DIY History | Transcribe | Hevelin Fanzines | Tale of the 'Evans, v. 4, issue 1, January, 1946

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Tale of the 'Evans, v. 4, issue 1, January, 1946

Page 8

One of their braves had, startlingly, killed a man!

MURDER... In capital letters, and followed by three upright but quivering exclamation points, the horrid word rushed through the many wigwams, throwing great handsful of consternation (which still is NOT the name of the Chief) right and left among the natives, as one might strew confetti, wild oats, or holy water.

In front of the teepee of the Great Chief Mendosapants (see, we told you "Great Consternation" was NOT the ruler of that community!) -- repeating, we repeat: in front of the Chief's palace wigwam, which (stop us if you've heard this one), was neither a wig nor warm, were seated to the Great Chief himself, and the old men and the wise men and the other men, in solemnous conclave over this most momentous occurrence.

As we approach the stoical group with due dignity and solemnity, we see and hear the Great Chief Mendosapants; of the Whatalotaknees, interrogating the culprit -- one stalwart and handsome warrior brave by the grandiloquent name of Pete; which, being translated into the Indian language, means "Heap Big Jackass Who Has Nothing Whatever In His Upper Story".

Let us listen to these direct lineal descendants of the seven successive generations of antedeluvian patriarchs.

"Ugh!" stated the Chief, impressively and severely.

Pete was startled by this sudden denunciatory turn of events, and his face paled so noticeably that many of the spectators whispered excitedly and whisperingly among themselves, "Hah! Pete pale-face!"

A slight pause of perhaps twenty-one or -two minutes, and again the garrulous Chief broke forth into a torrential tongue-lashing of the cringing culprit.

"Ugh!" he declared, spiritedly. Then, indeed, did that mighty brave, that great warrior and noble hunter, Pete, quail. Indeed, so realistic was his quail, that it like to have cost him his life. For Sub-Chief Mike (translation: "Bum Shot Who Can't Hit a Barn-Door") fired at the quail, and the trial had ended then and there had the arrow not gone far astray -- as usual.

But at this juncture the Medicine Man -- old, bent, wrinkled, and filled with piety and tizwin (beer, to youse lugs) -- now Old Man Medicine, tiring of this long-winded argument, which he felt was futilely getting them nowhere, put in his kopek's worth by asking:

"But Pete, Old Deah, why in the name of all that's holy, did you kill this here, now, bozo?"

"Thy pardon, Reverend Sir, and thine, too, Oh! Most Sovereign My Lord and Chieftain, for daring to life mine rude voice in thine august and exalted presences. But thy humble servant knoweth not the whys nor the wherefores of his mental reactions, metaphysical

Saving...

One of their braves had, startlingly, killed a man! MURDER... In capital letters, and followed by three upright but quivering exclamation points, the horrid word rushed through the many wigwams, throwing great handsful of consternation (which still is NOT the name of the Chief) right and left among the natives, as one might strew confetti, wild oats, or holy water. In front of the teepee of the Great Chief Mendosapants (see, we told you "Great Consternation" was NOT the ruler of that community!) -- repeating, we repeat: in front of the Chief's palace wigwam, which (stop us if you've heard this one), was neither a wig nor warm, were seated to the Great Chief himself, and the old men and the wise men and the other men, in solemnous conclave over this most momentous occurrence. As we approach the stoical group with due dignity and solemnity, we see and hear the Great Chief Mendosapants; of the Whatalotaknees, interrogating the culprit -- one stalwart and handsome warrior brave by the grandiloquent name of Pete; which, being translated into the Indian language, means "Heap Big Jackass Who Has Nothing Whatever In His Upper Story". Let us listen to these direct lineal descendants of the seven successive generations of antedeluvian patriarchs. "Ugh!" stated the Chief, impressively and severely. Pete was startled by this sudden denunciatory turn of events, and his face paled so noticeably that many of the spectators whispered excitedly and whisperingly among themselves, "Hah! Pete pale-face!" A slight pause of perhaps twenty-one or -two minutes, and again the garrulous Chief broke forth into a torrential tongue-lashing of the cringing culprit. "Ugh!" he declared, spiritedly. Then, indeed, did that mighty brave, that great warrior and noble hunter, Pete, quail. Indeed, so realistic was his quail, that it like to have cost him his life. For Sub-Chief Mike (translation: "Bum Shot Who Can't Hit a Barn-Door") fired at the quail, and the trial had ended then and there had the arrow not gone far astray -- as usual. But at this juncture the Medicine Man -- old, bent, wrinkled, and filled with piety and tizwin (beer, to youse lugs) -- now Old Man Medicine, tiring of this long-winded argument, which he felt was futilely getting them nowhere, put in his kopek's worth by asking: "But Pete, Old Deah, why in the name of all that's holy, did you kill this here, now, bozo?" "Thy pardon, Reverend Sir, and thine, too, Oh! Most Sovereign My Lord and Chieftain, for daring to life mine rude voice in thine august and exalted presences. But thy humble servant knoweth not the whys nor the wherefores of his mental reactions, metaphysical