Evan W. Diddy

Part One:

To Evan W. Diddy, the whole world seemed like a frightening proposition. It was a place of danger, and wrongdoing, and general unpleasantness. Take frogs, for instance. Evan W. Diddy never liked frogs. But the world was also a complex organism, given, at times, over to the whim of romantics, and the unfortunate, and the meek. Evan W. Diddy was one such person, to be sure. Not so much the romantic, though, as he had not yet had a date with a woman. But he hoped to, so that just about makes up the difference.

He was a soft-spoken young man who rarely ventured out of doors, fearing what might await him beyond the sanctuary of his parent's (and childhood) home. In addition, his mother still folded his underwear, and, try as he might, he couldn’t quite get the creases to line up on his own.

He passed his days in quiet contemplation, wondering the mysteries of life and the universe. Sometimes he wondered why peanut butter sticks to everything. Other times, he would make peanut butter sandwiches. Still other times, his mother would make him clean the peanut butter out of the shag carpeting in the downstairs living room. He spent his nights in a small luggage case in the basement. Now, mind you, this was not due to the cruelty of his parents (as they never gave him but kindness and love) but, rather, because he liked the smell of the box. It was a pungent mix of garlic and mothballs. Despite the protestations of his parents, he would never give it up. It was a simple (if smelly) life he led.

It came to pass one day that their home received a letter in the post box addressed, as odd as it seemed, to Mr. Evan W. Diddy. Upon further inspection, they noted that it was actually addressed to Mr. Evan W. Dippy, but they assumed that was only a typo. The contents of the envelope astonished them all. So much so, that they let out a synchronized gasp of joy, and confusion. It was a letter of invitation, inviting him to attend a prestigious school far from his home and family.

Mr. Dippy…that is Diddy (Evan’s father) exclaimed that it must have been incorrectly addressed. They had never applied to a school of any sort. All of Evan’s schooling was done at home, with a chalk board and dry erase cloth. Mr. Diddy had bought a computer to school his son with, but Evan, as he was wont to do with mechanical devices, accidentally blew it up. Since it had cost more then two months pay to buy in the first place, the only educational tool the family could afford was the chalkboard. Mr. Diddy was due to have enough saved to buy chalk for it by the next fall.

The Diddy family poured over the letter time and again, spending days wondering what it could mean. It was such a distraction that it nearly cost Mr. Diddy his job when he forgot to go into work. They resolved to throw it away and pretend it never happened. By this time, Evan had completely forgotten he had ever received a letter in the first place. The new garden gnome their neighbors had recently purchased had distracted Evan himself. It was certainly more interesting then a silly piece of paper. More then that, the gnome would actually talk to him.

The gnome told Evan that his name was Muldrid, and that it had been sent to protect him from unnatural forces. Evan giggled and played with his hair. This only caused to frustrate the gnome. He would shout at Evan that his future was at stake, and that he should pay attention to the world around him. The shouting frightened Evan (as many things did) and he would run crying to his parents telling them of the cruel garden gnome. Each time he would do this (which was two or three times a day) Evan’s parents would exchange a look of pity with one another, pat him on the head, and feed him a peanut butter sandwich. Soon the gnome was forgotten and the stomachache made itself known. Evan named that Kitty.

Before the week was out, Evan’s parents retrieved the letter from the garbage can out in back of their house, and called the number at the bottom of it. The school was called Toadstool, and it was a well-known school for the less then gifted, academically speaking. By the weeks end, Evan W. Diddy had been enrolled as the newest student at Toadstool. And his troubles were only beginning…

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Part Two:

Evan W. Diddy had meant to spend the night before leaving for Toadstools by packing everything he owned in the world into that luggage case from the basement. If Muldrid hadn’t come to his room that evening, he most certainly would have injured himself in the process. Muldrid had not come to help him with his suitcase, though. Muldrid had come to warn Evan about what dangers might lay ahead of him at Toadstool.

“They’re everywhere, you know. The little blighters.”

“Little what?” Evan asked, looking even more confused then was normal. Even for him.

“They're all in it, you know. Government, aliens, tax inspectors, car repairmen…its one big conspiracy. But I found the truth. It sure is out there.”

“You lost me after ‘all’. Could you start again?” The gnome grunted at him, his eyes pinched tight with suspicion.

“You’re part of it, you know.”

“I really don’t know much.”

“It’s written on your face.”

“But, I know I love glue.”

“If only I could make you understand.”

“And that may be all I need to go.”

“Go where?”

“What?”

“Now you lost me.” …They continued like this well into the night. Just before dawn, Evan collapsed with exhaustion, and Muldrid (no longer having an audience) hopped back to his own yard. A few hours later, Evan was awoken by late morning sounds of his suburban home. His mother was bustling about the kitchen, preparing the morning meal. His father was in the shower, cursing his failed alarm clock, and pondering what reason to present his boss for his fifth tardy this month. And, outside, the birds were…silent?

Evan moved to the window, and looked out upon the neighborhood. He was startled to discover that it was gone! No longer was there a street that led to his driveway. No longer was the cow shaped post box standing where he knew it should. No longer was Bobby Newsmen’s house facing his from across the way. Considering the fact that Bobby used to beat him up at school, he didn’t miss that last one so much. He called out his mother in fear,

“Mom! I can’t see the neighborhood outside! It’s vanished! What do I do?” His mother laid down the meat cleaver, and moved over to the stairs,

“Other window, dear!” Evan crossed to the other side of the room, and looked out upon the neighborhood. Everything was there, just as it should be. Even Bobby Newsmen’s house, much to his dismay.

“Thanks, mom!”

Just as he was about to pull down the blinds and go back to sleep, he noticed a strange car parked in front of his house. It looked like an old carriage, the kind that was drawn by a team of horses. Standing beside it was a funny looking man in a long bathrobe. There was a yellow duck embroidered on the pocket over his left breast. He looked up at Evan and smiled the weary, aged smile of a man who had seen many season’s come and go. His face was partially hidden beneath the wide brim of a worn and beaten hat. Evan shouted down to the man,

“Why do you wear that strange hat, sir?” The man pushed the brim back, just a hair, and said,

“To protect my frail head from the harmful light of the sun. It can be quite dangerous, if one does not take care.”

“Where are you going with that carriage, sir?”

“To a wonderful place called Toadstool. It’s a school where children who are…um…’special’ go to learn things. Children like you.”

“What sort of things will I learn there, sir?”

“How to count, how to spell your own name, how to breathe even when you’re eyes are closed…”

“This sounds like a magical place!”

“It can be. Under the right medication.” And with that he pulled a small metal flask from under the brim of his hat, opened the lid, and pulled a long draught. He told Evan it was a magical potion. Then he fell asleep on the lawn. When he awoke that afternoon, Evan’s father talked with him about Toadstool, and what would be required of Evan.

“All he needs to bring with him are his wits…everything else will be provided.”

“And, uh, wot if ‘e ain’t got no wits about ‘im?” The old man looked perplexed.

“I’m not sure what to say. No student has ever been admitted to Toadstools without a certain amount of intelligence, and breeding, and academic ability.” Now, Evan’s father looked perplexed.

“Are we talkin’ about the same school ‘ere?” The old man blinked his eyes several times, his face frozen in something between thought, and narcolepsy. Then he looked over at Evan, and back at his father.

“I’d rather say we are not. I must have been confusing it with Oxford. My apologies.”

“Quite alright, m’lord.” Evan’s mother entered the room then, dragging a struggling Evan behind her.

“Dear-stop that Evan! Dear, shouldn’t you be at work by now?”

“Blimey!” Once his father had raced (shouting out the names of the apostles) out the front door, Evan turned to the old man, and said,

“Are we going to the magic school now?” The old man looked hard at him, from the side of his eyes, took another draught of his potion, and said,

“I’m certainly ready.”

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Part Three:

The day had at last come to leave for Toadstools. And Evan W. Diddy was as ready as he’d ever be. Unless, of course, he had packed. Evan would certainly be more prepared to leave it he had actually packed…well…anything. But, Evan was prone to distraction, and he had neglected his duties. His father would have reprimanded him, if not for his being exceedingly late for work.

“Ahm exceedin’ly late for work, wot!” he cried as he dashed out the door. Evan’s mother could have taken up where his father had left off, if not for her hypnotic fascination with the television program that was on. Even though she had never owned one herself, Evan’s mother never missed an episode of Antique’s Road Show. It went a short way to explaining why she didn’t have a job of her own. The show had just gone to commercial when a sudden, and urgent news report flashed across the lower portion of the screen. It was a warning, grave and portentious. It told of raging heat and radiation raining down upon the unsheltered. It was a foreshadowing of doom that was not lost upon Mrs. Diddy.

“Oh lookit dat. The ozone layer melted away agin. Wot a shame.” Of course, all this meant nothing to poor Evan. He had gotten his head stuck in the doggy door. Again. After his mother freed the struggling youth, she told him what she had witnessed, with all the courage she could muster, passing the wealth of a warning onto her only child. “You wear dat suntan oil I gave ya, ya ‘ear?” Evan nodded, trying with all his might to remember whom the person in front of him was. As the knowledge flooded into his young mind, he slowly processed what she had said to him, this “mother” of his.

He wondered what it all could mean. First Muldrid, then his mother…both warning of what was to come once he left the safety of his home. He started to ponder the intelligence of leaving the place of his birth for the first time. Then he pondered what it meant to ponder. Finally, he got a headache and decided to go to sleep on the floor of the kitchen. When he awoke, he was in the carriage beside the old man, with his bags packed and Muldrid (somehow) driving the car. He asked no questions, he only accepted his strange fate. To do otherwise would require the ability to speak, which Evan no longer had. His voice had been stolen from him! He struggled to form words, but something was stopping him from doing so. The old man turned to him, and reached forward. With a sudden release of pressure around his lower jaw, he found he had a voice once more.

“What was it that you did to me? Was it a magic spell?” The old man looked at the dirty old rag that he now held in his hand, bemused.

“Not at all, my boy. You were yelling something about frogs all while you were sleeping, so I gagged you. Had to, you see. My hangov-I mean, my…uh…my spell of protection was…uh…about to break.” Evan nodded slowly, eyes wide as saucers. The old man, placed the rag to his nose and blew loudly into it.

It was on the way to Toadstools, riding beside that strange old man, that Evan W. Diddy noticed his head begin to ache. It was a light, dull throbbing at first, but as they reached the school grounds it twisted into a terrible knifing pain across his forehead. The old man (whose name was revealed to be Professor Dunderboore by the tags on his robe) turned to face Evan at long last. With a grand sweep of his arm, he swung the carriage open saying to Evan,

“Welcome, young man, to Toadst-!” Evan looked up at him, dumbfounded. Dunderboore put his head in his hand. “Take you finger from out your nose, my boy.”

Evan did as he was told. Suddenly, the pain was gone from his temples. Evan starred in awe.

“You are great!” Dunderboore merely sipped from his magic potion, and belched in
response. He mumbled something about “children” and “alligators” that Evan could not make out as they descended the steps of the carriage. He supposed it was that protection spell the old man had mentioned. When no great beast came roaring out of the sky to swallow him whole, he knew it to be true.

The school grounds of Toadstools were vast and untended. Like a great, and terrible jungle, the fields swirled in the wind about Evan. It was as if no one had mowed the lawn in at least a month. As if he was reading Evan’s thoughts (and perhaps he was), Dunderboore followed his gaze to the field of green.

“That’s the game field. Hasn’t been tended to since last month. The students here play a wonderful game called “ticcitch” there.”

“Is that some sort of magical game? It certainly sounds magical.”

“Not magical, no. It involves running through the grass in short pants and then counting the number of insects you’ve collected from your knees to your ankles. The medical staff here despises it actually.”

“It certainly sounds magical.”

“Yes, you’ve said that, my boy.”

“It certainly-“ With a sharp yank of his sleeve, Dunderboore cut of Evan before he could finish. Again. He brought him straight away to his room in the far corner of the campus. He shared it with two other children his age. There was Stan, an odd looking boy with bright blue hair and dark red freckles all about his face. Stan was an energetic lad who liked to play all manner of games. He fancied chess, scrabble, and monopoly. He considered those games to have the best tasting pieces. As Evan introduced himself, Stan spat out a half-masticated pawn.

“You’re the new kid, right? Anything you need help with you know who to turn to, eh?” Stan winked.

“You’ll help me?” Stan’s jovial expression turned to near glee.

“Not at all! But the young lady over there would be more then willing to. She’s weird, hasn’t got any friends, and all the other kids pick on her. Sounds perfect for you!”

“She certainly sounds magical.”

“What?” If Muldrid hadn’t come bounding up the stairs at that moment, there was no telling how long the two boys might have gone on talking. He was winded, with a wild look upon his face. Especially for a garden gnome.

“I knew it! I told you, me lad! It happened, just like I said!”

“What happened?” All the children gathered around the two as they spoke.

“First they took the ozone layer…then they stole it all!” The young girl who Stan had pointed out, whose name was Hermitta, stepped forward, and asked,

“Stole what? And who are ‘they’?” Muldrid paused a long while. So long in fact that all the children grew bored and walked away. All the children save for Evan, Stan, and Hermitta. They had tried to leave and found that the other children had tied their shoelaces together. It took nearly an hour for them to decide to take off their shoes. By then, Muldrid had resumed his decree, choosing to answer Hermitta’s question.

“They took the suntan lotion. All of it.”

“Who?”

“The Weathermen.”

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Evan W. Diddy and the Weatherman’s Chart: Revolutions Episode 4 Full Throttle Cradle in the Ring of Returning Hobbit Clones United

As Evan stood before the gathered masses yearning with every ounce of their
beings to catch his words, he wondered. Just how did he get here? How did
he get to be…The One? It was an ancient tale of dark evils and darker
betrayals. In the time before time there was a gathering of sorcerers who
mapped out the fates of every man, women, and child born into the world. It
was an interlocking web of the strands of the destiny of all living beings.
They called it the Matrix, and it was good.

But all good things must end, and this age of peace and prosperity came
to a close with the coming of the Dark Lords of the Ick. They were twisted
sorcerers, wielders of a great force (if you will) that helped them to
master the source of the great wizards' powers. That source was one ring
that fit on the hilt of a mystical sword, which in turn rested in a stone by
a lake on an island in the ocean of a far off world called Tattanini. When
the sword and the ring were brought together (along with a helm, and an axe,
and a shoe, and a sewing needle and a few dozen other innocuous items) a
mighty beast of stone and steel was formed. The beast was called Captain
Devastator Zorda of Voltrese. He was the first of a race of great beings
that are formed of lesser objects and all who followed are of his blood. Or
whatever he has in that thing. Maybe its motor oil, who knows?

Um…where was I? Oh right, Evan. He was The One. And, well, I’m not
really sure how all this relates to him, but it does. I mean, he’s The One,
and that’s all the information anyone should need on the subject.

So…Evan (The One) stood before the gathered masses, as it says above, and
told them of the great destiny that laid before them. He told them of how
the Weathermen, their great and evil enemies would be brought to justice and
suffer great punishment. And then the great sorrow they had felt for a
great long time would come to a great end. All those people that worshiped
Evan as the god that he really wasn’t thought this news was “swell”.

Evan was once a small boy, with a smaller brain than most small boys. He
had been taken to a school where “special boys” like himself could learn
how to develop their skills. The man who had brought him there, Professor
Dumderbore, had hidden his true identity from Evan for fear of persecution.
His real name was Professor Z, and he (and his students) were all mutants.
Feared and hated by the world that they really didn’t like either, they had
banded together to form the Z-Men, a super powered group of individuals
dedicated to the school of thought known as Zoology. Thus the “Z”.

It was at this school that Evan learned the true nature of his abilities.
He found out that he was the Chosen-Mutant-Padowan-Summoner-Savant-One. The
school spent a fortune embroidering this into all his uniforms. With a
crippling bill for custom sticthing before him, Professor Z was forced to
close the school and send all his pupils home. It seemed, then, that the
forces allied against them had won. Or did it?

Evan’s next stop on his journey was to the headquarters of the Weathermen
themselves. Such a step would seem to make no sense, as this was a mere boy
advancing against an enemy camp of unimaginable power, but he had his truest
friend Stan-wise with him, and nothing could stop the sure-footed duo. Into
the dark lands to the south did they venture, through clouds of ash and
filth which sat heavy in their lungs. Past strange beasts of unspoken
horror. Into the realm of the evil lords themselves. Into the realm of New
Jersey. A vast, and impervious stench greeted them. It was noxious and
threatened to sway them from their destined course, but they would not be
routed now. Their destiny in the great Matrix awaited them.

It was a fierce battle they fought against endless enemies who all bore
the same face. The face of evil. The face of Jacko the Lord of Pop. The
fought these “clone wars” for many days, neither side showing weakness or
the possibility of failure. Evan and Stan-wise were too near to the end of
their journey to surrender now. The needed only to drop the one ring into
the molten belly of Mount Smells-Like-Cabbage, and the evil of the
Weathermen would be no more. But the power of the ring corrupts all who
posses it, as it corrupted Mullem, who was once the lawn gnome Smeagdrid.
Evan was helpless against it’s unstoppable might.

Then, when all seemed lost, Hermitta appeared before them, spinning
through the air and kicking clones this way and that through a series of
spectacular martial arts and high-wire maneuvers. But before she could so
much as tell Evan that she loved him, she was stabbed through the heart by
her ex-boyfriend, turned criminal, turned Irish gang-lord, turned stalker.
In the following hour and thirty-seven minutes that it took her to finally
die, she related to them the tale of how she was part of a witness
protection program after the death of her parents in a plane crash that had
been masterminded by an evil organization which collected ancient artifacts
from around the globe except for when she would intervene in their affairs.
It also turned out that she had given birth to a son not too long ago even
though she had never been with a man in the biblical sense.

By an odd twist of plot, her son turned out to be the head of the
Weathermen, Darth Ridiculous-Plot-Device. At this point, it seemed obvious
that the writer stopped caring. So they all fought one another for the
freedom of those trapped by unwavering fate, or destiny, or the matrix, or
whatever the hell it was.

In the end, (when it at long last came) Evan was struck down by a glancing
blow from a howitzer cannon, which left his heart exposed to the force of
the Weatherman’s one ring beneath the twin suns of the alien world they had
wound up on. And through it all, the Weathermen laughed, because they had
stolen all the sunscreen, leaving Evan exposed to the harsh light of day.

Um…I really have no idea how to end this, so…

“Is it done?” she asked the stranger, as she stroked the cat’s soft white
fur.

“It is,” he replied. With that he turned to go, walking towards the rising
metaphor-I mean sun-in the distance.

“Wait,” she called out, as he reached the edge of the horizon, “do they all
live happily ever after?” He paused, lowering his head in thought. Then,
looking up at her from beneath his slightly askew hat, he said,

“Who cares? The box office grosses are in the quadripple-fudge millions!
As long as there’s a sequel, we can keeping milking this cow to death.” And
with that, he was gone to count his percentage.

The End. Until 2005, when the next rehashed sequel of epic sucking
proportions comes out.