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Show Acting Alone Page 342 to some wet, bottomless perdition. Eventually Mother Superior staked out a likely campsite under some giant, ancient geothermal mains, among piles of civil defense equipment and supplies: the drinking water and the saltines; the porta-potty and the canned goods; the digging implements - in case somebody dies, Sam supposed. Mother Superior's grand contralto was heard to echo the following words as people began digging in: "Sing us a song, Four Friars in F Major, a song to calm our minds." "We can't. That guy wouldn't let us bring down our axes," sulked one friar, pointing accusingly at the small, hard person who struggled under Sister Dumbo's armpits over there. "There's no outlets down here anyhow," said another friar. But the keyboard artist, the plump, mustachioed, not-entirely-white friar, had managed to smuggle down a bag of sundry small latin-type novelties. percussion instruments, rattles and clickers and snappers and harmonicas and other such party favors, the kind of things from the southern hemisphere that were invented to occupy the idle hands of guitar players in highschool combos and other such rock-'n-roll outfits so they won't be popping zits during extended drum solos and grossing out the groupies at the sock hop. The Four Friars in F Major began to dance their best habit-flouncing steps among the mostly unresponsive nuns. They passed out the party favors and tried to muster up one of those sixties-ish jamsessions that you can still sometimes see on slum street corners in L.A. , where late hippies try to stave off speed-induced early middle age by forming antiphonal tribes |
