Digby's Era of Eminence, Chapter Three

The manager took care of the travel arrangements. It was quite simple, actually. Registered bowling alleys nowadays are equipped with transporters, which can carry people and things instantly to any other transporter in the universe. The name "transporter" is technically inappropriate, since the device really only carries information, by harnessing quantum-mechanically entangled particles at one location to assemble an exact replica of the object at the other. The original object was then to be vaporized. Earlier models did not possess this vaporization feature, so while residual inanimate objects could be kept or thrown in the garbage, leftover people were usually murdered with an axe. Transporter technology was brought to Earth bowling alleys in 2007 by the Intergalactic Bowling Coalition, which originated on Planet Goksanpok centuries ago and has since established chapters in over seventy galaxies. 

The manager informed Pop that he need not worry about packing anything at all, because Trips had a facility capable of materializing sandals, t-shirts, swimsuits, and sunglasses of any size, as well as fifteen kinds and 2^64 colors of toothbrush. That very day, Pop and Digby (or rather, replicas thereof) emerged from the transporter inside probably the largest and certainly the most expensive bowling facility in the universe. 

They found themselves in a relatively narrow room which appeared to be some kind of closet, but nonetheless the ceiling stretched upwards some sixty feet. The doorknob was scratched terribly and the door stuck when Pop tried to open it. He kicked it wide, and on the other side was a great purple hallway with red banners hanging across the walls. The room was vast and empty, and Pop supposed it was built to contain many thousands of people. To one side he found what appeared to be the lane. There was only one, since matches of the tournament were to be played one at a time, so that all spectators could be present for every game. It did not look like any bowling lane on Earth. For one, there were not ten pins, but many hundreds, and they were arranged hovering above the ground, suspended in perpetual, aesthetic rotation as if they were in space, in the shape of a tetrahedron, or a triangular pyramid, with one point fixed facing along the length of the lane, and the lowest pin nearly grazing the ground as the structure spun around. The lane itself was a quarter-mile long, and composed of pale, polished cedar.

The bowling planet was a tropical paradise. It consisted of ninety-nine point nine six percent water, and a cluster of three circular islands situated just north of the equator. Triple-Isle Planet was terraformed to resemble a bowling ball, although this feature was only noticeable from space, a place which Pop and Digby had sadly not been able to visit.

In the spirit of looking on the bright side, they were able to enjoy the miles of sunny beach, mango groves, and sunbathing ladies right from the ground floor. The beach was huge and teeming with tourists tending the ocean with sailboats and jetskis, getting swallowed by sharks, or just kicking back on the sandy shore. In the days leading up to the tournament, which was now only six days away, the island's tourist draw reached its peak.

Pop had located a bar and was presently sitting atop a stool made of bamboo and trying to get the bartender's attention. It was a mystery how he had gotten himself up there.

"What can I get you, son?"

Though slightly annoyed at being called "son," Pop was excessively excited to order a pineapple with a straw sticking out of it.

"A pina-who?" aksed the bartender.

"A pineapple. You know, like an apple, but... pine-ier. I know you have them. This is and island, right? Or is it just a peninsula?"

After ten minutes of an exhausting and futile attempt to explain to him the concept and theory of pineapples, Pop ordered a Zkaxanberry smoothie, which was the recommended delicacy for that day. While Pop pursued his juicy endeavor, Digby had found a board and taken up surfing on the shallow waves. He was fairly good, for a goat.

"What brings you to Trips?" asked a twenty-one-year-old girl sitting next to Pop, dressed in jeans and a bikini top, with a lei around her neck and a miniature wildflower garden in her hair. "Are you here with your parents?"

 

"My parents?" Pop's face went red with irritation. "I'm not a kid!" he insisted.

"Oh, I'm sorry," said the girl genuinely. Confusion had washed over her. "How old are you?"

"I'm..." began Pop, straining his brain in effort to recall his age. Nothing came to him. "I'm here for the tournament. I'm the manager of one of the competitors."

"Wow," she said, impressed. "That's so cool. Who is it?"

Pop turned and pointed toward the coast, where he thought Digby was playing in the water. "He's over there... He's a goat, you can't miss him. His name's Digby."

She smiled. "That's not very nice, calling your friend a goat."

"No, really," argued Pop. "You never saw a goat like this. He's some goat, that's for sure." By now the girl was looking for an exit from the conversation. Fortunately for her, Pop noticed Digby, standing on all fours in the sand like a proper bovid, in the corner of his eye, and twisted to greet him.

"There you are, Digby. We were just talking about you. Here he..." He cut off upon discovering that his conversation buddy had evacuated the premesis. "Say, Digby, where did you get those horns?" It was true, the goat had obtained unnaturally large, bony horns, which curled around once and still protruded a good eighteen inches distance from his skull. He opened his mouth to give a "Baaa" in explanation, but all that emerged was a searing, radiant conflagration that engulfed Pop and grilled his flesh to a crispy satisfying consistency. Pop's pain was so intense he couldn't make up his mind how to react. 

One of Pop's more peculiar idiosyncracies and possibly one of the most important, at least for this story, is his inexplicable inability to sustain permanent injury or death. His body is indeed susceptible to damage and destruction, but whenever it occurs, it tends to fall off within a minute or two. Therefore it is not necessary to worry for Pop at this time.

"What's happened to you, Digby?" said Pop, feeling refreshed yet anxious. "Is it the drugs? Are you experiencing side-effects?"

Digby shrugged, then after thinking for a moment, nodded affirmatively.

"Oh..." said Pop, not sure what to do. "I'm sure you'll be fine. A little horns and fire never hurt anyone. Just try not to mutate anymore, okay?" Digby shrugged again. "Just try," he urged his friend. The goat nodded this time.

They stayed the night in the competitor's suite at a five-star hotel. Pop insisted that they go to bed early, because tomorrow would be a big day. Digby had never played thousand-pin tetrahedronal bowling and he needed practice before his match. Then again, he had never played regular Earth bowling before yesterday and he still laid down the beats like nobody's business.

When Pop woke up shortly after dawn, Digby's bed was empty. He yelled for the goat, but there was no reply. He was not in the shower. He was not in the closet, nor was he under the sink. After realizing that it was possible Digby had been under the sink in the first place and gotten in the shower after he checked there, he looked in the shower again. Digby was not there.

Naturally, the first place Pop went searching for his friend was the practice facility. "Where could he be?" Pop wondered. "We were supposed to start practicing at eight. Excuse me, ma'am," he called to a middle-aged woman who was sitting on a bench by the wall, reading a magazine. She granted him her attention. "Have you seen a goat here recently?"

"No, no goats. Have you lost one?"

"Yes, I've been looking all over for him. I hope nothing's happened to him. He was showing strange side-effects from the... drugs... yesterday. I hope he hasn't gotten sick, or..." He trailed off, then clutched his face in horror. "Or worse!"

"Don't worry," the woman consoled him. "I'm sure he's fine. There are a great many tourist attractions in town. Maybe he's gotten caught up."

"No, Digby wouldn't have gotten distracted from bowling, his one true passion," Pop reasoned, anxious. "But thanks, I'll look for him there."

Pop found Digby in the arcade. He was hammering the buttons on Galaxy Ninja with his bony, hoofy fingers, with a wobbly tower of quarters stacked at his side. His eyes were fixed on the flickering colorful lights of the CRT screen.

"Whew, Digby, you had me worried," Pop said, coming to Digby's side and gazing up at him impatiently. "How did you wind up here?"

"Shhh," whispered Digby. "I've almost got the high score."

"Huh? Did you say something?" asked Pop. Digby ignored him.

Pop found a stool and pulled it up so he could see the screen. He observed it casually, then watched Digby, who now had a glint of intelligence in his old eyes. 

"You're pretty good at this, Digby."

"We'll see," remarked the one who was still mostly a goat.

"But we need to work on your bowling game. After all, this is the Triple-Isle Planet." Digby did not acknowledge this. "Really, Digby. You can play all the video games you want after you win the tournament."

"I don't need to practice. I'm already the best player in the universe."

"Then show me," Pop urged him. He was beginning to feel helpless in the presence of this odd creature. Pop had taken care of him as a pet since Digby was just a little kid, and it was jarring to hear him talk back all of a sudden. "Please, Digby."

"Alright. After I use these quarters, I'll show you. And then we can put this matter behind us."

Pop felt belittled by this comment. "No, I don't think so," he rebutted. "Let's go now." He tugged lightly on the goat's arm.

"No. Let go of me."

"Digby, this is me talking. I raised you from a baby. I put a roof over your head and gave you food and some tomato sauce cans. I'm telling you what's best for you. These games are silly, and you've already committed to the tournament. Come with me right now."

The aliens were firing brightly flaring volleys of lasers at Digby's space ninja, and he almost died. He was frantically mashing the keys and yanking the joystick around. Pop lost his temper. He hopped off the stool and kicked the cord away from the wall so that the machine went dead instantly. Digby furrowed his brow in annoyance.

"Now let's go."

Digby stared at him in cold confusion for a moment before standing off his seat and walking out of the arcade without saying a word. Pop wanted to stop him, but wasn't sure if he would be able. He was furious at Digby for being so disrespectful. He felt like he his friend had betrayed his trust. But was Digby even his friend anymore? Was he still the same goat Pop had found as a baby, roaming through his garden without a collar? He had undergone such a dramatic metamorphosis since Pop had presented him with that juice. And it had been Pop who offered it. If anything had become different or gone sour, he himself was responsible for it, in the end. But that didn't change the plain fact that Digby, his very old friend, had abandoned him for trivial pursuits such as video games, and whatever other attractions he would fall into next. Digby had chosen not to be his friend anymore.

"I think it might be unplugged," noted a teenager who had walked over a moment ago, and had wished to assist Pop in troubleshooting. Pop was roosting on his tall stool in front of the dark, lifeless screen, jiggling the joystick back and forth hopelessly, with a poor, lost look across his face. It took him a second to register that someone was speaking to him.

"Oh, thanks," Pop offered. he boy inserted the cable back into the socket, and the machine jumped to life, proudly announcing itself with fanfare and action sequences. The lights reflected off Pop's face without leaving any affect. After a moment, he discovered that his visitor was still there, apparently bored. "He just doesn't understand," Pop explained.

"Are you talking to me?" asked the kid.

"He doesn't get how important this tournament is to me. Digby and me, we were going somewhere. Somewhere better than here. How dare he not think of me at all. All he cares about is satisfying himself. Okay, he doesn't think bowling is the best thing in the world. So what? At least he could put forward a little effort. At least he could show some respect to me and play for me, after everything I've done for him. I bet he's not even going to show up to his match, because he hates me so much. Because bowling is such a chore for him now that he walks on two legs and is so high and mighty. He thinks he's better than me now, like I'm his pet. What about me? This championship was my one chance to be something significant. I could have shown the world, nay, the universe, that I'm the best at something. That my friend is the best."

The boy was watching Pop passively, because he didn't know what else to do. "Why am I saying this to you? I should just tell Digby. He'll see how inappropriate he's being and he'll come to his senses."