by Norman A. Rubin
“Psst!” a whispered voice beckoned as I jogged along a path near the concrete parched channel that brought water in a trickling stream to the thirsty residents of the City of Angels. “Psst, psst!” the sound called urgently, forcing curiosity on my part, despite the warnings of mayhem by total strangers. “Over here,” the voice whispered. At a supporting protruding abutment along the canal, a little man beckoned me with his pinky finger to near him. At first it was difficult to discern his identity as he was partly hidden by the visor of a peaked baseball cap. Then identity squirmed into the cells of my brain.
“Horace Zither!” I exclaimed, “yes, you are Horace Zither, a good neighbor of mine from the nearby vista villas. Heard about a hassle at the film studio where you laboured, and those very interested parties are seeking your where-abouts or remains. Even your ever beloved has missed your appearance for the past few days and has put the bloodhounds of a well known shyster sniffing your trail.”
“Shhh!”, whispered the urgent cry, “They’re all looking for me - LAPD, FBI, the Foggy Bottom, CIA, Hizbollah, CI5, Hassidic rabbis, and many other frustrated individuals. They all want to put their hands on me, me, Horace Zither.’ All because of that computer program.”
“Why?” I exclaimed, feigning ignorance of the affair.
Horace Zither beckoned again to follow him muttering that the whole affair will be explained when we are out of sight. We directed our steps along a zigzag path which led to a unused water tunnel, the Angelo municipality had at one time constructed at great expense to bring water from the now dried up Pasadena watershed. His flashlight beam directed us through a short course of twists and turns till we mounted stairs leading to a large well-lit room above. The furnishing within was sparse but adequate.
The blanket roll that I sat on squirmed and rolled as I sat on its thickness, forcing me to jump in fright.
“Don’t be alarmed, that’s my good friend Scruffy,” and indeed the apparition looked like a ‘scruffy’. “The good man does errands for me, bringing food and drink. He had done other chores for me, which I will not explain. Let me introduce you to the good man and then I will explain my sudden disappearance from the eyes of many, including my beloved Mable.”
Well, I made myself comfortable, next to the scruffy, who just grinned at me with an idiotic glance, as I listened to the fascinating, yet woeful tale, of Horace Zither.....
Genius, according to the dictionary, “is a person showing exceptional natural capacity of intellect, especially as shown in creative and original work, and etc., etc..” Well, whatever that means, Horace Zither was one of those as characterized in the Webster as being a genius. I shant bring disparity to the ones with the gift. He looked the part, a round, balding head on a short rotund body; his quizzical face was always frowned in question - felt there was a question mark looming above his head.
Horace Zither had been simple in his tastes in all aspects of his life. Even in love he chose the simple gargantuan form of Mable Daisy, lovely daughter of the banker J.Q. Hendriks, as his bride. Well, it wasn’t a chosen marriage as the both the Zither and the Hendriks families were desperate to rid themselves of the seed of their loins. The Zithers had to suffer explosive charges concocted by young Horace in their shattered home; and the Hendriks saw bankruptcy in the voluminous appetite of ballooning Mable.
Much to the consternation of both families, both Horace and Mable, after their marriage vows, channeled their diverse interests into lucrative occupations. Horace was always employed in his inventive capacity and Mable occupied herself for a wage as a taster at a large bakery outfit that prided itself only in productive quantity.
Somehow the round body of Horace was enveloped in love by the sensuous rippling flesh of Mable. Six children were blessed to them, three boys and three girls. All growing to a career opposite of their parents - one boy, now a smuggler who now enjoys the comforts of a federal penitentiary, another is on the run and a third is a punch-drunk boxer. The girls, on the other hand, turned into eye-catching nymphs that captured the eyes of Hollywood execs and various billionaires.
Horace Zither was neither a close friend nor a drinking buddy to hardly a soul; but he was always on good terms to his immediate neighbors, despite his deep friendship with the fire department.
He was a technical director at a motion picture studio where he had found employment in his later years: The film emporium was a second grade production facility that ground out all sorts of violent action television programs. Their reels took the viewer to interplanetary battles; evil crooks running amok in destructive acts; fiery creatures crawling from the depths of the earth and also from the seas; lovely, near nude nymphs being violated by oversexed villains; and the rest of the unbelievable drivel.
The studio needed various types of weapons and other destructive electronic gadgetry to put in the hands of the forces of justice in their fight against the baddies. Well, that’s where the gifts of the genius talents of Horace were put to work. He was a master of this art, a real perfectionist, creating all sorts of gadgets and gidgets. He kept his papers in correct order, filing the blueprints of his work of genius, and storing a well-protected copy of his creations.
Horace Zither was a real genius in his work at the studio that caught the attention of the producers and directors, who awarded the good man with the title of ‘technical director’ with a modest raise in salary. Whatever the mongols required for their endless flow of trashy films, Horace invented - ray guns that zipped and zapped; stellar out-fits for the lovelies that quickly unzipped and unzapped; guns of all types that bang-banged and fired an endless round of shot; whizzing spaceships, man-eating fishy and earthy creatures; tumbling planets that ran amok; and all sorts of electronics that blinked and flashed.
Until that fated day... Horace Zither, on that morn, was called into the office of the executive producer. There was no pause after his entrance as the supremo put his arm around the shoulders of his technical director. “Horace, my good man, the studio is in need of your wizardry. The producer told of a new blockbuster, plagiarized from a known author with, off course, cunning changes. That the star, a well known wrestler, will take the leading roll; namely as a champion of justice needed to fight an evil and nasty man who finds a way to take over the world.”
“How,” said the exec as paced the flood chomping on a cigar that Fidel was glad to get rid off, “How, you may ask. The mean baddy has, with a devious mind, has invented a super-duper computer that with a touch of his fingers on the keys can control the financial and political world. Horace, my good man, use your devious mind.. Sorry... your inventive genius and create a super computer for the film, that bings and bangs, and blinks and flashes that will give the illusion of nasty power of the evil man. Well, Horace Zither, give it you best - we are depending on you. The film shooting will be in two weeks.”
Horace left the office, his mind afire with thoughts and plans. Quickly he scurried from the chrome and walnut of the studio’s office and hurried to his atelier in the sub-basement of the dingy building housing the varied workshops. Upon arrival at his department he called his co-workers for a confab and in simple terms outlined the studio’s coming film and the need for the invention of a super-duper computer for the villain.
Well, before a camel can walk through the eye of a needle, the crew outlined plans, gathered materials, sawed, hammered, welded, screwed and electrified. Horace Zither busied himself in concocting the program, that with a press on the CTRL key lights would flash on - DELETE caused sounds to emit from loudspeakers - TAB button would darken the set - ALPHABET keys commanded - F1 to F12 simulated the loud clash of arms and marching feet - CAPS LOCK did one thing and SHIFT did another and in a final touch Horace used his bank account number as the secret code when ENTER was pressed.
Within two weeks, in time for the film shooting, the computer contraption was installed and ready. It was beaut, much to the delight of the producers and directors - an outlandish set of paneled lights, speakers set hither and yon, and in the center the computer surrounded by fake instruments of every sort. The infernal machine was ready, awaiting the pull of lever to commence the action - under the capable direction of the technical director. Lights, action, camera...
Horace Zither looked at me with a crestfallen face as he continued his tale... “It worked, the computer program really worked, and I do mean it worked,” he cried out and called upon the heavens.
When the nasty-nasty pressed the ALPHABET keys of A, F, or X, the power grid of Lower California blew a fuse - cause the most severe breakdown of power in history, but when the evil one pressed END, power was restored. The first days of production, cuts in power increased and the citizens of Cal. violently protested the failure of the Feds to provide mucho monies for current. The FBI was called in to investigate.
When the baddies chortled, they pressed CTRL and all the one-armed bandits in Reno twirled to three cherries causing untold grief to the Boyos - and a contract was given. The Pentagon lost its secrets to the Afghans when NUM LOCK was touched... and the mullah’s spy list fell into the hands of CI5 on the press of F1 - all the intelligence boys banded together. Horace Zither became a billionaire in paper from the secret numbered accounts from the Land of the Yodel when the SHIFT KEY was mishandled and various boys from honest government leaders to shifty characters began an intensive search. But, the worst of the whole affair was DELETE when kosher butchers found tasty tidbits of pork mixed with their beef...
Investigation pointed its finger towards me, the studio’s technical director. Much to the agony of the studio, the filming if its super duper production was finis.
Horace Zither continued in his woeful tale of agony, “At that time, California was in the grip of the ALPHABET keys of A, F, or X, It gave me time to retreat from the advancing horde and time to snatch the program from the computer in order to destroy the evidence of the electrical disorders and other mischiefs. But I didn’t.
That’s the whole story, and now every agency, whether they be good or evil, have put me on their wanted list, dead or alive, kosher or ‘tref’.”
Never knew the final end - either to Horace Zither or to Scruffy. There have been rumours of earthquakes and brushfires in the vicinity of the tunnel that at one time brought water from the Pasadena watershed at great expense. All that I know is that when there is a power failure in the lower part of the state, or when cherries flash on the bandits in the parched lands, or even when bankers have heart failure... Horace Zither must be pressing the keys.
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