St Muckymuck, Season II: Before the Parade Passed By

“Good afternoon, everyone!” said a cheerful voice.  “My, my how the time flies.  Kenny McKiltie from KTV news here reporting on a most exciting event!  We’ve had bovine-distrupted prayer services so far this magnificent Mocheomoc memorials.  One can’t help but wonder what will happen today as we witness the great Mocheomoc Parade.”  He seemed to be choking back a laugh.

“What we will witness on this soggy, cold, and windy day is the crowning of that inimitable personality, that paragon of femininity, of that vivaciously virtuous vixen, Mys Tery.  There was the distant roar of a crowd, as Kenny’s commentary was being broadcast live on a giant LCD screen in St. Bunnicula Square.

“Yes!  I’m getting excited, too!” he smiled brightly and shifted in his seat.  “After the crowning, we will witness the many floats that have been created by people from all over Scotland.”

More distant applause.

“That will be followed by a catered picnic in Bunnicula Square.  And who knows what will happen there?  I understand Gladys McLeary is doing the cooking.  I would highly doubt that the Good Lord himself knows what delectations will be served!”  His eyes twinkled.

“But, first, a word from our sponsors!”

The screen went black.

ST MUCKYMUCK

Season 2

WRITTEN BY STEVEN GORMAN

WHAT YOU READ IS:

IRRELIGIOUS, IRREVERENT, AND IRRELEVANT.

THE PEOPLE, PLACES, AND EVENTS CONTAINED IN ST MUCKYMUCK ARE COMPLETELY FICTIONAL. ANY AND ALL RESEMBLANCES TO REAL PEOPLE, REAL PLACES, AND/OR REAL EVENTS PAST, PRESENT, OR FUTURE IS PURELY COINCIDENTAL.

When the screen came up again, there was a picture of a feline-esque woman, rather elderly, dressed in all black.  She was sitting in an old-fashioned rocking chair.

“We have been in St. Bunnicula Square since before the war.  Serving those who offer us the gift of their custom.”  The scene dissolved to show the woman serving drinks and laughing heartily.  Over this, her voice was heard:

                Tsunami, blizzard, earthquake, fire, or flood

                To serve this great city is in our blood

                You’ll find us on the Square

                With drinks for every child, woman, or fella

                Come down and visit Sam n’ Ella!

(Bandit the Cat’s meow was heard.) 

And we gladly serve your pets

Be they beast or fowl.

With Sam n’ Ella you’ll hear no howl!”

(Bandit meowed again and when the scene returned to Emma, Bandit was laying in her lap, as she was rocking back and forth.  She was smiling.  He was purring.)   

“Wave to everyone, Biddy B,” she said.  Bandit sat up, and put up his right paw.  He meowed a third time.  The screen became blurry and Sam n’ Ella’s phone number came up.  The voice of Kenny McKiltie was heard, “Sam n’ Ella’s is open all during the feast celebrations with special hours over the weekend closing at midnight!”  The scene came up with Bandit and Ginger.  He was mewling and chirping while Bandit looked at him.  In the middle of it, Bandit waved as the two looked over at Emma who continued the speech for the entire commercial in the Felinian tongue.

The screen went black.  Then came up again.

“And we’re back…just in time for the crowning of our parade and feast day queen.  And, yes, here we go!”

The camera cut to a huge burgundy velvet and golden throne sitting on a dais in front of the cathedral.  A grand matching canopy was spread over it.  The much injured statue of the Great Saint was next to the throne.  A burgundy cloth had been draped over both of the statue’s hands with the little stone Percival placed on his back to keep it in place.

“And it appears the great statue was repaired after the bovine barrage it underwent yesterday.  And, wonder of wonders, Percival is anatomically correct!  Good Lord, I’ll bet no one expected that!”  He chuckled loudly at his own joke.

“Here comes Fr. Eamonn of the seminary, scowling as usual.  Word has it there are 3,000 seminarians there this year.  Don’t know how they manage that  -- but the they do!  And behind the rector of the seminary is Fr. Gabriel Byrne, administrator of the cathedral, and the parochial vicar of St. Mocheomoc Cathedral, Fr. Erick Griffiths, poor chap, sporting a nasty black eye that I can see all the way from here after yesterday’s cow calamity.”  He chuckled again.  “We’ll be mooing about that for centuries to come, I feel certain!

“And now they are in their places.  The University of North Kilcathclyde Early Music Purveyors and Travelers are striking up with a Rondeau by French composer Elisabeth Jacquet de la Guerre.  She is my great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great-great grandfather’s sister, for the record.

“And here comes Mayor Malcolm followed by the Archbishop of Kilcathclyde Stefano di Tartuffo  Behind him are his two assistants in the curious…I mean, curiate offices, Fr. William S.  Rirey and Monsignor Marco Black.”

Behind them came Mys Tery.  She had on burgundy and white robes and a pink chiffon crinoline that was positively enormous and that made her look like she was floating.  The sweetheart neckline offset the regal elegance of the robes.  She looked stunning and as much like Rosemary Clooney as was possible.  When she sat down on the throne, the dress billowed out and settled slowly, making her look like she sat on a fluffy, pink cloud.

“The pages are bringing the Great Saint’s Silver Spiritual Scepter and the Opal Orb and handing them to the queen of the parade.  I must say, Mys Tery looks absolutely radiant.  To paraphrase an orb-weaving arachnid ‘Some Queen!’”  He giggled appreciatively at his own literary reference.

“And now Ina Mallarky, the charming choirmistress of the cathedral choir will sing the city’s anthem.  Ms. Mallarky is a native of Kilcathclyde and studied voice with the famous Italian cant belto style teacher Maestro Sylvio-Eugenio di Malatesta.  Here she is mounting the podium…Ms. Mallarky.”

(The orchestra gave a short intro and Ina sang:)

It is to thee, O Town,

We look over and down,

Our Faithful Town.

To thee with great accord

We hail, “We’re never bored!

And fight for thee with sword!

Our Faithful Town!”

God bless our Faithful Town

About we never clown,

Our Faithful Town.

On you we pour our love,

All others we’re above –

Are as pure as a dove,

God bless our Town.

Founded by a Great Saint,

Honored in stone and paint,

No sin a-taint.

He came on a small raft

With penguin fore and aft.

And none of it was daft,

Our Great, Great Saint!

“Oh – never was there anything so wonderfully sung,” said Kenny, pulling a pink, frilly handkerchief from an inside pocket and blowing his nose loudly.  “’At’s my girl, Ina.”  He dabbed at his eyes and returned the handkerchief to its original place.

“The crown will be brought forward by none other than the Pope.  His plane arrived early this morning amid a flurry of the Swiss guard, clergy of all ranks, sorts, and flavors, secretaries, religious, caterers, and seven cases of pickled garlic anchovies, his favorite snack, we're told, and three crates marked "private affairs."  He is scheduled to make his way here at any moment and process down the magnificent Kenneth Cole carpet to Mys Tery and place the ceremonial crown on her head accompanied by Bandit the Cat and Percival the Penguin.

“And here they come!  Engelbert von Stumpenberger, otherwise known as Pope Quivox LXXXVII.  And everyone is now standing.  What a majestic scene!”

The orchestra played the St Mocheomoc Hymn as His Holiness made his way down to Mys Tery.  He paused, bowed to the parade queen, who bowed back, naturally.  He came up the stairs with cat and penguin at each side to the dais and Mys Tery sat down.  He placed the crown on her head, handed her a long, gold scepter with a fat, round ruby on top of it, and then an orb made of solid opal which reflected the dull gray light making even it radiant.   

He made the Sign of the Cross over the newly be-crowned, be-sceptered, be-orbed, parade monarch and bid her stand.  He turned toward the throng of people standing nearby and announced, “Behold!  Queen Mocheaoi-Margaret Mys Tery!!”  Everyone cheered!

The camera turned back to Kenny McKiltie, who was dabbing his eyes with the pink, frilly handkerchief again.  “That gets me every year!  It’s an ancient ritual – going back some twelve hundred years.  But still, whenever we come to this part of the great celebrations…I just weep like a red-headed stepchild!”

©2012 Steven Gorman.  All rights reserved.