Luke Rheinhart - The Diceman

The first thing the dice told me to do was raise wages across the board thirty percent and write commending personal letters to everyone. Efficiency jumped forty-three percent that month (it dropped back twenty-eight percent the next). Then the dice ordered me to stop manufacturing conventional hats (the family product for sixty-seven years), but to make experimental hats. My designers went out of their minds in ecstasy. Our first line of hats (you may have read about them in Ladies' Wear) was the highly successful `Boat Sombrero,' essentially a cowboy hat with a brim that tapers flush to the peak at the sides but flows out four inches in front and back.

Although our profits declined fifteen percent, our sales leapt twenty percent and I wasn't bored anymore. Our second design was the rainhat that looks like a Ku Klux Klan hood and is made of brightly colored plastic suitable for both sexes. It's not going well at all (except in the South) but all of us at Fedel's think it's great. My profits turned at this point into a loss, but the Die's will be done.

The Die then insisted we drop our number one moneymaking line of cheap men's expensive hats. Our retailers were appalled, but we were so engrossed in our third experimental design (the designer claims the Die make a key decision on it) that we didn't care. The `pancake' or `halo' (we haven't consulted the Die yet) is a disc-shaped headgear that works on the principle of the academic mortar board, but comes in a variety of colors, materials and shapes, although it is usually elliptical or circular. Our retail outlets are very skeptical, but have ordered so many on the basis of the success of the Boat Sombrero' that we're months behind in orders all ready.

We're deeply in debt, but our top designers and management personnel have all voluntarily taken fifty percent wage cuts in exchange for a share of the profits on our `halo' line and we're going to survive. The Die last week ordered a designer of ours to design a hat that covers the whole body and although some of us are doubtful, he is going ahead with enthusiasm.

To think I used to design and sell the same type of hat year after year! Please send us all your publications, and thank you for your help.

Sincerely yours, Joseph Fedel, President Fedel's Hats, Columbus, Ohio.

Chapter Eighty-eight

Professor Boggles at a CETRE

Dear Luke, I am a rational, linear, verbal, discursive, literary man and even your previous absurdities prepared me only minimally for the shock of my first week in the Catskill CETRE. I dutifully expressed anger, played Hamlet, pretended to be a fool, acted like an enraged tiger; I even swished my considerable hips effeminately when the Die tried to turn me into a woman. However, I did all this in isolation; I saw to it that none of my role-playing involved active interaction with other people. When other people attempted to impose their `selves' on me I became cynical inside, no matter what I was halfheartedly doing outside.

A middle-aged woman grossly importuned me to seduce her and the Die dictated that I ought to respond favorably. I found myself slobbering on her neck and squeezing her expansive bosom but feeling totally detached. My phallus remained detumescent. After five minutes she huffed off to someone else.

My awakening came on the fifth day, in the creativity room. The Die had chosen for me the assignment to write four pages using a new language - one employing primarily words from known vocabularies but combining them in a new grammar, syntax and diction. I was to try to express real feelings. I sat for an hour and couldn't get past doodles. Then -I finally wrote a sentence `Muckme piddles ping pong poetry.'

I liked the sound of it but the syntax was too regular. I wrote a second `Skinned. Skinniedup, baked. Stick a.'

That I felt was better, but lacking in verbs.

`Farceuncle midwoof floops on the conch Harkening strayners at the dolor.'

I smiled to myself: I felt I was getting closer to truth.

`Missy-led clanker retchatches purr purr floops midwoof flushiting. I wonted crandy. Yo no crandy git, dabby sated. Yo knotted again, he, replyed jobbily. Fluckit shushit. Hotbam mastar.'

But I was supposed to be expressing real feelings. How might I do that without being absurdly clear and trivial? I must proceed further, I thought: 'Mime a riter. A riter is sumun who rights. Words, wurts, worst … what too due? Fusshackle thought, ruddycup the blissbiz pronotions gaym, baby gone. Flat chance I have of whining a prize. Holy Muffer, merry of God . . . Ahhh.'

Remaindered Redeemer, where dost thou go? Kink of the Whirl, you knot me so I ken not. Rash anality has deshitted me Of all my straineth. I beg you show me merdesee. Yoose your head, your my-end, your braying! Your rashan. ality

1. He rashandill l (A reckoning crew will destroy us all.) Member, an hefull man is one who unjoys life, finds many playsures. He is a cheyeheld who nose nothink. Be rashanal and use sickology. But write, rite, right, reyet 1 Got is the kink of the Universe (Ice died for our since I ) Got is the kink of the Whirl (He nailrows what is wide and free) God makes ridid what is fleshible (To him who hass much shall be piled) The seven deadly Since he names, The thinks we've done, we must do penitentiary for (Luff, Hee says, is oil) Got so luffed the whirl that he graved is unly beGotten son that those that bleaf he died for their since may have infernal life.

Ah, Luke, I wrote on and on, for two and a half hours I wrote all glorious nonsense and sense so interfused it will take my graduate students decades to decipher it all. It's beautiful. I felt so good the next fat female that bloated her boobs for Boggles was erected on the spot. Dear Luke, you are utterly amid and I your faithfool decipherpill.

Yours, Gobbles.

Chapter Eighty-nine

[Being a questioning of Dr: Lucius Rhinehart by Inspector Nathaniel Putt of the New York City police regarding the unfortunate rigidification of Mr. Franklin Delano Osterflood.]

'It's good to see you again, Inspector Putt,' Dr. Rhinehart said. 'How have you been?'

'Fine, thank - Sit down, Rhinehart' 'Thank you. You've got a new couch.'

'You know why I've called you in?'

'No, I'm afraid I don't. Lost some more mental patients?'

'Do you know a man named Frank Osterflood?'

'Yes, I do. He was a-'

'When did you last see him?'

Dr. Rhinehart pulled out a die, shook it in his cupped hands and leaned forward to drop it on the inspector's desk. After

examining the results he said 'About a week ago.'

Inspector Putt's eyes glittered minutely.

'You . . . saw . . . him . . . one week ago.'

'Yes, about then. Why? What's Frank up to these days? Nothing serious, I hope.'

`Please describe your meeting with him.'

'Mmmmm. I remember I ran into him purely by chance on the street near his apartment. We decided to go to dinner

together.'

'Go on.'

'After dinner, he suggested we go visit a girlfriend of his in Harlem. So we went.'

'Go on.'

'I spent a couple of hours with Osterflood with his girlfriend and then I left' 'What took place at this girlfriend's place?'

'We watched some television. And, well, Osterflood engaged the girl in sexual congress and then I engaged her in

sexual congress. It was a joint session you might say.'

'Did Osterflood leave with you?'

'No. I left alone.'

'What was he doing when you left?'

'He was sleeping on the living room rug.'

'What was Osterflood's relation to this girl?'

`I'd say it was basically masochistic. Sadistic elements too.'

`Did the girl seem to like him?'

'She seemed to take pleasure in her interaction with him.'

`You say Osterflood was asleep when you left'

'Yes.'

`Was he drunk?'

`Probably.'