The King's daughter also had interest in this Faire, but only regarding her shopping list. The occasion marked her yearly opportunity to hunt for those diaphanous silks so dear to her heart and body.  The first day was naturally the merriest, though this did not keep her from dozing through breakfast. Awake now, still in negligee, the princess sang as she sorted through her closet, casting away old gowns to make space for the new. Some frocks were discarded because they were, admittedly, now a tad tight. Yes, Trish had gained another pound or two in the last year...but not regrettably.  She was well aware that the love sonnets sung by her courtiers were in truth hymns to her gentle bulges. The facts were obvious, thrilling; eerily so, but never stated and often denied in this sweet merry-go-round of sexual tension that was Trish's life.  There was only one professional songster in this crowd of males; the jester, Hugo. These heavy breasts and buttocks weighed on his mind more than anyone's. Trish knew.  Forced to gape up at her, deliciously subservient, from his standpoint, the jester beheld an imposing Amazon, a monument to womanhood, one whose height must be matched by the quality of pure love undoubtedly coursing through her veins, pounding powerfully in her huge heart. Here was love, walking and talking and in Hugo's life! And she must stay! Hugo would do anything, anything...!  as he proclaimed, often, to her whenever in fear or doubt. From her view, the princess looked upon a sweet, scrawny lad whose charms were clouded by his cupidity. His caresses were potent, his devotion so unquestioning that it was often sheer delight to know he was alive. But the pained pleading in his eyes...so imploring, so guileless. He was a type easy to take for granted, even to despise. Of this, Trish understood she was guilty. Guilty because Hugo did not merit such mockery. Yes, he was lowborn, indeed, as low as one could get. Consorting with him was a bawdy joke; her peers were eager to see her throw him down, and laughed out loud when she did. Trish did not savor standing out unfashionably from the pack. Yet, her heart, in a fashion, was the jester's, and it was a Princess' privilige to consort with whom she pleased.  Though a commoner, Hugo posessed power over the royals; when he held them spellbound by the fire with a tale, or stirred them with a song.  Then Hugo became something noble. The respect, however grudging, any person holds for a master artist elevated him in their eyes; they confided in him, took him on their laps, drank with him like an old friend. They even would strive to make him  laugh, attempt to attain his  status, struggled for the glow of being closer to the true professional, to be a tiny part of the magic that only he can make. But when he was summoned to employ tricks such as tumbling or juggling, the effect was more plebian. When he played the clown, spewing ribaldries or cutting grotesque capers, Hugo descended into the depths. He was funny, but his artistic side was forgotten, and he became a professional figure of fun for the entire castle household. A clown must be honored with contempt; otherwise, the entire order is in danger. It was easy, even relieving, for the young, the stupid and the stupefied to forget the qualities once admired; to deal the clown jolly insults,  casual kicks; to pelt him with the foulest offal. It took true grit to shun sliding into this attitude, and sometimes Trish lost her internal battle. This caused her painful guilt she could only handle by avoiding it.  Avoiding it once more, she eyed her body's profile in the mirror, and gave its most imposing features a few appreciative pats. She allowed her palm to remain on her buttock for some loving circular strokes. But not too great a number of them! The princess was cautious not to let her narcissism stray into obscenity... A tap at the chamber door. Then a call: "Oh, Trish! 'Tis I!"  Trish felt that ghastly reflex. That voice inside that groaned, 'And what of it?' Hugo popped his head into the room. His eyes popped, too, at the princess, resplendent in her nudity. Hugo toddled up behind her, throwing his arms around her thighs. He was very short. The princess caught a view of him over her shoulder.Hugo gawped up at her with a most idiotic beam. The princess smirked.  "Now, Hugo, don't drool on me." He was looking presentable that morning; very cute, in fact. His red hair was neatly combed, and his thick forelock swung over one eye. He was bedecked in an outfit he did not wear commonly. As ever, it was stitched together by the jester himself from cast-offs thrown him by the other castle folk; but the blend of mauve and yellow hues was a nifty one. A special outfit. A special day?... Trish didn't comment on it. She immersed herself in her wardrobe. Hugo unraveled himself. "Hi, Sweet One. I missed you at breakfast." When the princess said nothing, he added: "I hope you had a good sleep." Trish turned an imperious eye toward him. "I hope I am allowed to sleep in every so often." "No, no, Trish, I didn't mean it that way", Hugo said as he took a seat on her bed, cursing himself for uttering a word, a single syllable, which could be misconstrued. "I just meant that...well, your presence is always missed. And I was just worried that you weren't down because you weren't feeling up to par or something." "Thanks", Trish said, turning to the gowns she held in each arm. She didn't look up while adding, "You're all dressed up this morning." Hugo brightened. "The Faire, Trish, the faire! That's why I was so concerned!" "Hm?" "I want to take you with me this first day! There's a splendid batch of acrobats...they were members with the troupe I traveled with for years. The word is they're gonna be performing in the square at noon, and..." Trish scowled. "Hugo...If your cronies care to perform before me, let them come to the castle! Heaven knows, my father will get a bigger kick out of it than I will!" So spewing, she flung an unwanted dress behind her onto her bed, just missing Hugo. The jester was stung. He, too, was an acrobat.  Hugo knew he would be useless shadowing Trish on her shopping orgies. The only entertainments he could endeavor to coax her with were mere peasantries. But hope sprung eternal... "Well, there must be something at the faire we can both enjoy..." , he said. "What makes you think we're destined to go together in the first  place?" Stung again, Hugo strained for the right words. But Trish persisted before he could find them:  "Look, Hugo; thanks. Thanks very much for thinking of me! But I don't go to the faire to gawk at acrobats and sword swallowers! " She tossed another dress behind her.  Hugo was blanketed under it. At this, she had to chuckle. Wallowing under Trish's garment, Hugo was thrice stung.  "That...that's not funny", he stated gravely. His voice, muffled under the silken stuff, sounded not unlike a kazoo. Traces of Trish's perfume lingered in the material, and the sensation as it slid about his body was not unpleasant. His loins stirred, confusing him and worsening the situation by ten.  Hugo was a game lad, though, and determined not to betray his emotions. So he did not struggle to disentangle himself. Instead, he blundered blindly to the door with the dress tented over him, his pinched face hidden from the cruel world. On the way, he grazed a table, muttered an unintelligible oath, then turned and tumbled beanpot over bootlaces on a footstool's leg. The cuteness of the kitten's dilemma amused the princess no end. What a humorous jester! Her bubbling laughter echoing in his ears, Hugo halted on reaching the doorway. His hand on the knob, he turned to issue some pithy pronouncement. But, since his voice was muffled and he was lost for lectures anyway, he surrendered just a few angry bleats. This set Trish to carry on cackling, but more forcibly; partially to spite him, partially to drown out any words which might find their way through the fabric. Thus strode Hugo through the hall, occasionally ramming his face into a piece of furniture. Others in the household bustled about, preparing to visit the faire. They cast their eyes upon him in wonder, a few not being able to control themselves from firing weak witticisms: "Fine ensemble", Sir Loin of Beefcake commented. And from Olaf the roustabout, "If you're playing ghost, your sheet should be white." They could not be blamed. Hugo knew he made a ridiculous picture. Yet another reason not to undrape himself. So as not to see their grinning faces...  Lodged in the roof of the highest tower of the castle was Hugo's bedroom. Thanks to the jester's sharp aesthetic tastes, it was as hospitable as any cubbyhole could be. The walls' rough plaster barely shielded their slat construction; but discarded draperies, used ingeniously by the jester, concealed the most unsightly spots. A barrel and a scrap of broken mirror atop it were lodged against a wall, serving as a kind of bureau. A tatter of tapestry was his rug.  Having navigated his way into the room, Hugo plopped into his bed, a wee wooden box stuffed with bits of cloth. Trish's gown was now his blanket. Already having run a round of emotions, from hurt to hate to humiliation, Hugo was now concious of another feeling taking over...exhaustion.

Cowboy Jim slept. Camped out on the prarie, single amongst the stars and clouds. Solitary save for the coyote who perched on the leaf of a diaphanous bush, and sang his tortured moon-tune. Cowboy Jim stirred early the next morning, his mouth lousy with the taste of old star-meat. He reached into his mouth and pulled out a handful of teeth, letting them scatter in the sand. They were of no more use. To him or to anyone else.  Jim was no longer a boy. He was beyond manhood. Every inch of his crusty body creaked and crackled with arcane experience. Spats? He remembered what they were. He could put them on and take them off with little difficulty. And without referring to one historical tome, Jim could stand and serenade you with any one of fourteen presidential campaign songs which he knew by heart. Feeling a twinge, Cowboy Jim wondered why this sort of music had died. Murder was the case, he suspected, slaughter at the hands of some 38-year-old media mover who had deemed the genre unworthy and had sent word to the sheep. A tragedy. These were Cowboy Jim's favorite melodies, the ballads he always sang to himself, the mantras that kept him from total isolation as he roamed the Prairie. You could keep your Gregorian Chants about Blood on the Saddle. Just let old Cowboy Jim wrap his larynx around Lyndon P. Johnson, and you'd experience Fun made Audible. Cowboy Jim...ah, OLD Cowboy Jim collected his wits and pressed each into its own baking mold. He knew who the winner was. The years had scattered his teeth, his friends, the traditions he had held dearest. As humiliating as it was to accept, as acrid the taste, he was driven to concede victory to Mother Earth. Jim lifted himself into a sitting position, preparing to head back home. "You really should get a computer, Old Cowboy Jim." Cowboy Jim raised his head unto the speaker. Yes, indeed, it was that old fiend, Bartholoemus Buzzard, perched on a cactus and barely containing his drool. "That way, you wouldn't be forced to leave your cabin for these useless diversions." Still sitting on the ground before the buzzard, Jim proudly stiffened. "I, for one, still LIKE to leave my home once in awhile", he intoned coldly, "and no feathered carpet-bagger is going to stop me!" "Have things your way, you poor sap", the bird retorted calmly, pursing his beak into a pout of mock sympathy. "But what sort of a weird thrill must you get out of putting your life on the line this way? Why don't you get with the system? Before it's too late, why don't you get your computer, set up your own family unit and stay indoors like every NORMAL human being? You know, if you don't get with the system, you CAN get hurt." With his aspirin eyes, Bartholoemus pointed to a human carcass forty feet away, largely devoid of flesh. Cowboy Jim pretended not to notice the gesture. He kept his eyes on the buzzard. Save for the winds that ruffled Jim's stringy hair, seconds of total silence passed. Now Barley, son of Bartholoemus, flapped down and joined the scene. Pimples, braces, chewing gum with open mouth, and not even deigning to contain his  drool. "How about it, Dad? Has horseface consented to keep our intestenes company?" The young buck shot a scornful glance down at the unmoving Cowboy Jim, good for only a Fast Food Fun Smack, and a cheap one at that. "Not yet, Son", replied the father, who was enjoying himself much too much to become cross with this Young Vulgarian of a boy of his. Yes, indeed. Every inch his mother's son. "Besides, have I not taught you yet that Food Tortured is Food Savored?" "Like, I don't go for that goumet crud, Dad! My tastes run more toward instant gratification! Let's go, dude! THE SIIIIIIIIMPSONNNNNNNS!" For reasons known only to himself, this was Barley's battle cry. He hurled himself upon Cowboy Jim, butting him into the sand with his beak. His talons clawed at Jim's shirt, "unwrapping the meat", so to speak, but his Paw put an end to the whole sordid affair. Bartholoemus wrenched the young scoundrel from atop the old man's body: "HAVE I NOT YET TAUGHT YOU THAT FOOD TORTURED IS FOOD SAVORED?" Clutching his son's neck with his talons, he struck Barley's head on the side of a large rock. The lad still struggled, so Bartholoemus  grimaced and bashed his son AGAIN and AGAIN until he lay stiffened and unconcious. Bartholoemus drily mused over his boy, then turned to Cowboy Jim, convulsing glasseyed in the dust. "I apologize for the boy", the buzzard said deeply, "But let that be a warning to you. If you don't get with the system, you CAN get hurt." With that, he dragged his son off into the distance.

This is a newly edited version of a story synopsis that dates back to 1/17/93, when the art staff of Adventures of Sonic the Hedgehog was informed that the story directors were looking for ideas and inviting submissions. Most of the staff had suffered enough slings and arrows to not even try, but I was still naïve enough to do so, andÖwas rejected. But I am still proud enough of this story that I find it entertaining to imagine what might have been. It begins with Robotnik tryingÖand failing miserablyÖto slug Sonic as he speeds along the roadÖ

Robotnikís beeper rings; itís Bionica, his tempestuous girlfriend. Realizing that he is late for a projected evening of candlelight and wine, he pushes the badniks aside and streaks off.

Robotnik arrives at Bionicaís home ignoring her puckered lips, and is preoccupied with thoughts of his vendetta against Sonic throughout the evening. His clouded mind sees the roast Bionica asks him to carve as an image of the hedgehog, and he hacks insanely at it, then wrestles with it on the floor. While Bionica tries to calm him with talk of love, Robotnik decides heís hit upon a sure-fire idea, and darts out the door.

Melodramatic soap-opera music plays as Bionica, now alone, contemplates her problem: her romance hasnít a chance as long as her lover is chasing that hedgehog. The answer: SHE will trap Sonic herself!

The next A.M., Robotnik lies in wait with a new weapon: the Sonic Sniffer-Outer, an attachment to his mace that will scent out and signal the precise moment to leap out and assault.

Elsewhere, Sonic and Tails speed along the road and come upon a distressed lady, wailing over a konked-out car motor. Tails whispers a warning to his friend; it is clearly Robotnikís girlfriend in disguise. Sonic comforts him; heís wise to that. Playing the gallant, Sonic peers under the carís hood, taking the opportunity to whisper his plan to Tails. Bionica prepares to klunk both parties on their domes, but Sonic turns and forcibly escorts her to the seat of the car, tut-tutting her every word. He then climbs in under the hood and powers the car to a garage at supersonic speed. Tails clings to the rear bumper; Bionica tumbles to the back seat, too shocked to do anything. They approach Robotnik, whose Sniffer-Outer sounds the alarm. Leaping out of hiding, he is flattened by the speeding car.

Once at the garage, the mechanic finds that Sonic has so overworked the motor that itíll need service deluxe. Gushing apologies, Sonic escorts Bionica to a chili dog stand while they wait, pulling out her chair and ordering for her. Bionica excuses herself to make a phone call; Sonic winks at the apprehensive Tails.
Bionica moves around the corner to ring Robotnikís beeper, but, overwhelmed by the charming hedgehog, she decides she cannot pull this underhanded trick. This is the first time sheís been treated like a lady in a long time, and she winds up asking Sonic to join her that evening at the Café Chat Noir, as a way of expressing her gratitude, of course.

Escorted home (and running over Robotnik in the process), Bionica waltzes around her room, excited about this new, mad whirl. She receives a call from the heavily bandaged Robotnik, moaning about his day and asking her for a date that nightÖto help him change his dressings. Bionica begs off; she will be much too busy.

Disturbed, Robotnik dispatches the Badniks to keep watch and discover exactly what Bionica is busy with. When they report the facts about her date with Sonic, the villain reacts predictably. He resolves to go to the café to nip this in the bud, but decides that to show up alone would look pathetic. Robotnik searches his closets for an appropriate robot escort; the only one in workable condition is in the image of a decrepit horse. He hauls this robot into his converter machine; the result: a horsey-looking female in a cocktail dress.

Chauffeured to the café by Scratch and Grounder, the zoot-suited Robotnik and his date make a dramatic entrance, but Bionica and Sonic are already the dance floor's center attraction. Not to be outdone, Robotnik forces his date into a valiant jitterbug, but the robot short circuits, sparking, bucking like a wild bronco, and finally exploding in a hail of nuts and bolts.
Singed and humiliated, Robotnik slaps the robot back together in a state more horse than human and saddles it, carrying the bewildered Bionica out of the club, the Badniks trailing him in the limo. Sonic takes off in hot pursuit as the nightclubbers cheer him on.

Sonic follows his quarry into Robotnikís fortress, and finds himself in total darkness as the iron gates slam behind him. Robotnik jeers at the hedgehog from a balcony high above, clad in a Captain Hook outfit with an absurd plumed hatÖwhile Bionica is helpless nearby, gagged and bound to a post. Robotnik throws Sonic a sword, offering him the opportunity to fight for his lady love. But Robotnikís sword shoots out fireballs, destroying Sonicís ordinary weapon and chasing him around the torture chamber. Thanks to Sonicís speed, even when the Badniks join the fray, the villains get the worst of it.
Locked in a struggle, Robotnik backs Sonic onto a long plank on the floor, and signals Grounder to activate a sawmill, which spins as the plankÖand SonicÖmove toward it. Bionica works free of her gag, screaming a warning to Sonic just as Robotnik jumps off the plank. Itís almost too late, but Sonicís legs get moving, and he ends up running at high speed atop the whirring blade. Robotnik pulls another lever; with Sonic still atop it, the saw comes loose, spinning backwards into a pit of fire. Is it all over? No! Sonic runs out of the pit atop the saw, now a spinning cylinder of fire which heads toward Robotnik and his minions. Hooting and hollering, they hastily hide in an ammunition closet, followed by the fiery saw.
As the ka-booms ka-boom, Sonic liberates Bionica, who dashes to the dazed, smoking Robotnik. Now convinced of his love because of his desperate efforts, she showers him with kisses even as Grounder tries to warn the pair of one last fuse that refuses to go out. The lovers are blasted into the sky, convinced they are heading to paradise. Down below, Sonic chuckles.

THE END

COPYRIGHT 2007 BY MILTON KNIGHT  CONTACT THE ARTIST