Archaeology Part 2.

Archaeology (Part 2) by Jim Meirose.

These finding-frenzies are slabs’ly frenzy-narcosis common to pro archaeologists and most judgeships alike; they alter consciousness and create great waves of greediness and hilarity all ‘cross-out most dig teams, courtrooms, autopsy rooms, embalming chambers, and boss Boyingtons alike, especially when the deeper veins of the issues being probed become unexpectedly rich with high-value jury verdicts, cash awards, and legal rulings, as well as the more commonly found when real digging’s involved, archaeological artifacts—such as the actually proven to exist by this particular effort, a complete Prongs of Torment Vintage Fast-Management Early-style self-coopering ball-binding gameset—prune—as well still tightly wrapped in its tendon; with all sixteen levels fully intact, never ever been played over, and! The pressure driven by the radical wing of the free press to find foul play to be the root cause drove the shovelmen to a higher blur of action, causing the immediate realization that the gameset was not just the standard issue, but, amazingly, to be the red-bound number, of which just two were made—

My God! The red-bound!

—yes, us too—with the first having long ‘go gone to the bottom in the hold of the M.V. TitrationMaster, the deepest yet bulkywide vessel having proven to really ever been sunk. That type ‘f deep-in unexpected and sudden dental work and or dig success can have a narcotic effect on the dig team and is sufficient to trigger such effects when the archaeologists have gone in sufficiently deep, where the fluids flow freely, and are already profoundly fatigued when the digging suddenly turns rich with high-value discoveries plus one emergency root canal—this drove the big doctor-lead of the pathology team to slice quicker to reach the frontside of the

spine quickly—and the message received from the main man of the day, up topside, that they’d reached the rarified air past the danger-threshold of fifteen thousand shovels of earth out ‘f one dog in a singl’ day had been exceeded with no pause at all, as a matter of fact the rate accelerated by the onset of finding-frenzy ‘cross most of the team—and as the head free press reporters stood slavering for a story, the main man advised the deepteam, that the shovelmen would be shortly relieved. Prune; however the coroner’s pathologists, whose skills are uncommon, should be told to prepare to push through to the end—but that extra snacks and beverages would be sent down by stripteaser-vessel; prune run u’, eh; which was the best could be done ‘hat-t day. Never. Jacquee-line Pup-mutt, the greater free press leader-devil, sounded out that news to a frightened small world, but; as that story was premature, it was buried accordingly. Prune.

No point mousing-down the public with fat answers too suddenly—but. Run.



Buck uck kcc u’.

Meanwhile, the professors, who’d burst their bag and receded off to a safe distance, came out of their shock-frozen states, which had been driven by their orders to hold off being so blatantly ignored, backed off o’er their horizons and sat ‘cross the town elders in a crisis meeting hastily-called to formulate a pushback on the crazed over digmen—because they shared bothwise ‘cross the wide table the ‘owledg’ that if the cause of death was ever extracted from the cache of artifacts hidden long back but now being so rudely and illegally exploited—much like the crime of the Elgin Marbles. You know?

Perhaps, but—and here she exhaled deeply and inhaled, and again—making sure to have these appear contrived for effect—with the added dimension of the overall criminality this threatened to uncover, action was necessary. They can’t be blamed, do you think?

They both turned to the window before he could reply, caught by a loud rising and falling siren in the distance—they turned back, with one saying, Here—in this book. It’s—wait.

A thick book came into his hands from the small oak carved table between them, and he paged into it, finally laying a forefinger onto a page, and read aloud, And they formulated the phraseology and for several years multiple drafts of the order were produced, each one smoother than the last, until the final plan lay plainly scrolled out between them, et et—okay that proves the first thing. Then, here—let me see here.

As he paged through again, she raised her hand, saying, No, there’s no need. I get the point. You win, all right? Come on, the bell’s about to ring. I’ we’re late we’ll catch hell.

No! Here—listen—finely printed on expensive paper, bound and illustrated by expensive artists, and housed in fine leather with gold studded trim—wow. How ‘bout that?

A bell rang in the distance—she rose, saying, Come on, break’s over. We got to go back now. Or else we’ll get dinged.

No—listen, it gets better—yes toward the end they worked furiously, burning through multiple fortunate but weakening second and third winds, but, the effects of their continuing on unrestrained, with no one watching over to back them out o’ their mass mad delision, uck, their purpose dimmed back to nothing; and, today there remains just a low grassy mound, which no one remembers the reason for, or what may be buried within it, but but t tu tub bup, prune; but, regardless, the dig dug down deeper seeking more over more—the ribs cut through easily; the lungs glistened with health; as did the various organs, large and small, which were removed—a

process that passed quickly, thanks to the lead technician’s deft and precise scalpel work—a curious structure resembling a small storehouse became visible—all gasped with excitement; the sudden urge to dance and shout for joy, was restrained. These men were professionals—slowly, the precise series of shovelthrusts and long cuts led to one sudden opening; the spleen sprang open as though a key’d been turned—and, the mother lode of trinkets lay exposed for the forking-out—or it did seem so a’way but—they ought of gone slower an’n all ‘cause—danger ‘llway’ rises when-where it’s ‘ease ess-pecctedt—as.

Calm team, calm. Let us be careful.

Let us not be fooled.


They silently beheld the massive haul; Who’d ever have dreamed; is-it for the his’ s’ ‘torial books, or not, gas—these and other such cries rose from the deep hole, where on half-darkened bottom they stood nearly knee-deep in the mass of their discoveries—their spades having hand-excavated the hole, being nine thousand four hundred and seventy-five cubic scale model feet in size—ten minutes prior, the riches around them would have been enough for most other expeditions to call it a day, gain the surface, and move forward rationally, but. Prune; the revealing of the indescribable contents of the final spleen, tightened the deep-dig finding-frenzy permanently around them, never to be reversed. The riches the spleen had rewarded them wi’ could never be rationally described, in any language, or in any medium—at last, the professional demeanor of the leader finally gave way. Shovel thrust upward, he seemed nearly to glow; his face rose, and from his mouth thundered upward, Thank you, lord, for the gift of this spleen—not just any spleen, but this one. This one and only this one. Thank you lord for so easily opening it to the touch of our scalpels and emptying it unto us! This is—

No, hold it! It’s not finished! Look—

Yes, look—it’s—

The leader’s eyes opened too late to avoid his being crushed by two huge spleens shooting from the gap. The group darted to avoid them—but their slick stuffed-full saggy bulges mocked them, so. Prune; these two opened each thrusting out two more, larger, spleens and. Prune; those each spawned two more. Prune; and two more and two more and on and on, crushing the dig team one by one between and under them; those not crushed to death instantly slowly suffocated as the entire dig filled with a rising tide of soft pulpy spleen-mass, the hundreds of organs smashed together into a single protoplasmatic reeking surging hell, at the bottom of which dozens were added with every minute, quadrupilitising the deadly pressure, under which nothing could possibly survive. The rocking ‘n rumbling ‘rupting from the dig site as the reeking deathmass grew closer to the top, caused the panicky townspeople to flow en masse from their homes, as well as shaking the senses of the few remaining members of the pathology team, who’d decided to have a few hot cocoas before quitting the site. All stood in place, as they would in an earthquake. Prune; minutes passed, then the rumbling rage died. Slowly the terrified crowd approached the site and found the dig site covered over by an expanse of slick shiny reddish-brown foul-smelling membrane-like film, beneath which something throbbed rhythmically—but, at last, the lead pathologist adjusted the wide bright ER style light above the autopsy table, reached in, touching the trembling film, tilted his head, and knotted his forehead intensely. The townspeople and remaining technicians held their breath waiting for the verdict. After some seconds, he withdrew his hand from the cavity, and straightened. Turning from the autopsy table, he pulled off his gloves, while saying quite softly, The spleen appears normal and glistening, totally healthy. As have all the other organs. There is no need to probe further. This subject’s

death was a natural one. There was no foul play. So—prune; Mackie, Phyllis; close and wrap things up per procedures, then call the funeral home. Prune; knock off for the day then—oh, yes—great work, team. It’s been a struggle, but, take pride in this; this expedition’s discoveries will forever grace the collections of top museums and galleries, world-wide. Cool, but; I have to go and give the press our findings. They’re hungry for the result—an annoying bunch. Want everything yesterday. I, ah, prune; as today, inderunderessnes ‘re scantifying to t’ ‘oit of being nearly fatal over all o’ those went that those these ways e’coptering under that trestle bridge over there.

Okay, Phyllis?


Okay, shut up, I think I got the point

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