’m home,” I called back, and he blinked his protuberant eyes, a jolt of energy that allowed his consciousness to flood into himself once more. 

He stared back blankly.

I sighed, and bit back my annoyance, “Well, I’ll be in the basement if you need me.”

“Alright,” he replied, and went back to cleaning the dishes. 

I headed down the basement stairs, the old house creaking to life with each step I took. For a moment, I fumbled around in the darkness until my hands sought out a familiar surface-Walter Mitty’s father’s polished oak armoire. I through open the doors and felt around for a candle and matches. The soon lit candle brought warmth and knowledge; sight is a beautiful gift of understanding that we never so often cherish. It guided me through labyrinth of our basement-a cluttered mess of trinkets I’ve gathered throughout the years.

I found my way around-past my grandmother’s cauldron, stepped over my hoard of various creature’s skulls I once so proudly boasted of, and under vines of knives and other assortments of weaponry, until I reached it- the glorious Land O’ Spells. 

I kneeled over a large box of spell books, and fumbled through the pile in hopes of finding “Reincarnation Recollections,” a novel I so very much favored. Soon, I uncovered it; it was buried beneath “Intelligent Incantations” volume 1-5, blew the dust off of it, and flipped open to page 546. This page was tarnished and stained, as I had used it so many times.

I set the book down on the floor, and kneeled over it. I reread its words for what seemed like the thousandth time; they intrigued me and lead me on. I started with the paragraph about how a human’s reincarnated self was trapped inside their soul, and a bit of witchcraft can urge those past lives to escape and be used as pawns. 

I so desired to have my own collection of servants to carry out my bidding; for now though, I only had Walter Mitty, a human being who’s self was so fractured he was almost entirely useless.

Though, he was not completely menial, for I used him to acquire his past lives-future slaves of my every wish. On this very page I have open in front of me, were also instructions on how to free past-lives from a human soul using puppy biscuits and a tad bit of incantations. You simply feed the human a certain type of puppy biscuits (most will work, however, one must ensure that it contains the proper wheat-to-meat ration) and the chemicals found inside penetrate the soul. When you recite these words , “Spera in meo caemiterio tabernus”, the puppy biscuits rapidly spin inside the soul, and are pulled out of the body and through the mouth. The past lives are extracted as well, becoming slaves in a form of apparition. It does not mention what becomes of the body the spirits were withdrawn from, but I am sure that it would become weak, now that its soul has been emptied. But, alas, who cares, for it is just a body, isn’t it?

I have tried this method on Walter Mitty many a time before, but it somehow never works. He does not vomit up the puppy biscuits or any spirits. Instead, he shudders and returns to his normal self, acting as if nothing odd happened. I notice, however, he often succumbs to a dreamlike state, like the past lives consume his mind from time to time. I am sure that the spirits he once was are trapped inside his mind, inside his head, and I am certain now, with an extra bit of incantations, I can wheedle these spirits out.

The only thing I need now is the body that contains those spirits.

“Walter Mitty, dear, can you come down here?” I called. “I need you for a moment.”

NOTE: Please check out the blog foaminfrodowithafro.blogspot.com for fascinating installments. I suggest you start with the first posts and then work your way towards the most recent ones.