A Fistful of Tickets

Waggawolla Land! Jack Econski hated Waggawolla Land! He despised everything about the theme park, from its smarmy, saccharine image to its mascot Waggawolla Wallaby. After three baseball-bat-wielding koalas mugged him in its parking lot, he was out for payback. Since all good plots began with rotgut whiskey, Econski retired to the Necrotic Liver for some liquid refreshment. He relaxed almost immediately on taking refuge from the noonday sun and entering the dark bar with its familiar aroma of stale beer and overflowing urinals.

“Jesus, Jack! What the hell happened to you?” the bartender asked on seeing Econski’s two black eyes.

“Got mugged in Waggawolla Land. Damn punks! I ought to sue their asses!”

“You’ll never win.” The bartender set down Econski’s glass of Old Spotted Tapeworm. “Waggawolla Land has the judges in their pocket.”

“Domain names.” Papilloma Pete, a defrocked community-college teacher with a chest-length beard, lifted his head out of the drool on his table. “Buy an Internet address with a name like theirs, post reputation-ruining content, and sell the domain to them at an inflated price.”

Econski searched for domain names and bought on WagofWall dot com. Thoughts of ruined reputations immediately brought Cirrhosis Sally to mind. He found her wrapping her chapped lips around a jug of Mussolini Chianti in the alley behind Queensland Fats Big and Tall. In the years since he’d last seen her, her skin had deepened to the color of a crossing guard’s warning vest.

“Miss Sally, you’re sure looking radiant, today. Would you be interested in earning a few bucks by posing for some erotic photos?” Econski selected the camera function on his cell phone and zoomed out to get both Sally and the dumpster in the frame.

“Damn it, Jack. Objectification is the leading cause of gender discrimination and oppression. I refuse to let anyone isolate my body parts or physical appearance from my entire being!”

Cirrhosis Sally’s refusal forced Econski to reconsider his plan. What if, instead of shaking Waggawolla Land down for a quick payoff, he could put them out of business, forever? After downing a fifth of Stalin’s Private Reserve, Econski came up with a plan. He would create Wag of Wall Land, the most horrible theme park he could imagine. The public would then confuse the two and this would cut into Waggawolla Land’s bottom line. Using the fortune, he’d amassed by selling poetry chapbooks, Econski bought an abandoned uranium mine west of Wimbarra. It was a wasteland of blockhouses, eucalyptus, and rusting machinery but his purchase also included a shack filled with explosives. Though meaning to turn them over to the authorities, Econski had more pressing concerns, so he simply placed a sign saying, “Kale Storage,” to keep the children away and forgot about the matter. Then with a few cosmetic upgrades, he transformed his radioactive, ten acres into his vengeance weapon.

On opening day, Econski peeked out the grimy, office window. Even though he’d hired the best collection of drunks, deviants, and misfits; spent tens of dollars on pleasure-stained remnants from Sadie’s Furry Wear; and painted the cinder-block buildings institutional green; he was a ball of nerves on opening day. When he saw the line of families snaking around the piles of uranium tailings he realized he needn’t have worried. Within minutes, gangs of children abandoned their parents to mob the gate in a scene that resembled something out of Lord of the Flies. It was such a red-tooth-and-claw struggle for dominance that Econski was amazed the little darlings hadn’t tipped over any cars. A sweetheart, he dubbed Typhoid Mary, let out such a chest-rattling cough that a dozen boys got out of her way. A boy in a denim vest cut in front of a freckled girl and then insisted he’d been there all along when she complained. The only child not involved in the melee was a girl in braces who screamed, “But I’m hungry!” at her mother. When the poor woman gave her a candy bar, the girl took a bite and threw the rest on the ground. “That’s yucky!” she yelled. Econski realized he’d better get out there before someone got trampled to death. He changed into his costume and rushed to meet his customers.

“Hi, kids! I’m Calvin the Cockroach. Welcome to Wag of Wall Land. While your parents do boring, grown-up stuff like practice nude yoga and visit the open bar, we’re going to have real fun!”

“Your costume’s dumb,” Typhoid Mary said. “I want to see Waggawolla Wallaby.”

“Yeah!” the kids screamed.

“We all want to see him, especially the little lady in Brisbane who he owes six months back child support.” Econski shook his head to set the springs and ping-pong balls that served as Calvin’s antennae wobbling. “Last I heard, Waggawolla Wallaby was undergoing twenty-eight days of court-ordered rehab but I have several new friends for you to play with like Terry Tapeworm, Larry the Leech, Stephanie Staphylococcus, Jerry the Box Jellyfish.” When the children responded with less excitement than expected, Econski asked, “Who wants to play pirates?”

“Me,” the children yelled.

“Well, all right. Just stand in this line and you’ll set sail on Sinbad’s Voyage of Pirated Software in no time.” Since much of the theme-park experience involved waiting in line, Econski let the little darlings cool their heels for a half hour before admitting them into Papilloma Pete’s presence.

“Arr! How are me maties, today?” Papilloma Pete lifted his eyepatch to scratch before replacing it. “Who wants to join my pirate crew?”

“We do!”

“You know what’s the most important thing for a pirate to have?”

“No.”

“A tetanus vaccination.” Papilloma Pete pointed to Nurse Trixie from the STD clinic as she set syringes on the table.

The children lost their enthusiasm.

“Well, you don’t want to get lockjaw after a sword fight, do you?” Papilloma Pete said.

“I don’t care what you say. I’m not going to!” said Midget Mike, who used to earn a thousand dollars a night letting drunk bar patrons throw him into a Velcro target until do-gooders got Australian Dwarf Tossing banned.

“A mutineer, are you?” Papilloma Pete grabbed Mike by the scruff of the neck and threw him through a stunt window with an intimidating shatter of sugar glass. “Anybody who refuses captain’s orders will get the same treatment. Now line up!”

Papilloma Pete went for a smoke and returned thirty minutes later to address the children holding their sore arms.

“Arr! Time to set sail on a sea of pirated software. Take a seat at these laptops and enter every possible fourteen-digit product code beginning with AAAA-AAAA-AAAAAA. Arr!”

“This is no fun,” said little Typhoid Mary, who’d undergone a stunning recovery from her cough.

“Arr! The pirate life’s not for you, then. Arr! Well, maybe you’d like to be a detective. Step right this day for the Case of the Refrigerator Thief. Just be sure to stop at the kiosk to buy more tickets. Arr!”

Except for one autistic boy, who seemed fascinated with his laptop’s Wi-Fi icon, the children filed out and entered an office where Cirrhosis Sally met them wearing a deerstalker hat.

“Someone’s been stealing lunches from the refrigerator at Ace Feminine Hygiene, Ltd. I need some junior detectives to help find the thief. Who wants to help?”

“Me!” A dozen hands went up.

“All right.” Cirrhosis Sally puffed her Meerschaum pipe. “We’ll have a stakeout so you’ll need to go undercover. You!” She pointed at the girl with braces. “Station yourself in accounting…” After assigning the children to their roles, Cirrhosis Sally reviewed the plan. “I’m going away for a while so I don’t spook the thief. Stay quiet and keep your eyes open.”

After the children experience spreadsheets, drab cubicles, and motivational posters for an hour, Delirium Dan made an announcement over the intercom. 

“Attention, children! Those wishing to enter the Willy Loman Magazine Sales Contest, please meet by the dumpsters in back of the snack bar.”

Cirrhosis Sally eventually returned.

“Has the thief showed up yet?”

The children shook their heads.

“Well, maybe we need to wait another hour.”

“This is boring!” the boy in the denim vest said.

“We have plenty of other games like Snow White and the Seven Parts of Speech or Goldilocks and the Three Verb Tenses. Have you ever heard of playing doctor?” Cirrhosis Sally winked. “You can. Just be sure to buy more tickets at the kiosk.”

After a half-hour wait in the heat and dust, the handful of children, who hadn’t given up, filed into a billing office to find Tourette’s Tim in a white, lab coat. 

“Doctors, like me, spend most of their time on billing. Duck!” Tim fiddled with his stethoscope to hide his tick. “Memorize these billing codes and I’ll be back in an hour. Duck!”

“This is no fun,” Typhoid Mary said.

“We have plenty of other games for your amusement. Duck! You’ve heard the expression, ‘Beating a dead horse.’ How about doing it for real? Or you could go for a ride in the dentist chair.”

Econski stood by the ticket stand while the theme from “The Great Escape” played in the background. So far, none of the children had descended into the mine to dig with hand trowels, simulating tunneling out of a German POW camp like in the movie. It was a pity. Econski had rented vicious dogs to make the experience more realistic. No matter! Except for the few who’d gone on Hansel and Gretel’s Wilderness Survival Trek, no children remained. He might as well cancel the afternoon’s Long-Division Hoedown and close up. The trekkers wouldn’t be back for days. No doubt, lunch had more than a little to do with his success. Cirrhosis Sally’s menu of creamed spinach sandwiches and boiled cauliflower, shaped like a kangaroo’s head, was inspired! 

Econski turned off the music and got ready to lock up. For his entire life, he’d struggled to find a purpose. Here, on this pile of radioactive waste, he found his calling, crushing children’s dreams.

“Hey! Are you the manager?” a bearded man with a chain attached to his wallet asked.

“Yeah.” Econski reached for the pepper spray in his pocket.

“I just want to shake your hand!” The man beamed. “All I hear from my kids is, ‘Waggawolla Land! I want to go to Waggawolla Land!’ After only a few hours in your theme park, they’ll never ask again. You saved me over a thousand bucks. God bless you!”

While their children enjoyed games such as the Daytona Car Wash 5000, parents watched Albino Alice practice opening champagne bottles with a machete in the bar. Even though she only succeeded one time in three, the parents were too far gone to care. After all, swallowing broken glass didn’t seem that bad compared to dealing with their brats for decades to come. Liquor flowed. A librarian shed her wire-framed glasses and blouse to dance topless on the bar. Inspired by her lack of inhibition, the breeders moved with abandon to whatever dances their generation danced to: the jitterbug, Charleston, or Lindy hop. Couples found that all the decaying radioactive waste made the storage pools into passable hot tubs. They didn’t worry about radiation. Instead, they seized this rare moment of joy in their dreary lives.

Spring-boarding off the father’s comment, Econski changed the website’s banner to read, “Your children will never ask to go to a theme park EVER AGAIN!” Business took off and Wag of Wall Land added a gift shop with items such as Blöck öf Wööd, a Swedish gender-neutral toy that let children develop their imaginations. Econski checked Waggawolla Land’s stock daily on the Alice Springs Mercantile Exchange and celebrated its slide with glasses of Kim Jong-un soju. With its reputation in flames, it was only a matter of time before Waggawolla Land retaliated with a dastardly ad campaign.

“Hey Jack, you’d better see this.” The Necrotic Liver’s bartender changed the big-screen TV’s channel to the Waggawolla Wallaby Show.

A group of children were standing on a playground.

“Hey, let’s go to the Waggawolla Mart and get some Marsupial Marshmallows!”

“I can’t” The overweight boy looked at his shoes. “I spent all my money on soda.”

After the others left, a rat wearing fake kangaroo ears climbed out of a sewer grate. A trail of mucus dripped from his crusted nostrils onto his lips and he scratched at some kind of rash underneath his torn, Madras shorts.

“Hey kid, I’ll sell you some Marsupial Marshmallows for just a penny.” He handed the boy a candy wrapped in skull-and-crossbones paper.

“I don’t know,” the boy said. “These don’t look right.”

“Come on, kid. It’s only a penny. What have you got to lose?”

The boy bit into the candy and his face turned green. “I don’t feel so good.”

The scene switched to the remaining children on the playground.

“Did you hear what happened to Jimmy?”

“He ate some bad candy and now he’s in hospital.”

“Yeah, the doctors had to cut his wiener off. He’ll pee like a girl for the rest of his life.”

The camera cut to Waggawolla Wallaby sitting in his study. He set down a book and took off his reading glasses before looking into the camera.

“Kids, at Waggawolla Land, all our products undergo rigorous testing by a team of doctors and engineers. Other theme parks cut corners when it comes to your safety. Accept no substitutes or you might end up like Jimmy.”

Econski couldn’t let this insult go unavenged but with his limited advertising budget he had to find a more creative option. Then he hit on an idea and watched it bear fruit three days later on the evening news when a buxom reporter interviewed a woman in a housecoat and curlers.

“Local women report a man in a wallaby costume exposing himself on Half Moon Beach. I’m here with one of the victims, Mrs. Henrietta Naysayer.” The reporter aimed the microphone at Mrs. Naysayer’s mouth.

“It’s disgusting! Not only is that wallaby a perv but he’s tiny, too. To think that our children are exposed to such filth!”

“If you see a perverted wallaby, report him to the Byron Bay police,” the reporter added. “This is Debbie Hearsay for Action News.”

It was just like the saying, “There is no bad publicity.” Attendance at Wag of Wall Land grew as parents expressed their frustration at TV characters turning their children into demanding little consumers. Econski added another race-car ride, which duplicated a garage’s waiting room, complete with bad coffee and last year’s magazines. Periodically, a man in overalls would show the children a dirty air filter and demand more tickets. It looked like Econski would finally be able to afford that Holden Colorado he always wanted until he received a cease and desist letter from the law firm of Shyster, Shakedown, Robber, and Christmas.

Instead of hiring a lawyer, Econski enlisted Tourette’s Tim, who’d sat through several viewings of My Cousin Vinny. On the day of the deposition, Tim wore his best T-shirt, to one stained by mustard at La Petite Charcuterie, to the law firm’s headquarters on the fifth floor of the Asbestos Building. After a two-hour wait, a flunky ushered them into the presence of the great man, himself. Leonard G. Shyster had the pallor of a man who spent his entire life under fluorescent lights, either that or one who hunted at night for the blood of the living. He wore a pin-striped suit and took a golden pen from his lapel pocket in case he needed to take notes on the legal pad in front of him. A few minutes later, Waggawolla Wallaby breezed in with a porn star on his arm. Having performed an in-depth study of her art form, Econski recognized her as Labia Thighgap, star of such masterpieces as From Here to Fertility and The Importance of Being Harnessed. Waggawolla Wallaby wore and open-collared shirt under a white sports jacket along with enough gold chains to supply the South African mint for decades. In movies and on TV, he always looked taller but in real life his date stood several inches taller than him. 

“Let’s get started.” Shyster stood and took his glasses out of his pocket. “This is a simple case of trademark infringement. As we see it, Wag of Wall Land is a cheap rip-off of Waggawolla Land.”

“That’s preposterous!” Tourette’s Tim’s arm shot out in something resembling a Nazi salute. “Duck!”

Those who didn’t know Tim flinched.

“If you have another explanation, I’m sure we’d all love to hear it.” Shyster turned to Waggawolla Wallaby with a mocking grin.

“Anybody in engineering knows that making a rough estimate is called a WAG,” Econski said. “When I was planning my theme park, I didn’t know how much the fence would cost so I made a WAG of the wall. Guess the name just stuck.”

“I find that hard to believe.”

“I find it hard to believe a coke-addled marsupial and his band of ambulance chasers would try to shake down a hard-working business man like my client,” Tim said. “Duck!”

“So how do you explain the other similarities?” Shyster continued without responding to Tim’s outburst. “Your Jack and the Beanstalk Lawn Maintenance Jamboree bears a striking resemblance to our Jack and the Beanstalk Water Slide, for example.”

“Pure coincidence,” Econski said.

“The Three Little Pigs Abattoir and the Three Little Pigs Ferris Wheel? Ali Baba Running Shoe Sewing Challenge and the Ali Baba Rollercoaster?” Shyster gestured with his glasses to the rhythm of his words like a conductor waving a baton. 

“These fairy tales are centuries old. Duck! When big business buys up the rights to them, I say that’s tyranny, sir. Tyranny!” Tim’s arm shot out again.

“And in the snack bar, your Bandicoot Broccoli sounds suspiciously like my client’s Bandicoot Barbecue,” Shyster continued. “Then there’s Koala Kohlrabi and Koala Cocoa, Platypus Peas and Platypus Pasta, Tasmanian Turnips and Tasmanian Teriyaki. Do I need to go on?”

“I object!” Tim said.

“You can’t object in a deposition,” Shyster said.

Tourette’s Tim’s eyes went wide as he jumped to his feet.

“You’re out of order!” He swept the papers from the table and dashed out the door. “You’re out of order!” he yelled at the paralegals in the hall.

“They’re bluffing. Duck!” Tim said to Econski after security escorted them from the building. “You have nothing to worry about.”

Three months later, Econski found himself, with Tim at his side, in the courtroom of the Honorable Bruce T. Outback. As Econski looked from Shyster in his wig and robe to Tim in his shorts and sandals, he made several contingency plans. All involved fleeing the country. When the judge took the bench, Econski let out a sigh. Bruce T. Outback was the delighted father who’d shaken Econski’s hand on opening day.

After his court victory, Econski dropped all pretense that the rides corresponded to their names. So, for example, Outer Space Valley consisted of boys following a woman shopping for shoes and Tina Ballerina practice had little girls running in a giant hamster wheel to provide the park’s electricity.

One December night after the last of the disappointed children left, Econski closed the office and stepped outside to find the Wag of Wall sign in flames. This disappointed him because it was the only thing in the amusement park he’d spent any effort on. To make matters worse, a group of armed marsupials danced around the flames.

“We want the money, Econski!” A kangaroo set down a can of gasoline and took a switchblade out of her pouch.

“Yeah, pay us the damages you owe.” A koala spat a eucalyptus leaf on the ticket window, pulled a cord to start a chainsaw, and revved it with an evil grin.

“Duck!” Tourette’s Tim began throwing Molotov Cocktails at the attackers, which worried Econski in two ways. First, there was Tim’s terrible aim. And second, Tim’s weapons of choice were actual cocktails, using one-hundred-fifty-proof rum in place of gasoline. Oh, the humanity!

Then, a topless Cirrhosis Sally, her skin glowing like a chunk of radium, exited the site of the broccoli giveaway, screamed her battle cry, and tossed a boomerang that decapitated a platypus. Joining her, Albino Alice drew the machete, slung over her back like Toshiro Mifune’s sword in the Seven Samurai, and disemboweled a half dozen Tasmanian devils armed with pitchforks before turning her rage on Waggawolla Wallaby, himself. 

As if sensing a chance to outcompete primitive mammals, a gang of dingoes rode into battle and bashed marsupials’ heads with cricket bats from their Harley Davidsons. The attackers fled except for a thylacine who pretended to be part of the canine gang. The dingoes saw through his disguise and dragged him from the compound by a rope behind their motorcycles to a life of sexual bondage.

Having bested his rival in court and personal combat, Econski’s future was assured. He imagined new and even more soul-crushing rides for the children such as three hours calling technical support. On a morning that smelled of hope, he struggled into his cockroach costume and rushed past a ladder, left behind from Cinderella’s Glass Cleaning, to the gate. A boy, who’d lost his hair to the chemotherapy drugs in the rolling IV stand attached to his vein by to tube full of urine-colored liquid, stood in the front of the line with his mother. It would have been easy to turn the boy away but even Econski couldn’t ruin a child’s dying wish.

“Hey kid, you want to have some real fun?” Econski said on returned with a golf cart. “Hop in.” Leaving the mother behind, he drove to the explosives shack and began loading up the back.

“What’s that, mister?”

“Dynamite! You mean to tell me you never played with dynamite before?”

The boy shook his head.

“Well, it’s the most fun thing on Earth. Care to help me with some extreme remodeling?”

“Yeah!” The boy’s eyes lit up.

It took an hour to lay the charges in the cinderblock buildings but the dying boy held up like a champ. Econski ran the wires to the entrance and attached them to an old-fashioned plunger detonator.

“Now, some people will tell you that demolition is about bringing a building down as efficiently as possible but don’t you believe them. The real trick of demolition is seeing how far you can send the rubble flying. Care to do the honors?” Econski gestured to the detonator.

The boy put his hands on the plunger.

“You have to yell, ‘Fire in the hole!’” Econski said.

“Why?”

“It’s tradition.”

“Fire in the hole!” The boy sank his entire weight into the plunger sending a current racing to the detonators.

All the tedium in ten acres went up in an orange ball of flame. Blackboards, tax forms, and grammar books shot halfway to the stratosphere. As pieces of radioactive rubble flew all the way to Canberra, a kookaburra of joy sang from Econski’s heart. He’d beaten Waggawolla Land and with no further challenge, he had no reason to continue the project. Eager to meet the next adventure, he departed for the Necrotic Liver.

The boy with the shaved head looked both ways and, when the coast was clear, snuck off the playground, made his way to the Skippy Burger, and waited in the parking lot. In the two weeks since completing his mission, his hair had started to grow back. Within minutes, a limousine pulled up. The boy got in back and sat across from a wallaby with a bandaged ear.

“This should cover your future tuition.” The wallaby handed the boy an attaché case full of hundred-dollar bills. “Once you get your MBA, give me a call. Woggawalla Land can always use someone willing to do whatever it takes.”