Upon their return to Terra, they land in New Mexico at a ghost town; they go cruising in LA; they look for flower power in San Francisco; they get rained on in Seattle, seek Babe Ruth in Chicago and travel to 1967 Motown. Their adventures continue all over the United States until they end up trying to visit their cousins who are bing held in Area 51.
Willaert hits upon some of the odder places to visit in the US. Most of them resemble WorldCon sites. Puns abound as the Shmos look for their trophies along the way. Willaert also brings in a European point of view that makes this skewed look at the US and science fiction something you don't find every day. For readers seeking something differnet and unusual, this is a place to start.
Two other Shmo came in and sat on the next numbered bank, their tickets in hand.
"Don't look, Shmuk," whispered Shmil, "Overburn and Underrun are here, and I wonder what they're up to. Act as if you don't see them."
Shmuk turned his right head towards the newcomers and yelled: "Hey, Overrun, you galactic potbelly pigs, you still owe me twelve bucks!"
Overrun (being a couple whose names were matched as well), turned to Shmuk with aggrieved faces, but before they could respond, the door opened, showing the Big Bootlicker, who had his chicken run order list at hand.
"Shmuk and Shmil of the Shmo tribe, please enter."
Both Shmo jumped to their feet and hurried after the Big Bootlicker. They crossed the offices where numerous clerks were shuffling papers and other fibre materials, before they stopped at a gate the size of a Smithsonian Institution department.
The Big Bootlicker put up a solemn face. "Gentlemen, let me explain. When this door opens, you will crawl on all fours and you will take care that your eyes are below GC's chin, because GC doesn't like people with high attitudes."
The door opened with a small soundtrack from Star Wars XIII, entitled Skywalker's Grandson Theme, and both Shmo started to crawl in at a very low level across the gangway. It took them about half an hour because the gangway was two miles long, but finally they reached GC's throne.
GC bellowed: "At last," which could mean he had been waiting just too long, or that he enjoyed the Shmo still being in good health, or that his tea and biscuits had arrived.
Though GC had a roaring voice, his appearance was somehow disappointing, yet covered with the veil of love throughout the vast Auyolan Empire. His actual size was three inches high, and with the years he was still shrinking. His looks were that of an extraterrestrial Mickey Mouse (registered trademark), if you see what I mean. Actually he was a mouse, but, boy, did he have a presence.
Everything and everyone shivered in front of him, his voice being amplified by 120,000 watts of a 6.1 sound system; Zeus' voice was just a tiny shrieking hiccup compared to GC's. Eat your heart out, Homer
In particular, people from the Shmo planet were very receptive to mighty voices, even if they sprouted from a three-inches mus muris, and Shmuk and Shmil lowered themselves to the extent that they were almost flat to the floor. GC's brackets were factually laser beam operated guns, the same you see in B-rated movies, and they were very effective, too. Luckily, the Shmo were so low to the Auyolans that GC didn't want to waste any drill power on them.
"Come near, cats!" roared the mighty mouse. "Cats" was actually a term of abuse that GC applied on very different occasions, even if it concerned cats in the right meaning of the word. But then, cats wouldn't mind being called cats.
The Auyolan Shmo tribespersons sneaked nearby until GC could see the white of their eyes. That is: the green, because they were green, but it still remains a fair expression.
"Where are your trophies?" his Mousiness roared.
"Trophies?" ventured Shmuk in a thin voice. The Big Bootlicker stooped and whispered something in Shmuk's ear.
"Trophies, your highness?" repeated Shmuk, still thinner.
"Yes, trophies. Never heard of the great Auyolan tradition to bring something back from the conquered territories? I hate subjects who don't pay me visits with nice presents."
"But, your highness, where we come from there are no presents worthy of your person."
That sounded nice in the given circumstances. Just imagine you're in the Oval Room and the Boss asks you where the hell your presents are. That's what you'll get to answer to your defense.
"Nonsense," roared the Mouse, who wasn't born yesterday. "Everywhere there are trophies, you just have to find them."
"I know a little shop around the corner," muttered Shmil to Shmuk, "maybe we should go now and buy something nice."
"Silence!" GC cried out in a shrieking voice.
Some minutes went by, while the Shmo tried to figure out how long this would go on before they'd have their lunch of fresh picked llulluhus, sunny side up.
The Big Bootlicker, always ready to show that he deserved his three mansions at Joheeha Lake, put his thick lips to GC's pointed ears, not to eat them, but to give some great advice for free.
"Right," bellowed GC, "this is what you will do. You will return to where you came from and bring me some nice trophy back. This is your punishment because you came back empty-handed and because my man here thinks that'a good joke."
The Shmo started to protest, but this was ignored, mainly because they protested in silence. It was a so-called silent protest with the result that no one heard about it.
They were led back to where they came from, though backwards and when they arrived in the waiting room, they didn't feel very happy with the sentence.
"I think we've seen enough of the Terra things," growled Shmuk.
"I think we've seen too much of the Terra things," growled Shmil.
The Overrun couple smirked at them while they passed.
"Man, I don't wanna go back," Shmuk moaned. "I hate them Terra things. I hate Elvis and I hate everything."
"Elvis is not that bad,," Shmil said in a comforting tone, "besides, we can have our first gift here and now."
"How's that?
"We're in the presence of a great present as we speak."
Shmuk's faces cleared up. "Great, get it."
Shmil returned to the still smirking Overrun, beheaded them with one mighty swing of his steel plated forearm, cracked the caps and peeled their pia mater off. Readers with weak bellies should now stop reading.
Then he put the skulls with their palpitating lukewarm brains on a silver stick that was lying accidentally in some corner and called for the Big Bootlicker.
"See here, Mister B., we have a much original present to His Majesty the Mouse. This is an original veggie kebab especially made for the Roaring One. I know he'll enjoy it very much, because the brains are made from real Vermont Cheddar, which is GC's favorite.
The Bootlicker's face cleared. "You're so right. I'l tell him I've advised you to bring him some cheese. That will look nice on my resume. You may go now, gentlemen, return to Terra and come back charitably."
They went off in a hurry and while blasting through space, Shmuk turned to Shmil.
"Say, Shmil, how about those twelve bucks Overrun still owe us. Will we get them still?"
"I'm afraid we won't, dear Shmuk. GC has eaten them to the last lobe."
Shmuk tried to figure that out, but then thought: Somewhere, sometime there would be another occasion to get the twelve bucks and get even as well.
The landing site was in the middle of the Painted Desert, New Mexico, so only some desert foxes and Old Bill Hickory were witnesses, but nobody ever believed Old Bill's stories. And those foxes, well you know what foxes are like.
The Shmo climbed out and the ship left in a billow of magnetic sparkles.
"We're back!" sang Shmil. That was a silly remark as no one cared about their arrival, but it gave a nice ring to their entrance.
"First of all, we've got to change," proposed Shmuk. They had a whole lot to change, not in the least their very looks, and it took them the rest of the day to be presentable like Terra things ought to be, except for their tails of course. Then night fell and they walked under the moonlight and glanced at the stars with some reluctant homesickness.
"It's not that bad after all," Shmil admitted, "clean air, quietness, moderate to fair temperature, food at random. Why, we could stay here for the rest of our natural lives."
He snapped a small creature on its way home, known around here as a rattlesnake, and ate it in two bites.
"Let's collect those trophies and get out of here," Shmuk said. "This place sucks. They have only one sun."
"And it's gone too, for crying out loud."
They kept up a steady gait. It goes like this: you lift your left foot, insert your right toe to your nose and then jump with the other foot up in the air. Then you place the left foot on the grounds again and repeat the action. That's how Auyolans walk. Due to gravity issues, they long ago lost the science of using their feet properly.
"You should do something about your breath," suggested Shmuk. That was a remark that, unlike this episode, made no sense at all, except maybe for the wriggling snake between Shmil's teeth, but it broke the tension and they both started to laugh.
Some miles away farmer Jack said to his wife Linda Lee: "Them darn prairie wolves are matin' again."
Eventually they reached a small town that had more Terra people assembled six feet under then up. It was a ghost town, properly taken care of by the Historical Society, to feed travelers with historical knowledge and hamburgers covered with charred mosquitoes.
The Shmo halted in the middle of the town. Moonshine drew long shadows across the street and somewhere a dog howled.
"Not much on ambiance," said Shmil. He was hungry again and looked for a place to eat.
"Not much on anything," grumbled Shmuk. "I have a bad feeling. Let's get out of here."
"Not before I've had a decent meal," argued Shmil. "I haven't eaten in ages."
"On our way down here, you ate thirty-four rabbits, twenty-one foxes, eighty lizards and that old hobo who has lost his train."
"Yeah, they were appetizers. Let's find us a nice restaurant. I'd like a chilled Chardonnay to go with.
That wasn't a bad idea after all and the Shmo walked along the wooden termite-eaten facades.
"Do not forsake me, oh my darling," Shmil started to sing quietly.
"What's that you're singing?" asked Shmuk. surprised.
"I don't know. The words simply came running through my mind."
[That must've been a heck of a ride (writer's comment).] "Sounds nice. You should copyright it."
They started to chuckle and went on chuckling until they reached the graveyard.
"Well now, I smell fresh meat," said Shmuk, sniffing.
"Are you saying we dig it up under these stones?"
"They're not just stones. They're probably cooling devices to conserve the meat."
"I can buy that. Let's do it."
They threw a stone away (which hid promising scents), and dug out a rather lively hump of flesh.
"Lookit that!"shouted Shmil, Pointing to the opened pine box. "It's a zoo! All those creatures great and small, scurrying about contented."
"Let's eat," shouted Shmuk. "Dibs on the worms! I need the proteins."
"No problem, I'll stick to the organs, they look promising--especially the pale liver."
Even though the Shmo were in our eyes acting like savages and people living on food stamps, they ate with table manners, which I won't describe in detail as those differ somewhat from what we understand by etiquette. For instance, it is an Auyolan custom to return the food to the host, as a token of gratitude. After it has been digested, I mean.
They ate with pleasure and then rested for a while, their backs against the tombstones. Shmuk played with the nicely eaten away skull and then his faces cleared.
"You see what I see, Shmil?"
"No, what must I see, Shmuk?"
"What's that I'm holding in my hands right here, Shmil?"
"A skull, Shmuk?"
"That's right, and what can we do with a skull, Shmil?"
"Play golf, Shmuk?"
"Great idea, but that's not what I have in mind, Shmil."
"And what's that, Shmuk?"
"You know why we are here, Shmil?"
"As a matter of fact, I forgot, Shmuk."
"Then let me refresh your memory, if you have one, I mean."
"Right, Shmuk. I'm all ears."
Shmil put his ears in a pose that pretty well described the expression.
"Okay, GC asked us to come back with trophies, do you remember, Shmil?"
"I certainly do, Shmuk, but come to the point, please."
"Well, now, why don't we take this skull with us for our first trophy?"
"You mean, this very skull, which I'm holding in my hands right now?"
"This skull, or another skull, or your own skull, it doesn't matter. As long as we have one to show to GC."
"I say, what a splendid idea, Shmukkie, my old chap."
They put the skull in Shmil's knapsack and looked at each other with blinking eyes, being too moved to say anything. Their moments of epiphany were to valuable to waste on words.
First trophy. First hurdle taken. Eleven to go. So, let's continue our way.