“I’m not the dummy, dummy” and other zingers from the dummy as he tap dances until ruin. The thaumaturgists have no choice but to ask him to leave: he’s marking up the gear, he’s scratching up the floor, he’s cutting into studio time.
Now that’s where the thaumaturgists got it all wrong, because he ain’t the sort of dummy to listen if you ask nicely and he ain’t the sort of dummy to leave nicely either. He leaves when he leaves and he dances when he dances. He operates on his own time, which could very well be your studio time.
In awe and wonder and jealous of the mad magic ruin on the sidelines and all asunder aside, the thaumaturgists turn to the owner. “Hey get your goddamn dummy out of here!” they yell at the ventriloquist. They don’t mean to swear — they’ll pray for forgiveness later — but swearing is the only way to get that ventriloquist to budge, generally.
This time, yelling and swearing get the thaumaturgists nowhere. The ventriloquist doesn’t budge. He is still as a suit in a wax museum. What a time to take up pipe smoking! Or maybe he’s getting into something else. Maybe he’s slipped away from his skin. Maybe he’s running the show — still — working behind the dummy’s reckless feet. Or maybe those Yowie fellows know how to play, what to play and when to play it, and that’s why this dummy’s gone ape with dance and these thaumaturgists are mad with their jealousy and the ventriloquist is paralyzed as if in a trance and smoking a pipe. There’s magic afoot, magic and a show. Who’s tap dancing now, dummy?
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