THE MAN FROM THE UNKNOWNS

As the jumbo jet cruised eastward to North Carolina, Erica sat back in her seat and sighed. Repeated attempts to ram the impregnable wall of incongruity frustrated her to no end. What to do about the Elwood situation totally consumed her. Hopefully Dr. Peterson would have an answer.

Within the hour she was resting comfortably in a soft-leather chair in Dr. Peterson’s personal library, facing the distinguished, graying professor. “I’m so thankful you could see me at such short notice, doctor.”

He smiled. “No imposition whatsoever, Erica. Always glad to be of assistance to an old colleague’s daughter. How is your father, by the way?”

“Recovering,” she acknowledged. “And back to work.”

“Good! Glad to hear it. Felt so sorry for him being put on the spot like that. Unfortunately, it comes with the territory in positions such as his. But enough about that. What do you want to know about the Lumbees in Robeson County? He asked.

“Well, she began, “you’ve written several papers on them and their claim to be blood relatives of Sir Walter Raleigh’s ‘Lost Colony.’ Unsolved mysteries of the past intrigue me, so I’m doing a research paper on them for my Freshman History class. So, without taking too much advantage of your friendship with my father,” she smiled, “I thought you’d be the one to know if anything has recently come to light concerning their sacred text.”

“Ah, yes, the Lumbees.” he chuckled and leaned forward. “I, too, was fascinated by their claim. Of course, the whole ‘Lost Colony’ story is really quite interesting. When John Watts reached Roanoke in 1590, three years after the colony’s planting, all he found was rummaged chests, rotted maps, rusty armor, and the word ‘Croatoan’ carved on a tree. Most historians presume that the colonists either starved to death or were killed by the Croatoans. But today’s Lumbee Indians, direct descendants of the Croatoans, disagree. According to them, the adult settlers died of sickness and the remaining children were adopted into to their tribe.” ​

“And they have a diary in their possession which they feel supports their English blood claim, supposedly the personal diary of John White, the Lost Colony’s governor?″

Dr. Peterson laughed. “That they do. And at first I was taken in by them, and their sincerity. Was a hero to them, almost. But I needed to see the original. So they dug it up.”

“Dug it up?″ Erica asked confused.

“Yes. They’d buried it with White after having a scribe copy it onto animal skins, figuring they’d eventually learn the white man’s language and possibly find something quite useful in it. So, through the years, the copies were recopied before they decayed. Their first presentation to the scientific community was a copy of, say, seventy years of age. They were laughed at. At my urging, they dug up the original. But it didn’t really matter. It was the content that branded them as deceivers, not the material itself. Which is also why I bowed out.”

“Could you elaborate on that, Dr. Peterson?″

“Sure. Imagine this: lyrics of early Beatles’ songs!Fanatical fans, to say the least! Then they take a possible half-truth, like trickles of English blood running through their veins, and supposedly dig-up a four-hundred-year-old diary that substantiates their claim. Incredible!” The doctor leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands behind his head. “The whole thing’s even dedicated to some mystery man named L. Wood who’s on a mission to find his lost parents!”

Erica had begun to swoon at the mention of the diary containing lyrics to early Beatles’ songs, but when Dr. Peterson referenced the dedication to Elwood, it was lights out.

“Dear! Dear!” Dr. Peterson shouted to his wife as he bounded out of his chair and around the desk to attend to her. “She’s fainted!”

Erica’s limp body, once in a forward posture with her elbows rested on her knees, now lay sprawled at the foot of her chair, sucking dust. Mrs. Peterson came running in from another room and helped the doctor lift Erica to the nearby sofa and lay her down. Then she left and returned with cold compresses to set on her forehead. Erica soon began to stir. ​

“Erica? Erica? Can you hear me?” Dr. Peterson called.

″Yes,” she muttered softly as she opened her eyes. “I can. I’m OK ...I think.”

“Are you sure? See if you can sit up without getting dizzy.”

Erica summoned her strength, tensed her abdominals, and forced herself up. Her vision was clear and she seemed to feel fine. “1...l feel OK, actually,” she declared. “No, actually I feel quite embarrassed,” she blushed as she swung her legs over the sofa’s edge and sat upright.

“The Lumbee’s diary really got to you, didn’t it?” laughed the doctor.

If only he knew, she thought. “Well, let’s just say I can’t imagine anyone trying to legitimize a claim so obviously fraudulent. It just doesn’t make sense. Was there ANYTHING that stumped the researchers, anything to give their claim any validity at all?”

The doctor thought for a moment, then hesitantly admitted, “Well, there is one thing that puzzled the experts, and does to this day.″

Erica perked up.

“But most experts are confident that the dilemma will somehow be resolved, given the nature of the diary’s content. The point in question is that the original diary paper and its ink test-out authentic. Never has anyone seen such a professional job of giving the appearance of antiquity. But of course, the school of higher textual criticism renders that interpretation totally absurd.”

“Of course,” she replied, thinking ‘boy are they in for a surprise’. “That would sure be something to see the original,” she added wistfully.

“I’ll take you there this afternoon, if you like,” Dr. Peterson offered.

Confused, Erica replied, “Where?” “To see the original. Isn’t that what you want to do?”

“Seriously? You must be joking!” she laughed. “See the original diary? This afternoon? I was just thinking out loud, really.”

Dr. Peterson was serious.

“Really?” Erica asked unbelievably.

“Really!” he chuckled. ″They’ll show it to anyone who shows an interest. And I’m still very well connected with their Chief. He’d be more than happy to see us today...or any day, for that matter. We’ll drive out there after lunch. How’s that?”

“Oh, that would be wonderful! More than I ever hoped for. I’d be ever so grateful, doctor.”

Within the hour they were out on the highway, Lumbee Indian Reservation bound. During the ride Erica decided to write her suspicions down in a letter that she would mail to Elwood, just in case something should befall her before her return home. By the time they left the smooth pavement for the rougher road leading to the reservation, Erica had finished the letter and stuffed it into her purse. After a short spell, they finally entered into a modest clearing of homes. Erica’s excitement grew with every passing minute. She sensed that this just might be the most important event of her lifetime. If the diary proved to be truly authentic, corroborated by Elwood’s shenanigans, then mankind’s whole concept of time would change. And she would be the one who stumbled upon the missing piece and put the whole together.

Children were seriously at play throughout the neighborhood. Whoops and hollers, balls flying every which way, ropes a ‘twirlin’, life was in full swing. Dr. Peterson wheeled his station wagon past the children and up the finest compacted dirt driveway Erica had ever seen. And the two-story home at its end was none too shabby, either. It sported a turn-of-the-century wrap around porch to die for, upon which an older gentleman was found perched on the edge of a rocking chair, suspiciously eyeing Dr. Peterson as he pulled up and parked.

By the time he and Erica disembarked, the scout had disappeared through the screen door and into the house. As they walked toward the porch, Dr. Peterson turned to Erica. “I need to warn you. He’s somewhat unrefined and may say things that are slightly offensive. It’s just his way.”

Suddenly the entry door swung open and the oldster came out followed by a long-haired, muscular, very clean middle-aged man wearing sandals, bell-bottom pants, and a tie-dyed shirt. “Afternoon, good Chief R and R,” Dr. Peterson greeted, then turned to Erica and whispered, “R and R for Rock ‘n’ Roll.”

“Dr. Peterson, what a nice surprise,” he smiled diplomatically. “On behalf of the entire Lumbee nation, welcome!” He then turned to the older gentleman. “And thank you, Rock-a-Hula, for fetching Me.”

“You be the man, Red Rider,” he responded respectfully.

Dr. Peterson began to reply, ″Thank you, it’s a pleas...”

″Who’s the babe?” interrupted the Chief.

“Uh, good Chief R and R, this is Erica Smith, daughter of my friend and colleague Dr. Heinrich Smith of NASA,” he replied.

“Whoa, hey, yeah, wow! Erica Smith, eh? Oochie capesto!” he boomed, the grinning idiot smile gracing his face slightly too familiar to Elwood’s for Erica’s liking. Hebephrenia was obviously no respecter of persons, native or otherwise.

“Hello, I’m charmed...”

“And smoking hot, tool” he added, then changed abruptly. “Then you’re the daughter of that moron who got scalped by that high school freak on lT’S ACADEMIC?!”

“Well, I’m--”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen a human being more laid to waste than he was. Of course, it’s not your fault you’ve got an idiot for a father,” he scoffed, shaking his head in disbelief.

“Hey, that’s not--”

“How could such a bozo have such a fox for a daughter, I ask you that!”

“I beg your pardon I” Erica snapped. “He is my father, and...and... you’ve no right...”

Though the Chief was still laughing sarcastically, Erica’s tone seemed to subdue his euphoria and he suddenly changed his demeanor. “Oh, have I said something to offend you? May it never be. How can I make it up to you?”

Boy was Peterson on the money. What the? “I came in the hopes of seeing John White’s Diary. Is that possible?”

“Of course it is,” he replied compassionately, then looked at Dr. Peterson. “But the jackass stays outside!”

Erica’s head jerked back in startled horror at the reference to Dr. Peterson. This did not escape R and R. “Are you OK? Is something wrong?”

“Oh no. Nothing.” She glanced quickly at Dr. Peterson, rolled her eyes, then returned to Chief R and R. “I just have a twitch that comes on every now and then. I’ll be OK.”

“Fancy that! A bitch with a twitch. Well, scoot that pretty little butt into our humble abode and I’ll show you the Sacred Diarrhea. But Benedict Arnold stays outside!” he roared as he flung the screen door open and charged inside. The door shut in Erica’s face. She looked at Dr. Peterson sheepishly. There must be an easier way to debunk the space-time continuum, she lamented.

“I’ll be right outside this door, Erica,” Dr. Peterson offered.

Both his words and his warm smile gave her the assurance she needed to feel safe. Opening the door, she bravely marched in. The first thing she noticed about the place was the burning incense aroma of...English tea! What else?! Posters of English rock groups adorned the walls. What else?! And there in the exact center of the room was an altar to...the Beatles. Who else?! On the altar lay the sounding box of an acoustic guitar, and the flowers that surrounded it reminded her of the Sargent Pepper Lonely Hearts Club Band album cover. A short distance away sat a styrofoam head wearing a Beatle wig, rose colored granny glasses, and an Indian headdress of dilapidated feathers. The Chief was kneeling on a padded area in front of the table, bobbing up and down and moaning some sort of ceremonial chant. She decided to wait reverently until he finished, but as she listened she realized that instead of communing with his ancestors, he was adlibbing words to the song ‘You Can’t Judge a Book by Looking at the Cover’.

“Oh oh oh can’t you see, oh baby, you misjudged me. I may look like an injun, but my ancestor’s from Dover, you can’t judge a book by looking at the cover.” As he finished, he wobbled his head rapidly from side-to-side and warbled “Whew” just like Paul and George did in the song ‘She Loves You’.

The next thing R and R did once he got up from his knees was to open the hinged guitar top. Then he motioned to Erica to come closer. As she approached, he stopped her suddenly and demanded, ’That’ll be twenty dollars to look at The Book, of which you will get a complete xerox copy, and twenty dollars for the Informational Tour.”

“Forty dollars! This is how you make it up to someone?!” Erica blurted.

“Think Manhattan Island, and our prices will all of a sudden make sense to you. Oh, and I forgot to tell you. Informational tours are never given on Fridays, and I’m making an exception especially for you. Does that make it better?”

“Well, yes, I’m thank--”

“Hey,” he snipped, cutting her off. “We’ve got a real unsolved mystery here. If you’re looking for ‘Wish you were here’ tomahawks, or ‘It’s a good thing you weren’t here at the Little Big Horn’ tee shirts, you’ve come to the wrong place. This is serious, genuine documentation you’re about to see, honest injun, so either slap me the cash, or sashay that cute little ash outa here.”

“Why you rude ---”

“Now, now. Name calling will only spoil the mood. If you’re short the cash, well, how about a date?” He flitted his eyebrows.

“OK! You win!” she snapped as she dug the money from her purse. “Here’s the forty bucks. And if I were you, I’d cut with the butt smut and start tour talking real fast, or I’ll scream and get Dr. Peterson in here. I bruise easily, and it’ll be my word against yours. You savvy, kimo sobbie?”

Chief R and R never rock ‘n’ rolled so fast in his life. It was ‘goodness, gracious, great balls of fire’ as he dove to a cardboard box underneath the altar and came up with a diary xerox copy, quickly handed it to Erica, then seized the items from the Styrofoam head and masterfully donned them. As Erica looked on, the Chief then assumed a trail guide posture by bending at his knees, hunching his back, and raising his right hand to his forehead as if to block the sun. Erica looked at him funny.

“This is the only way I can find my motivation,” R and R offered testily. “Is that alright with you?”

“By all means. Know what you’re fighting for. Say yes to love. Do whatever you have to do. JUST START TOUR-TALKING NOW,” she boomed through a glare that would melt an iceberg.

“OK. I think you’ve given me proper motivation. Many, many moons ago...”

“Oh brother,” Erica moaned.

“It worked for Hiawatha!” the Chief pleaded, then continued. “As I was saying, many many moons ago the Lumbee’s noble ancestors came to the aid of the courageous English settler, and in so doing, as you are about to see, should now share in the English birthright. We’ve commemorated their act of goodwill with a series of life-size diasporas just beyond that door where our tour begins. Now, ladies and gentlemen, if you’ll be so kind as to follow me, I’ll lead you to the glory days of yesteryear, and to the most fascinating page of English-American history the world has ever known.”

Diasporas? Ladies and gentleman? What a riot. Erica’s eyes followed the Chief as he gallantly marched out the door and into yesteryear, then glanced back over her shoulder through the screen door to where Dr. Peterson reclined next to Rock-a-Hula. The distance, she concluded, was vocally surmountable, so she gathered her courage and charged after him, trying to forget that he was the biggest psycho she’d ever met. Unbeknownst to her, the letter marked ‘Elwood’ fell from her purse to the floor just before she exited the room.

Once outside, she heard Beatles music blaring overhead and found herself standing on an oval cobblestone pathway that circled past eight curtained stalls. Several tall oak trees growing within the oval gave ample shade from the mid-afternoon’s glaring sun, and as she joined the Chief at the first station, he resumed his presentation.

“On a hunting expedition my forefathers came across the white man’s settlement at Pamlico Sound, which was an awfully piss-poor plot of land to start a new nation on, I might add,” he laughed. “We still chuckle over that one.” He then reached up and pulled a cord to open the curtains of the first stall, revealing a semi-circle of five wooden cigar-store Indians standing around a piece of sod on a birdbath. A flag marked ‘Pamlico Sound’ was planted in the center of the sod. After a token moment of reverence, he pushed a button on one of the support poles and a stream of water came gushing out from the private sections of each of the wooden Indians directly onto the sod. “We’ve spared no expense to recreate the high points of our heritage,” the smiling Chief declared proudly. “Just like being there, isn’t it?” he thoughtfully added, then shouted, “And I mean it!”

“Yes, a true diosporic marvel,” Erica agreed. “Most educational.” Talk about mood changes!

“We think so. But that’s just food coloring in the water,” he confessed apologetically.​“The sod would die--” Just then a stray dog came out of nowhere and began to pee into what looked like a receiving reservoir at the rear of the stall. “Hey! Get outta there, you mangy mutt!” the Chief screamed, a sandal and heaving it mightily at the canine carcass. A bullseye sent the offender whimpering off. Chief R and R retrieved his sandal, all the while lamenting the animal kingdom’s complete disregard for all that’s holy.

“Anyway, most of the adults were either sick or dead. John White was among the sick who we brought back to our village.” He was now in front of stall number two. As he pulled the cord, the curtain retracted and Erica saw a large, black, tightly-sealed teepee with a sign attached to it. which read ’SICKOS: STAY THE HELL AWAY. “Unfortunately, the sickness was too great and all the adults died, leaving many of their children alone and uncarred for. As every TV watching American knows, it was our custom to adopt the white man’s children and teach them our ways, which we did. The children, of course, intermarried with our people, giving us the English birthright. THAT”S WHY WE’RE FAB!” he cried to the heavens.

Erica didn’t know how much more she could take. She had the copy of The Diary. Maybe she should get out while the getting was good.

Meanwhile. Dr.​Peterson napped on the porch and Rock-a-Hula came into the house for an iced tea. As he turned toward the kitchen, he glanced out at the Chief and Erica. In the process, he noticed the folded letter on the floor.​When he bent down to pick it up, he saw the name on the outside and gasped. Elwood! It was Elwood! He unfolded the letter and read the contents, his eyes growing larger with each sentence. Soon he disappeared into an adjacent room that housed a small copier and made a xerox of it, then brought it back and set it down onto the floor where he’d found it. Once his tea was in hand. he returned to the porch.

Outside, the Chief was really getting into it. “But this White guy--get it?--’White gu... ”

Erica began to feel an intense sense of impatience. “You better tighten this presentation, Buster,” Erica snapped, “and find the dream that is in you before I tire of your rewrites and get Dr. Peterson out here. You comprendez?”

“Yes. OK, ” he swiftly replied. “The White guy, he wouldn’t let go of his book.​Used to swat flies with it, even on his death bed. So we honored his dying request to have it buried with him.”

“Buried with him? But didn’t you--?” She stopped in mid-sentence, remembering that Dr. Peterson had told her that they’d dug up the original. That meant that they knew where White was buried.

“Yes, buried with him.​Why?”

“You’re telling me you know where John White is buried?”

“Sure. In the crawl space under the house. Where’d you think?”

“Governor John White? Under your house?” she replied, now more astonished than ever.

“Darn straight.​I peak not with spooned tongue. And he being an outsider--once an outsider, always an outsider--it was against Indian Burial Ground Disunion Rules to fry him on a bed of sticks, which is our normal way of achieving ‘disunion, ’ or separating the spirit from the body, so we buried him special. He was their governor, you know. ” Then he shouted, “Long live the Queen!”

“Yes. Of course. And many happy returns. Now back to The Diary. Then what?”

“Before we buried them, we had one of our scribes copy the book onto animal skins, thinking that someday we might learn the language and find something of great importance in there, considering how protective he was of it. Who knows? Could’ve been a book of magic tricks, or routes to buried treasure, or...SONG LYRICS! BINGO!” By then, Chief R and R was opening the curtains to stall number four.​True to his word, number four’s diorama displayed a replica of The Diary on a pedestal flanked by three full-length posters: one, a magic trick book cover; two, a convoluted treasure map, and three, lyrics to ‘She Loves You’.

“Anyway, through the years we’ve recopied it and recopied it. Then, as the moons rose and fell, and more honkies invaded our land, we soon picked up their lingo. At first, it didn’t matter what was in the book. Nobody really thought much about it. Sort of ‘out of sight. out of mind. ’ But then the British explosion hit. At that, he shouted ’WHEE !” and danced the jig. They were at station number five by this time, and even though R and R had been yankedy-split when opening all the previous curtains, after the dance he hesitated, then suddenly dropped his head limply as if in a trance, or about to go into some other kind of fit. As Erica considered the possibilities, he abruptly burst into action and threw himself to the ground as if forcefully shot, grabbing and pulling the curtain cord on the way down. The curtains flew open and he ended face down in a position similar to a praying Muslim facing Mecca. Though her sense of direction wasn’t the best, she would have sworn he was pointed toward Liverpool.

Such inspired play held her ocularly captive, but finally she was able to shift her attention from the worshipper to the worshipped ... who was, of course, The Fab Four. In wax. Now the only question remaining was ‘for how long?’ “Uh. Chief? Earth to Chief. Come in, Chief.”

Finally the Chief began to stir. As he slowly got up from the ground. he mumbled something like ‘goo goo ga joob.’ Was this being slayed in the rock ‘n’ roll spirit? Not missing a beat, he continued. “And Rock ‘a’ Hula, who used to be ‘Running There’ until our lucky break, started telling everyone in the tribe that the Beatles’ lyrics sounded awfully familiar, that he’d read them in White’s diary. So at his urging, I broke it out the copy, because, frankly, that’s the only scribbling we’d ever done in this tribe.Most of us are content to just read the sky, or the brooks, or the animals, depending on where we’re eating at the time.”

At that, Chief R and R unveiled stall number six. The scene was from the inside rear of a church looking toward the pulpit. A sea of Beatle haircuts gazed up at the preacher, presumably Running There, who was laying it down from The Diary. ‘Paperback Writer’ played softly in the background. “And?” “Running There was a strange breed of cat, actually the only one who bothered to learn the English language well enough to read it. That’s why I broke out the copy because I knew he’d cut his reading teeth on it many moons ago. Thank God he still remembered. Said it was some ‘Even-in-the-woods’ reading course that really helped him to read fast and remember. So he’d take the diary off into the woods and we wouldn’t see him for days at a time.”

“Then what happened?”

“Then we blew it,” Chief R and R admitted, sadly walking to the next stall. On the overhead crossbeam was scribbled ‘Unlucky Seven’. “We showed the copy to the world, and this is what happened.” As the curtain retracted, Erica could see a mural of the Chief holding out the diary to several suited men lying on a floor in various positions or gut-busting hysteria.

“It was that bad, huh?” Erica asked sympathetically.

“Worse. This was BEFORE they’d even read the first word!” He then looked skyward to the Great Spirits and wailed, “John, Paul, Mick, Keith, Pet…I’m fab, really I am. You gotta believe me!”

Was this not a classic case of obsessive-compulsive, or what? Forget rethinking the space-time continuum. That was chump change compared to this nut. “Then what?” she asked, trying to get the Chief back on track.

“So, though it’s against Indian Burial Ground Disunion Rules, ‘Indian’ being the operative word here, we dug up the original diary and compared it with the copy just to be sure some scribe wasn’t drinking fire water on the job. And we found just what we’d hoped to find. The copy was true to the original. So we tried again, but because the message was the same, it wasn’t taken seriously. But the experts still can’t explain the fact that the ink and the papyrus of the original test-out authentic. They think we somehow faked it, but haven’t a clue as to how. Which brings us to our last diaspora. ” He opened the final curtain,​revealing a cartoon mural of the inside of a boardroom. On the left side of the never-ending conference table sat several bearded, bespectacled, scholarly types, magnifying glasses in hand, who were scrutinizing pages of The Diary. Across the room from them sat Chief R and R and several tribal elders, their heads huddled together in council. The speech bubble above the scholars read ‘HOW?’ The bubble above the Lumbees read ’HA HA HA. WHAT A BUNCH OF MONOSYLLABIC SAVAGES!”

“Cute.​Very cute. But you must admit, it’s quite an unbelievable tale,” Erica maintained. “I mean, Rock ‘n’ Roll lyrics found in a diary four-hundred years before the songs ever existed?”

“I confess. We don’t understand it either, ” he replied, scratching his head under his feathered Beatle wig. “At any rate, the tour’s over. You can go wake up the old fart now. But I suggest you take a moment and groove to the vibes that are going down here, especially the Rock ‘n’ Roll history that’s being made.​And then pick a page of your copy, any page, and check it with the original back in the house. And you’ll see the copy is true to the original. I want you to know for certain that Chief R and R and the Lumbees are on the level. You savvy?”

“I savvy. And I will. Thank you.”

“Of course you will. And you’ll do it NOW!” he screamed as he charged angrily back into the house. She stood dumbfounded, neutralized by his psychoneurosis. What now? Suddenly the Chief reappeared in the doorway and stared for a moment at the perplexed Erica. “Oh, did I say something to offend you? What? Tell me.”

Erica just shook her head. She’d had enough R and R to last a lifetime. Without bothering to reply, she lowered her chin and charged past him into the house. Just inside, she saw her folded letter on the floor and quickly reached down to scoop it up. Thank God she found it before R and R did. Who knows what that psycho would do to Elwood if he knew. As she passed the altar, she stopped to check one original diary page against her copy.​As her fingers touched the old papyrus, she felt a strangeness come over her, a mystical kinship with White that sprung from knowing from where he’d received his messages. Would anyone in their wildest imagination ever believe that such a thing was possible, that natural laws and processes were capable of condensing time through electromagnetic radiation?

The Chief walked past her and returned his tour-guide wardrobe to the styrofoam head. “Go ahead, take your time,” he said as he left the room and went into his office. Erica watched him exit, then wondered if even a professional could figure that one out.

Before she left she had to see the dedication. And there it was, at the end, separated from the main body of text by several blank pages.​It was as if White had waited, expecting more, and when ‘more’ never came, got impatient and made the dedication--the several blank pages preceding it symbolic of the flickering hope that still burned within him.

‘To L. Wood, only time will tell. Thanks for everything.​Your friend forever, John C. White. ’

‘Only time will tell.’ She pondered the phrase.​Did White mean that only time would tell if those blank pages would ever be filled? Or was he referring to the possibility that the origin of the mystery broadcasts would be revealed, in due time? Which was it?

After Erica and Dr. Peterson left, Rock-a-Hula bounded into the house and flashed the letter copy to Chief R and R. A s soon as he finished reading it, he threw himself down onto the rug in front of the Rock ‘n’ Roll altar with great wailing and gnashing of teeth. “Oh Big Boys on high. It IS true. On this day you have brought forth the miracle.​And part of it... JUST WALKED OUT THAT DOOR! AGHHHHH! ” he cried, then quickly jumped up and grabbed Rock-a-Hula. “Go.​Fetch Rock-a-Hula Junior. Together we will follow that girl, even if it means to the ends of the Earth. She’ll lead us to Elwood, and our names will forever be vindicated as speakers of truth. And we’ll once and for all be deemed ‘FAB! ’ Hurry!”

Rock-a-Hula charged out the door.