stage where the pole had taken on a peculiar sheen. “Sweat from her inner thighs,” Bob mused before discerning, in the pole’s reflection, the image of a bearded bald man in a white smock who looked eerily familiar. Thinking about the Post-It, he had a brilliant revelation. Britney and the Pepsi bottle were absent, but the clues they left remained. The letters P-E-P-S-I C-O-L-A floated about his brain and became . . . EPISCOPAL! They had churches, surmised Bob. And B-R-I-T-N-E-Y S-P-E-A-R-S . . . was an anagram for PRESBYTERIANS! Now “Tween the Churches” made more sense!
If he could just locate the churches which stood near each other, perhaps he could find, likely still obsessed with murdering Thor, the immutable Solomon. Maintaining close ties with clergy and astronomers, Angéle had no trouble uncovering the two churches that Mines must have been alluding to. A few professional offices stood between them, and they scoured the lobby directories for another clue. They saw optometrists, podiatrists, a proctologist and a dentist. Could Mines be nearby? The revelation jolted Bob’s mouth like a root canal. “Of course!” Tearing upstairs, he heard in his mind Solomon’s lisping voice. He wasn’t out to conquer Thor—he was talking about a cankersore! And there he was, asleep in the dental chair, a bald bearded man in a smock hovering over him. Bob recognized the IRS agent-cum-dentist immediately. He’d found Solomon, but it was too late. Tomato juice
stains on his shirt, his wallet empty, Mines was no more than a shell. His number in Folsom prison ended in a “nine.” For the next 10 years, Mines would indeed be an “odd” fellow.—Stephen D. Gross Could they have anything to do with Solomon’s brutal kidnapping? Bob leaned against a bookcase and felt it give, revealing . . . . . . a marking on the wall. Bob crouched for a closer look. “In all my years of markology, I’ve never seen the like! Whoever did this draws about as well as I can.” Which was to say it was utterly indecipherable. Bob whipped out his notebook. A sultry voice interrupted his scribbling. “What are you doing there, Bob?” said Angéle. He hadn’t expected her, but there she was standing in the doorway. “Oh hi, love,” he said distractedly. “Just found a clue from Solomon. Don’t know what it means, though. Two touchstones are missing.” “Not unlike your personal pronouns,” Angéle quipped. “Might you be referring to these?” She handed him the objects in question: a gold-enameled crab claw and a cryptex. Bob jumped to his feet. “But how did you . . . ?” “I received them in the mail along with this sealed note.” Bob finger-scissored the envelope and read: If you want to see your beloved mentor alive again, you might find a visit to San Francisco worth your while. Faster than one could say “Knights Templar,” Bob and Angéle were standing before an old Victorian-style mansion. They rang the bell and the front gate opened automatically. They made a cautious approach to the front door and slipped inside. “Stay on your guard,” Bob whispered. Just then, a cry for help. “Bob! I’m in here!”
It was Solomon. They traced his voice to the kitchen, only to find Solomon bound hand and foot to a chair. Curiously, he was covered in doughnut crumbs. “What’s happened to you? Are you all right?” said Bob as he rushed to undo the ropes. “They’re never going to get away with this. If they think force-feeding me doughnuts will make me squeal, they’ve got another thing coming!” Solomon fumed.
Knowing how sensitive he was about his figure, Bob and Angéle kept silent. “My captors number three,” Solomon continued, “and they’ll do anything to get their hands on my grandfather’s horde. This used to be his house, you know. I trust you uncovered my message?” Bob nodded. “Where’s the treasure, then?” said Angéle from behind a pulled gun. Three men were instantly beside her. “Angéle! Are you mad?!” “A far cry from a dance pole, I know,” she said with a wave of the gun. “But it gets the point across nonetheless.” “So it was you all along!” “Who else? I’ve been chasing Solomon’s treasure for years. Now, monsieur, if you would be so kind?”
“The two missing items were a tiny replica of Rodin’s Thinker and a miniature folding metal chair,” said Lamedum. “But what do they mean?” “The laminated parking ticket represents punishment for occupying a space too long. The glass hand’s thumb and forefinger configuration suggest feeding a mouth something . . . like a potato chip.” “Or an artichoke leaf ?” Angéle offered. “Good, good! Now consider the posture of the Thinker—it’s as if he is taking a constitutional.” “Yes, but what about the chair?” asked Angéle. “If the Thinker were seated upon the flat, metal chair while attempting a constitutional, the chair’s adhesion would result in maximum flatulence amplification.” “But how do these clues tie together?” “The parking ticket indicates the Thinker was taking too long to perform his business. If taking too long results in a punishment, i.e., Solomon’s being crushed, then what’s the opposite of taking too long between flatulence emissions?” “Rapid-fire flatulence.” “Excellent, Angéle! By eating artichoke leaves while sitting bare-bottomed on a metal chair one would emit rapid-fire, or staccato, flatulence emissions . . . “ “The Staccati!” gasped Angéle with exhilaration.
“Fine. The mark I left you is a map. It shows the treasure’s exact location,” Solomon said. “Of course!” Angéle was gone in an instant, followed by her henchmen. But all too late. The police were waiting. Bob and Solomon emerged into the daylight and waved as Angéle was cuffed and taken away. “Looks like the adventure’s ended before it even began,” Bob said. “Speak for yourself. I’ve still got 10 pounds of doughnuts to work off !” Bob held out the cryptex with a smile. “Care for an A-P-P-L-E instead?”—A+T Could they have anything to do with Solomon’s brutal kidnapping? Bob leaned against a bookcase and felt it give, revealing . . . . . . a secret chamber. Lamedum brushed through the cobwebs, held a lit candle before him and entered. He touched his candle’s flame to another in the room’s corner; its wick linked with 300 others, and instantly illuminated the room. Solomon Mines was tied down to the floor behind a thick plexiglass wall; a steel cable slowly lowered an enormous steel weight toward his chest. Lamedum’s eyes followed the cable to the gear that controlled it. Attached to the gear was the combination scroll. Lamedum noticed folding metal chairs and artichokes piled in the corner. Bob glanced at Solomon. “Solve the code!” Solomon silently mouthed from behind the wall. Angéle Démon slunk from the shadows like the pole dancer she was. “I found the entrance earlier—we must help him,” she said.
“Precisely. We must both assume the position to hit the right combination of staccato emissions to activate the scroll and stop the gear from lowering the weight onto Solomon. Quickly, pull down your pants—a man’s life is at stake!” Lamedum and Démon exposed their bare bottoms and sat on two nearby metal chairs. They then grabbed artichokes and nibbled the flesh from the leaves. Rapid successions of popping reports resounded from buttocks against metal chairs. Solomon looked desperate as the weight descended to an inch from his chest. “Again, hurry!” commanded Lamedum. They grimaced and nibbled more artichoke leaves. Machine-gun-like effluviums burst forth into the room. ' -
THE BOHEMIAN
10.28.09-11.03.09
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