Futre Footnotes Post

Lizzy Viscera and the Quest for the Perfect Sandwich

By Spencer Koelle

I

Lizzy Viscera, necromancer, master of life and death, zipped up her Lisa Frank[1] backpack. This was a subtle way of reminding Professor Turnipseed that class had ended four minutes ago.

The Professor was impassive. Every second was another second too much. He ignored the raised hands, pointed glances at the clock, and shifting book bags.

Turnipseed wound up the last pompous tangent. He turned to the clock, feigned innocent surprise, and dismissed the class. He was lucky not to be trampled.

Lizzy Viscera burst into the dining hall as if all the Legions of Hell, the Celtic Wild Hunt, and the NRA[2] were after her. She waved to friends but did not tarry in her beeline for the deli counter. She had to make up those lost minutes.

The lectured tyranny of Professor Turnipseed lay behind her, and the arduous death-march[3] of Intro Statistics loomed ahead. Lunch hour was her “me time”.

Lizzy drew notice. She wasn’t inherently extraordinary. She was blond-haired but brown-eyed. She was filled out in all the right places and the wrong places as well. [4]

Maybe it was her personal style that attracted attention. Maybe it was the rainbow streaks in her pigtails[5], created by hours of dyeing and drying. Maybe it was the varied neon rainbow of her clothes and accessories.

It might have also been the human skull that bounced along after her. It had a lolling whitish-blue tongue of ectoplasm, the same material that glowed in its eye sockets. The orange collar on its trail of ghostly vapors proclaimed its name to be Yorick[6].

The woman at the deli counter did not pay much attention to Lizzy or anything else. Her sagging face told the world that she was just killing time[7] until time killed her. “What will you be having today?”

Lizzy leaned up against the counter.

“I’d like a regular-size sub sandwich on a toasted sesame roll with mayonnaise, honey mustard, extra-thin salami, iceberg lettuce, provolone cheese, Cooper sharp cheddar, and a little bit of vinegar.”

The grim-faced woman glared as if she’d been asked to hand over her left kidney. Lizzy went to grab the soft drink, side salad, and onion rings that came with a Grab-N-Go Sandwich Combo. She sipped her orange soda and fingered her rainbow bracelet, waiting for her order to come up.

Lizzy Viscera always ordered the same exact sandwich. She looked to breakfast and dinner for variety. She picked sodas and sides on a whim. The sandwich was the perfect center of her day. It made lunch right.

“217[8]! Number 217!”

Lizzy looked at her ticket and bounded up to the counter and snatched the sandwich. She hovered uncomfortably for a few moments. Her hands balanced the awkward load of soda, fries, and entrée as she scanned the crowded tables until she spotted somebody she recognized.

Lizzy bit into the sandwich and nearly choked. Instead of spiced, tangy, salami and zesty-sweet honey mustard, her palate met with greasy, bland turkey and burning, bitter Dijon. She took a deep, soothing, breath, patted her floating skull, and tossed the sandwich into the trash.

The blond college student strode back to the deli counter and repeated her order. Her words were articulated with a friendly smile and strained patience. The grim-faced woman showed neither remorse nor recognition. This time Lizzy waited with more impatience and less enthusiasm.

She opened the sandwich the moment it was ready and eyed its contents with dark suspicion. There was salami and honey mustard in it. Unfortunately, there wasn’t anything else. No cheese, mayo, or tomato: just meat, mustard, and a damp wheat bun.

Lizzy repeated her requests, but each result was further from her wishes. When the sodden mass of apathy in a hairnet[9] handed her a fish taco, she gave up on the deli counter.

Chapter Discussion Questions:

1. How does the author represent his opinion of firearm legislation? Explain

2. Does your professor ignore students when the class is running late? Why or why not?

3. What statement does this story make about conventional beauty expectations and their effect on women with supernatural powers?

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[1] A brand of school supplies decorated with brightly colored scenes of unicorns, rainbows, kittens, etc.

[2] National Rifle Association

[3] A term for forced marches with high mortality rates

[4] Thin but large-breasted women with blond hair and blue eyes were the cultural conception of ideal beauty. The “right places” refers her fat chest, the “wrong places” refers to an equal distribution of fat on the other portions of her body.

[5] Hairstyle of the era associated with innocence and youth

[6] Yorick is the name of a deceased character in the then-famous play “Hamlet”, the skull of which is regarded by the lead character

[7] Waisting time

[8] Possibly an obscure reference to Stephen King’s “The Shining”, wherein room 217 of the hotel was haunted, to foreshadow the coming string of back luck.

[9] Covering worn by workers in the food industry to prevent hair from falling into meals

Footnotes copyright 2109, Norton Critical Edition.

Friday's Journal Entries

Here is a list of invented journal entries for the native person dubbed "Friday" by the protagonist in the story "Robinson Crusoe." I found it a particularly difficult mindset to get into, because we get such a slanted, one-dimensional, and inauthentic perspective of the character in the story.

Day when the Golden Planet is equidistant from the seventh sister of the Pilaedes and the yellow star Formalhaut-
I have given much thought to the theology that Robin's son has espoused to me. I find it much easier to take to than the theology thus far presented by other cross-bearing bearded sunburnt men, vis, that we must either accept Jesus Christ, the lord of mercy and justice as our savor, because otherwise his holy servants shall roast us until an enemy might stick an eating utensil in us to see that we are done, and then said servants might allow us to die some times afterwards.

Day upon which the horned Moon crosses paths with the tip of Yog Sothoth's tentacle (that group of stars which it pleases Robin's son to call the Big Dipper)-
I have humored Robin's son in tth interest of keeping peace between us, but why must he cover every bite of food with a same-sized measure of salt? He is not content as long as he can still taste some hint of the natural flavors. He salts even salts turtle meat! I pointed out to him how needless this was, becuase the turtle had lived all its life in salt water, drank of salt water, and had much caked and drying sea salt upon its body, but still he poured salt on it, insisting that "the salt is good, it is very very good." Does he not know how much the eating of salt weakens the heart and dehydrates the body?

Day upon which the star Aldebaran is formost in the horizon, though the great city Carcosa and Lake Hali remain thankfully distant-
I must be sure to spread the Christian theology amongst my neighbors, as it should make a most welcome addition to our spiritual traditions and mesh intriguingly with the existing popular faiths. It seems strange to think that in Robin Son's smog-choked steel dystopia men are captured and war over differences within a single theology. How can aspects of the same faith lead to such strife, when my dear father himself is a buddist zoriastrian shintoist in his secular life, and also a member of the growing triad cult, devoted to Yog-sothoth of repeated infinities, Shub Nigguroth, the black goat of the forest with a thousand young, aspect of all teeming wriggling crawling life, and Azathoth, the blind idiot god that bubbles and blasphemes at the heart of nuclear chaos? This is all with the taken for granted worship of the mountain god you provides us with cultural unity and a shared heritage.
I do worry about my father, with no news as to how the tide of battle over leadership of our proud nation has gone. May the kami of blue trees and our household preserve him, Shub Nigguroth keep him strong, Azathoth ignore him, and the great God of the christians shield him from harm while his soul yet stays in this lifetime.

Day upon which the ribbon of darkness weaves its way from mocking Polaris to Canis, and the blackness in the sky is a window into the lightless parts of another universe (or, as Robin's son insists on calling it, Tuesday)-
I am adjusting to my new clothes. They have almost stopped bringing out rashes, and most of the fleas upon them are sick or dying. I do not begrudge the discomfort, for the tribal honor of Robin's son insists that those who live around him must wear it, and indeed he seemed much unsettled by the natural appearance of other men. Forbidding the appearance of flesh seems a curious taboo, but no doubt some of my norms and traditions seem incomprehensible to him.
They keep the peace between us, as satisfies the life-debt charge which he chooses to interpret as a natural gratitude. I also must say they make me feel safer in a way that is hard to articulate. He commented much on the strength of my arms and the well-developed characteristic of my body, and sometimes he stares at me for what seems like hours, saying nothing. I must make allowances, for he has been utterly alone for the span of a short lifetime, and it must take some adjusting to recover the manners and decorum needed to intercourse with other thinking creatures. I still do not like the way he stares at me much though.

Passage Adaptation

My shiney Bookshelves were lyn'd with Treasures, to whit: empt unlabeled steel Cannes, alas no Gold being in my Posession, Rings, aquireed during my Trip to Mexico; Whitch I may not Have mentioned thus far, Pictures of Joolry, cutt from Magazines, glue'd to a Backing of Cardbored, an Sterling Silver Spoone; an heirloom of My Family; and an fine collection of Silvered Coins, Made whie viewing some Motion Picutre of dubious Value, the name of Whick I cannot, Presently, recall.

Opening

Here is where I'll post the blogs required for my Forms of Writing: the Novel class. I have another journal-thingy elsewhere, but I'd rather keep my academic blog seperate.