"Mr. Peabody, We Have a Problem"

     “Hello.  Is this Peabody?”

     “The voice at the other end of the line barked its assent.

     “This is Jay Ward.  We have a problem again.”

     Mr. Peabody, the world-renowned canine genius, groaned inwardly as he realized that he was talking to the Director of the Time Commission.  “Sherman again?” he asked, his throat giving off a growl of disgust that he was unable to stifle.

     “Yes, Peabody.  I’ve got a report on my desk that accuses Sherman of bothering Marilyn Monroe again.  I guess that Joe DiMaggio got so infuriated that he went after your boy with a baseball bat.  Sherman was able to escape bodily harm by ducking under some bleachers.  He’s also been pestering Nell Gwynn as well.  King Charles is furious.”

     “I’ve told that damn kid time and time again that a learner’s permit only allows time travel within fifty years of the present date,” the MENSA mongrel barked angrily.  “If Sherman can’t respect the boundaries that have been set up for time travel learners, then I guess I won’t be able to trust him to respect other rules as well.  The next thing you know, he’ll be sneaking around trying to buy cigarettes.

     “Don’t be so hard on the young man,” the voice at the other end of the line advised him sympathetically.  “When teen-aged hormones get raging, a young man can show as little judgment as a dog chasing a bitch in heat.  No offense,” Mr. Ward quickly apologized after he realized what he’d just said.  “Puberty is a rough adjustment for any young boy to undergo.  I recall a friend’s embarrassing experience from back in my youth.  If I remember it right, it revolved around a loaf of French bread, a corkscrew and a bowl of whipped cream.”

     Mr. Peabody chuckled politely, but it was clear that he wasn’t in the mood to forgive his boy that easily.  “Sherman is getting out of control,” he insisted in a frustrated voice.  “You’ve heard of course, Jay, that Lola Montez has also filed a complaint with the Time Commission.”

     “Yeah.  I managed to have it dismissed,” Mr. Ward assured him.  “Don’t worry about it anymore.  I advised Lola to light out after him with her riding whip if she catches him outside her bedroom window again.  I told Sherman exactly what I’ve just told you.  I think we’ve heard the last of Sherman and any peeping tom escapades.”

     “Thanks Jay.  Although you’ve solved that problem, we’ve still got to address the difficulty that Sherman is having going through puberty.  Maybe I ought to just have him neutered,” the concerned canine suggested as he sat down to scratch an annoying flea that had nestled behind one of his ears.  Holding the phone in his left paw, his right rear paw moved like a frantic metronome as he struggled to continue the conversation.  “Getting neutered has done me a world of good.  After I had my sex drive removed, my mind was free to concentrate on intellectual matters rather than obsessing about how to address my carnal needs.  Thus I was able to sire the Wayback Machine rather than litters of unwanted puppies.”

     “You can’t neuter humans,” Jay interjected firmly, unable to suppress the shock and surprise in his voice.

     “I know,” Mr. Peabody calmly reassured him.  “It’s too bad that we can’t though.  It would solve so many problems.”

     Both the man and the dog silently mulled over the ramifications of that statement for a few moments until Jay finally picked up the conversation again.

     “Actually Peabody, it isn’t Sherman’s coming of age problems that I’ve called to discuss.  It’s another obsession of his that you’ll have to move to address immediately.”

     “What else has he up to?” the concerned canine asked, with some trepidation.

     “Your boy Sherman has been watching a lot of wrestling of late, I gather,” Jay began.

     “I know,” Peabody sighed disgustedly.  “Soap opera for males.  Especially immature young boys.  It’s pretty ludicrous entertainment if you ask me.  Sherman’s enthralled by it, though.”

     “Anyway,” Jay sighed, steering the conversation back onto the track he wanted it to travel down, “your boy has let his fascination with wrestling take him to a place called Clary’s Grove, in Illinois, in 1832.  You’d better check it out, Peabody.  Sherman’s infernal meddling has the potential to drastically change American history.”

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

     “What do you mean you’re going with me?”  Sherman objected petulantly as his mentor climbed into the Wayback Machine and sat down beside him.  In order to do so, Peabody had to lift up the black garbage bag that was on the seat.  He put it on his lap.

     “You’re still on a learner’s permit.  Remember?  I just want to ride along and see what you’re up to, and watch how you handle the Wayback.  Don’t worry.  I’ll let you drive.”

     Sherman set his lips in an adolescent power pout, but realizing that his mentor was adamant about accompanying him, Sherman finally gave in with a disgusted sigh, and set the mechanics of the machine into motion.  While Sherman was concentrating on setting the travel sequence for the machine, the curious canine surreptitiously looked into the bag.  He could see a pink sequined jacket and what looked like something pink and feathery.

     Seemingly faster than the Fractured Fairy Tales curtain falls on a gnome, Sherman landed the Wayback behind a barn.  Getting out and peering around the corner of the building Mr. Peabody could spy a grove of trees.  A crowd of rugged-looking young frontiersmen were milling about.  The looks on their faces ranged from concerned or disappointed to disgusted.

     “You probably scared the devil out of him,” one of the crowd said to the most muscular of the young men, who had stripped down to his cut-off jeans.

     “I don’t know about that,” the brawny young man responded, a note of concern in his voice.  “I hope nothing’s happened to him.  When Abe Lincoln says he’ll do something, he can always be depended upon to keep his word.”

     “We’d better check on Mr. Lincoln,” Mr. Peabody suggested, starting to form a pretty good idea in his mind of what the boy had gotten himself involved in.  “Have you any idea where we can find him, Sherman?”

     Sherman looked down at the ground, reluctant to give out the desired information.  Mr. Peabody growled; the canine equivalent of a severe reprimand.  In response, the boy pointed at the weathered grey barn.

     “He’s in there,” he muttered sullenly.

     “Well, let’s go in there then,” the brilliant beagle suggested in an amiable voice.  Sherman’s face brightened noticeably at the lack of an angry tone in the suggestion.

     A very tall, muscular young man greeted Sherman as he entered the barn.  “Here’s my manager,” he grinned.  “Now what have you got for me young man?.  We’d better hurry.  The Clary Grove boys are getting impatient.”

     His kind smile was replaced with a look of puzzled astonishment as Mr. Peabody entered the doorway behind Sherman.

     “He’s the only one of his kind,” Sherman reassured him.  “A canine genius.”

     “Glad to meet you, Mr. Lincoln.” Mr. Peabody said pleasantly.

     The muscular young man stared at the talking dog, mouth agape, for a few moments, then seemingly processed the information, shook his head, and muttered softly, “That’s the last time I try a helping of Hiram Berry’s breaded mushrooms.”

     He covered his face with his massive hands, then slowly pulled them away from his eyes and stared at the impassive canine.  With some hesitation he stood up and reached out to touch one of the beagle’s ears.  He pulled his hand a way quickly, as if shocked, then gazed at the dog for several seconds.

     “I’m not an apparition,” Mr. Peabody reassured him.  “I’m just unique among my species.”

     The young wrestler smiled dubiously.  Then his grin widened as if something funny had just occurred to him.

    “A talking dog, huh?  Well, if that doesn’t beat all.”  He paused, then a mischievous twinkle lit up his dark eyes as he added slyly, “I hope that you’re able to talk more sense than most of the two-legged representatives of humanity that I’ve run across.”

     “Mr. Peabody is a genius,” Sherman reminded him.

     “Well, I’m ready,” Mr. Lincoln said genially.  “This young man here seems to know a lot about wrestling from where you two come from.  He wants to be my manager.  He says that a good wrestler can make a whole lot of money, and that he’ll show me how to.”

For just an instant, Mr. Peabody caught a glimpse of the ambition that burned within the young man who had been born in poverty.

     Mr. Peabody gave his boy an incredulous look, but mustered his emotions quickly as he listened to Abe’s explanation.

     “This young man here, wants me to pretend that I’m a bad guy.  A ‘heel,’ he calls it.  He’s asked me to come up with a couple of good insults to shout at the crowd to show my contempt for them and my disdain for the person that I’m wrestling.  I’m not sure though, that I’m comfortable pretending to be something I’m not.”

     “Yeah,” the boy broke in, eager to explain his thinking to both Abraham Lincoln and Mr. Peabody.  “Vincent Kennedy McMahon, the greatest wrestling promoter in history, said once in an interview that a good heel will always make the most money.  That’s what you want, isn’t it?” he asked, looking at the future President.

     “How’s this?” the lanky wrestler attempted gamely.  “I’ll step into the ring and bellow, ‘with malice toward all, with charity for none.’”

     Sherman looked up at him dubiously.

     “A little too highbrow for the average wrestling crowd,” Mr. Peabody explained.  “But hang on to that thought.  If you rework it a bit it might serve you in good stead someday.”

     “How about ‘I’m dedicated to the proposition of defeating you?’” the aspiring wrestler asked hopefully.

     Sherman shook his head negatively.  Mr. Peabody’s response was less discouraging.

     “Again, too wordy for wrestling fans.  Hang onto part of that sentence though.  It might come in handy for you someday when you need to turn a noble phrase.”

     “How about just bellowing ‘who’s next?’” Sherman suggested hopefully. “It always worked for Goldberg, and the fans here probably haven’t heard it yet.”

     “Who is this Goldberg?” Mr. Lincoln asked, his dark eyes focusing intently on the young man as he waited for an answer to his question.

     “Never mind,” Sherman responded dismissively.  “Maybe you can just be The Quiet Assassin.”  He began to rummage through the black garbage bag.  Mr. Peabody grinned to himself.  He had a pretty good idea what all was in the bag now, and he also had a pretty good idea that Sherman’s next suggestions wouldn’t play too well to a rugged young frontier wrestler.

     Sherman pulled out the pink sequined jacket.  “Here.  Put this on Mr. Lincoln.  I think I’ve guessed your size right.”

     “What does this ghastly article of apparel have to do with me, young man?” the tall Midwesterner asked sternly.  He put his hands on his hips and stepped forward, glaring down at the young man.

     “Why…you wear it, of course,” Sherman insisted, blinking nervously.

     “I don’t wear anything but pants when I wrestle,” Lincoln informed him adamantly.

     “No, no, no,” Sherman broke in, gamely attempting to put an end to the big man’s skepticism.  “You just wear it until you step into the ring.  Then you hand it to your manager.  That would be me, of course,” the teen-ager informed him smugly.

     “Well….alright,” the lanky Illinoisan finally agreed, although with obvious reluctance.  “If you’re sure your right about this being what real wrestlers wear.”

     “Sure it is,” Sherman reassured him, the excitement creeping back into his voice.  “Jesse Ventura wore something close to this.  I remember you saying that you hope to go into politics someday.  The guy who wore an outfit like this went on to become the Governor of Minnesota.”

     “You mean the Minnesota Territory?” Lincoln asked with sudden interest.

     “Never mind,” Mr. Peabody broke in.  “The Clary Grove boys are getting impatient.  You’d better get Mr. Lincoln into the rest of his outfit and send him out to take care of business before the business decides to depart.”

     The crafty canine stifled a self-satisfied grin as he watched his boy pull the next two items out of the garbage bag.  First he pulled out a pair of oversized pink sunglasses with the frames plastered with sequins that matched the ones that adorned the pink jacket.  The final item was a pink feathered boa.  Mr. Peabody watched Lincoln’s eyes widen with incredulity as Sherman handed it to him.

     “What in the name of Shakespeare do you expect me to do with this, young man?” Mr. Lincoln demanded.  His astonishment had by this time transformed to indignation. 

     “Why…w.. wwear it, of.. of course,” Sherman stammered, more than a little intimidated by the future President’s hostile reaction.

     “Are you playing games with me, young man?  Are you trying to make me look like a fool?”  He held the pink boa up and gave it a look of utter contempt.  “I can’t wear this.  Why, the Clary Grove boys will laugh me out of New Salem.”  The imposing wrestler had composed himself by this time, and looked to give the boy an out.  “Don’t you realize that this is a woman’s accessory, son?  All this will do is make me out to look like some sort of sissy.”

     “That’s the whole point of it!” Sherman protested.  “Gender-bending is an important part of playing to the wrestling crowd, as any good manager knows.  It really gets the audience worked up into a lather when you strut out toward the ring decked out like some kind of pretty boy.”

     “I don’t care what you say,” Lincoln said sternly.  “I’m beginning to think that you don’t have the faintest idea about what you’re talking about. Your advice looks to be worth less than the nothing I paid for it.  The only thing I am certain about, young man,” he continued, standing up to his full six four height and glowering down at the young boy, “is that I am not going out there to wrestle wearing that thing.”   He turned and shoved the feathered boa back into the sack.

     “I told you,” Sherman began to explain as he backed away, frightened at the anger that he could see in the young wrestler’s eyes.  “This outfit worked great for Jesse ‘The Body’ Ventura.  He went on to be elected Governor.  People didn’t hold what he wore against him.  They all knew he was just playing a role.”

     “Isn’t he the man who said ‘Win if you can, lose if you must, but always cheat?” the crafty beagle asked, breaking into the conversation with an air of feigned innocence.

     “Yeah,” Sherman said, turning toward Peabody, surprised that his brilliant mentor had any knowledge at all about Jesse Ventura.

     “This is the wrestling politician you want me to emulate?” Abe Lincoln asked incredulously.  “What kind of person do you think I am?  He doesn’t sound like the kind of man I’d like to know, or to model myself after.”

     “He really wasn’t like that at all,” Sherman protested, his voice rising to a frantic pitch that showcased his frustration.  “He was just playing the role of a bad guy.”

      “Well,” the imposing Illinoisan finally sighed, setting his anger aside with an effort and looking almost apologetically at Mr. Peabody and his Boy.  “I’m not going to play that kind of role for anybody.  If you gentlemen don’t think that it’s too radical an idea, I think I’m just going to go out and wrestle as myself.”

     He tossed the pink jacket at Sherman and strode out of the barn with a steely resolve.  Mr. Peabody could hear the Clary Grove Boys excitedly shouting “Here he comes.”

     “Aren’t you going to go out and watch him wrestle?” the canine genius kindly suggested to Sherman after a few moments.  “After all, you’re his manager.”

     “Not anymore,” Sherman said petulantly.  “He wouldn’t take my advice.  Besides, I know he’ll win.  It’s too bad,” the boy signed disconsolately.  “He could have been the greatest wrestler ever.  Have you ever seen him split rails?”

     “He’ll be an even greater President,” Mr. Peabody reminded him.

     “He could have been an even greater wrestler,” the Boy insisted stubbornly.  “He could’ve been bigger than Hulk Hogan ever was.  All he needed was a manager to steer him in the right direction.”

     Both the Boy and his mentor paused as a cheer went up from the direction of where

Abe Lincoln and Jack Armstrong were wrestling. 

     “Abe did it!” they heard someone yell triumphantly.  “Pay up.  I told you he would do it!”

     Another chorus of cheers erupted from the crowd as they saluted the modest young man's victory.

     “Well,” Mr. Peabody sighed.  “It’s time for us to climb into the Wayback machine and head home.  You can drive,” he added kindly.

 

     As Sherman went through the routine of charting the course that would return them home both the teen-ager and the dog were quiet.  It wasn’t until the Wayback machine had warped its way through close to a century and a half of history when Mr. Peabody turned toward him and asked   “Did you learn anything, young man?”

      “Yeah,” his Boy replied, a mischievous grin suddenly wreathing his face.  “I guess Honest Abe found my suggestion that he wear a boa a little too constricting."