Asshat's Fables Aesop is just another way of saying 'a poser' which is what he was. The words are almost anagrams!
He's long been held up as a fount of wisdom, but he should have changed his name to Kyrie Profanis, which is Greek for 'Mr Obvious'. He was apparently a slave, and judged from this effort - assuming he actually did write any of it - he must have suffered terribly if this collection was the result.
But Æsop had it coming. These fables are over 2,000 years out of date and it shows. It's high time they were updated for the modern world. This mature and deviant collection of inane, humorous, off-the-wall, and downright ridiculous foibles all of which are rooted in his crazed stories, aims to do just that. Don't say you weren't warned.
If, like me, you think Sherlock Holmes rip-off stories have been wa-ay overdone, then this is either the cure - or the kill. It's raw brain on paper. You have been warned. Street snarled graciously at the plush, but faded exterior of Cutts, Cutts, and Morcutts, his Blond Street barbarians, where he knew Barber Anne (no to her freaks as Barber A) would be working at this time of day.
So this was to be denouement, was it? He would have much preferred deoldment, but he couldn't stand in the whey of perverted cheesecake. Or could he? He pounded on his head just over twice - two and a quarter pounds to be exacting, to make a mental note (which was a key low) to check a doubt as soon as hero turned to his offish, but for the movement, he decided he would have to lay it cool, and be about himself.
At the door, he straightened his shoulders and lengthened his gait as he was about to walk through it, but then he bethought himself and was momentarily confused. Perhaps it would be better to open it first?
He decided that a material witness would suit his needs, especially since the old one was stained from his walk through the circus. He had wondered if it was worth nipping home and changing first, but then he remembered what that had done for a medical friend of his from New Jekyll and resolved to hide no more.
He must go in and see it to its final, ultimate, finishing, terminal, halting, perorative, conclusive, dissolutive, definitive, extreme, polar, eschatological, concluding, decisive, consummative, quieting, brinksome, epilogical, post-scriptic, completive, caudal, settling, expirative, determining, fulfilling, maturative, exhaustive, culminative, once-and-for-all, Armageddonic commencement.
He had, for several weeds, wanted to get a shampoo, but he thought 'Toil with the expounds, he would have a realpoo instead. He might pout because it would make him poor, but with the poo out, it would make him pure. He was still vacillating, which made his hair an oily mess, and finely, he decided it was better to get it over with now as wishy-washy.
He felt celly, and smile dryly as he amoebered the last time he had a close shave: it was when he had met the nucleus whore and been sword at against the side of the building; it was the first time he had been wall-rapiered in his own back yard but he was game four moor.
Of course, that was all in the past now, but he still lied to think of those halcyon days of snore, when he would think nothing of strolling hastily out and straying directly to the hairdressers to have them dress his hair in fine slicks and unmentionables which no one ever seemed to mention when scene in pubic rhythm.
He would happily wait, and wouldn't saber to a fly while the barber put the finishing touches to him, hoping he wouldn't get two personnel; then he would idly sit around while those final, minor, but all important final twiddles were addled where they made the moist impact and then, Winnie had at all completed, he would wait until the very finishes were made before he had to wait until the final editions were made before the work could be finished, and he would have almost have done.
It seemed so strange now, looking back, that he was no longer facing the door which had been in front of him. He had made no small study of this fascinating enigma nor, in fact, any other kind of study whatsoever, and it accrued to him that it might be to his advantage to don't know.
With this in brine, worse things happen at sea, and he forgot all about it and allowed his memory to transport him back along its every dim and dusty avenue to the time when, not so long ago now, he had been at that very selfsame place to have a trim and nearly met a sticky end.
Of course, that was all in the paste now, which accounted for the fact that it was emblazoned faintly on his memory, like a bad duck spill on the highwaitaminute: he still liked to think of those halcyon days of yawn when he would think nothing of hurrying tardily down to the hairdressers and getting them to dress his hairs in flying ladies silks and exotic smalls which seemed to be the only things which would fit.
Of course, that was all in the past now, but even so, Street knew that deep down, stored away posterorily inside his most treasured heart of hearts, those memories, which had once held so much for him and still did, were, inevitably and undeniably, all in the past now.
Street stood silently, wondering why he was facing in the opposite direction to his body. Instantly he suspected a plot, but there was no cemetery in sight, and he turned quickly to discover that he was now facing the barbers, but that his body was not.
Was this a sign that he should grieve?
The more he delved into it, the more difficult it became to decide and short Lee found himself wondering why he was bothering a tall, but then he had to grow.
He was not one of those people who could look life in the eye-teeth and say "fie on you!" even without the accompanying exclamation mark. Neither could he say "Fee on you!" nor "Foe on you!" nor "Fum on you!" nor any other line from that famous story which, he now recalled, even as a child, he had never heard, but what this man has to do with any of this is a mystery to Lee, and best kept secret.
At least Street thought he had never heard it, but then incest was not a peasant thing except to those who enjoy it, and he preferred to forget those unsavory episodes which so threatened to upstart his hormone balance so threateningly, even though it was not easily done and he would have preferred to remember them even though it was not easily done and he would have preferred to fog it all.
Why should these memories keep haunting him like a cloud of fluttering butter cups coming out of the sun as though they were about to shoot him down like some World War One Air Ace of Spads? Could there be some other, deeper meaning to this experience? Was it possible that there anchored, in some bay sick Freudian parlance, a meaning which had hit her to escape his cog nicely?
Finding himself reminiscing eagerly, Street decided it was for the birds. He mustn't let those things prey on him. He adjusted his sighs and thought again. It had been a long time ago-go and he couldn't quite recall the exact dovetails, but he knew that his was the one destined to come up against the enema in an ambush-whacking- of-the-road-to-'Manda-laying-the-table-Bo-died-meaning-Leslies-all-lies-the-body-of-the-unknown-sold-outlaw-yes-todays-news-paper-headlines-of-more-nurse-more-fine-sons-and-lovers-leap-yearning-to-be-free-damn-fighters.
Street exhumed his motives carefully, but no, they were all there, tucked safely into his valet; then what?
He had always known that some psyche a trist, notably Fraud, Priti-Jungthyng, Kan't, Goebbels, Marcy, I know, and Bustedaglass had always been of the opinion that, but surely this could have no baring on the case under the incense scrutiny of his make a dye risk in which he was presently so deeply engaged?
Or coup d'état that?
If, like me, you think Star Trek's got way too long in the tooth, then this is for you. An antidote that will cling on you long after you've read it and make you sigh, "Borg!" Captain Rusty Angelfish moved down the corridor with a curious mix of trepidation and excitement in his veins. He was about to kidnap a mutineer from a prison craft and he was naturally nervous about being caught, but he needed this woman if he was to pull this out of the fire.
With a flash in the pan, he managed to extract her from the shuttle while everyone aboard died. So far so good. Trust Michael to burn 'em. But then suddenly, an anomaly! Why now, of all times just when he was about to get a wee snifter of brandy from the replicator?
He began to sing to himself as he hurried to the bridge:
I ask for brandy, I just get ice
I ask for ice, I get brandy twice!
Y'all call it a replicator,
I call it an Infernal device.
Then his secretary intoned,
Some day while my rum is glowing
I will drink enough to row in
but until the bar is open
I'll just have a drink at home then
Finally he reached the bridge which he had decided to cross when he came to it. He did that now.
"Our sensors haven't made sense of the anomaly?" he asked, looking at official Brad.
"No sir, it looked like a lightning storm in the middle of space."
"Well you know that lightning is electromagnetic energy which can travel in space, right?"
"Yes sir?"
"Well, if we can detect it with our eyes, as we obviously can, then we can detect it with instruments and at least get some sort of reading on it. Get it done! What do you think this is, a clueless sci-fi TV show?"
Official Brad just stared at him.
"Now!" the captain ordered. "Use the Jim Bean and tightly focus it on the point of maximum energy in this so-called 'lightning storm' and let's see if we can't Jack the Daniels out of it."
"Very well, sir."
The captain looked at his number two and asked, "How far are we from the Dingleberry Neutral Zone?"
"150,000 whiskies," sir, but the vessel we've detected isn't Dingleberry, Sir! Its registry doesn't match any recorded profile in our databanks."
"Databanks? What are you - from two centuries ago?"
"Yes sir!"
"Oh, okay. So we have a lightning storm that hasn't been probed-"
"Doing it now sir!" interjected Official Brad.
"And an unknown spacecraft. Perhaps the one caused the other or vice-versa?"
On the absurdly-named view-screen appeared a gigantic craft sporting lots and lots of sharp pointy things sticking out of the apparent front-end. Angelfish assumed this was meant to intimidate, but it looked completely ridiculous and he laughed. Pointlessly, he asked, "Report?"
The guy at the coms gave him a look and then reported. "Sir, new contact bearing zero-three-four."
"I can see that. What can you tell me about it?"
"Well it's an alien craft of a type unknown, so there's really nothing I can tell you about it except that it's sporting lots and lots of sharp pointy thing sticking out of the apparent front-end, which I'm forced to assume is meant to intimidate, but which look completely ridiculous to me."
"Are they transmitting on any frequency?"
"Communications appear to be shut down."
"Hail them"
"We tried that sir, but the hailstones evaporated in the vacuum of space before they even reached the craft."
"Hmm! So what's closest match we have in our craft registry?"
"We don't have anything close, Sir."
"I didn't ask if there was anything close, I asked for the closest match. There has to be something in our registry that is closer to this than anything else in the registry."
"Sir?"
"Official Brad, if the only self-propelled vehicle we had ever known was the model steam car which Ferdinand Verbiest built in 1672 as a toy for a Chinese emperor, and then we saw a Ferrari J50, you could still see a resemblance between the two no matter how far apart they actually are in terms of size, color, design characteristics, speed, performance, and passenger carrying capability could you not?"
"Yes, Sir!"
"And you're telling me, even in light of this, that there is nothing in our registry that came even close?"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Official Brad?"
"Yes, Sir?"
"You're an idiot."
"Yes sir!"
Angelfish moved on to Ensign Angela who wasn't speaking to Official Brad, and perhaps for good reason. He asked, "Any response?"
"No Sir! All attempts at contact have been met with silence.
"Maybe they're incapacitated. Can we identify any damage or malfunction?"
"No, Sir, but the telemetry seems confused."
"Confused?"
"Sir, not only is the craft unregistered, its construction materials seem unrecognizable."
"How is that even possible?"
"Sir?"
"We have only a finite number of elements in the periodic table, Ensign Angela. We know what these are because atoms of an element can only be in certain configurations. That's why it's a periodic table and not a totally random table. Understand?"
"Yes, Sir!"
"So even for those remaining elements we have not yet isolated, we know where they should be in the table and what their characteristics would be. Do you see?"
"Yes Sir!"
"And one of those characteristics, for most of the elements beyond those which we know, is their extreme instability and lifespan in the range of nanoseconds. Got it?"
"Yes sir."
"So how can this spacecraft be made from an element we do not know?"
"Maybe it's some sort of unusual alloy, Sir?"
"Very well, let us proceed. All stop!"
"Er...you said to proceed and then you ordered a stop?"
"Yes, we're proceeding by stopping before we run into this gigantic absurdist spacecraft."
"Very good, Sir."
"Of course it's very good. I thought of it!"
"I know sir! That's why i said it's very good! I'm bucking for a promotion you see!"
"Yes, I do. Good job!"
"Should I initiate an invasive scan?"
"Are you a complete imbecile?"
"Yes Sir!"
"I see, well the answer to your question is 'no'. An invasive scan would be a foolish thing to initiate when faced with an unknown like this."
"Yes, Sir!"
"Maintain passive readings for now."
Suddenly there was a loud, dangerous beep.
"Sorry, Sir. I had beans for lunch."
"Understood, number two."
"Sir, the craft has locked weapons on us!"
"Well what are you waiting for Ensign Imbecile? Go to red alert and put up the shields. Now!"
"Yes, Sir!"
"Arm weapons!"
"Aren't they already armed, sir? They're not really weapons if they're not armed, now, are they?"
"Good observation, Ensign Imbecile. Now remove all safeties."
Ensign Imbecile fell out of his chair.
"Not your safety belt, idiot, the safeties on the weapons! Good Lord!"
"Very good, Sir!"
A torpedo suddenly flew from the alien ship heading straight for the Alvin and the Hobbits. It MIRV'd into many independently targeted vehicles, all of them heading for the Alvin and the Hobbits except for one oddball one that took off by itself and went god alone knows where, and probably not even then.
"Torpedo locked on us at three hundred twenty degrees, mark two – incoming."
"You're an imbecile. What's with the mark two? It's meaningless drivel. And of course it's incoming since we haven't fired diddly yet, duhh! Don't say another word unless you have something useful to say. Now, evasive pattern Delta-Five! And do it fast!"
"Sir, why doesn't the craft itself initiate these things? It's a bit stupid for us to have to tell the ship to avoid an incoming missile don't you think? Why isn't there an AI to take care of this? It would do it much faster!"
"I have no fraking idea. I don't control the Barfleet budget. Now do it."
"Too late, Sir. Wasting time on that little bit of chit-chat has made us a sure target! Besides, a ship which is that advanced has to have homing missiles. It wouldn't make any difference where we went, they'd find us. This ship has too much mass to outrun a missile."
"Good point!" said the captain as the incoming missiles hit hard and destroyed much of the plating on the saucer. They somehow missed the cup though, so no tea was spilt 'tween cup and lip.
If, like me, you think Hunger Games rip-offs (and YA trilogies in general) have got out of hand, then this might just be for you. No sensibilities spared. There’s a single looking glass at my home. We keep it hidden because it’s very shy. We call it Alice. I'm in Abjection, a fiction which allows me to view myself on the thirty-second day of the month, the day my mumsie trims a hair.
TOur motto is per ardua ad ass kiss. I can see myself years from now, but for now I have only today, only a nanosecond. Anything longer and I would become vain and bitter; for always there will be greater and lesser morons than myself. Hoo-rah!
TMumsie stands behind me with her incisors at the ready, choosing which hair to snip. It’s very important that she not make a mistake. People have died for less. People have died. For lessy. Less. eLess.
The hair falls to the ground with a ring, like swords being drawn with a particularly loud pencil.
When mumsie is done, she pulls my hair away from my face and twists it into a knot. It hurts. It hurts. Hurts. Hertz. A Megahertz is the cyclic rate at which I scream. I note how she focuses on my pain to avoid her own. She is expert in the art of war. She used to work at Sun-Tzu Microsystems. I can’t say the same of myself. I've never worked and I'm proud of that fact. My hands are clean. Clean as a Bex Bristle. My ally Carter would be thrilled.
I was an artist, after a fashion (which we were never allowed to wear in Abjection, although I understand that knock-offs of my outfits are selling at designer prices these days. How sick is that?).
I designed a whole show based solely around old iPods. There was ‘Two Pees in iPod’ where I got two people to urinate on an iPod and then framed it. I made a pair of shoes out of iPods (that was the fashion portion of the exercise) and called it ‘iPod Your Best Foot Forward’. I made a neck-less of iPods for people who had no neck, and I draped it around the almost non-existent neck of a stuffed gorilla and called it ‘Hair iPodder’.
My really erudite bother (Hint!) Turncote wanted to get high on speed and sit next to the gorilla so we could call it ‘Hairy Podder and Velocity Stoned’, but we couldn’t find sufficient DVDs of the Speed movie to stack high enough to make it work.
In the nanosecond I had to look at myself, I saw an eyesore. I have a very narrow face. When my hair is in a bun, it doesn’t taste good at all, which is why I don’t put it in buns any more. I like to fry it with some spices and onions, and then it’s quite edible. I sometimes look like an upside down exclamation point, which is very appropriate, because I’m considered the most fun person in the Abjection fiction in an inverted introverted kind of way. We don’t have much fun in Abjection. Not much fun.
I have very round eyes, like a cartoon character, which I guess I am. I look all the time like I’ve just sat in something that’s as sticky as it is stinky. And let’s not even get into my nose. Not before I’ve blown all the crud out of it, at least. It’s horrible in there. Horrible. It was the source of my first nightmares, and even many day-mares, too. You would have laughed so hard that you became hoarse yourself.
But enough about you. Let’s hear more about me! I’m suite sixteen (that’s the room I was in at the hotel during the Abjection convention - which was of course, very unconventional. Sixteen is the suite spot for YA tropes as everyone knows.
"Here," mumsie mutters, as she pins the knot in place, pushing the pin deep into my skull. The pin reminds me of the noodles Feculent sometimes uses when they fire injections at us every year during the One Flu Over the Shot season. They combine it with Gormless target practice. I should have realized then that something was seriously adrift. But I didn’t. I didn’t. Didn’t.
Sometimes I wonder whether my mumsie is actually Abjection at all, or whether she came from another fiction before she joined ours (Hint!). Certainly the endless quest for a decent Yapness Athletics (YA) fiction is a huge driving force in our society, at least it is in my mind.
"Tonight’s the night!" she says, and starts singing, “Over-chewer, gangling height, it’s a bitch, etc.” Yeah, she actually sang etc.
"Yes," I reply quickly to stop her. If anyone had heard her, the Abjection police would have been here jacking into their boots with great thuggery and gratuitous violets. We can’t be having joy. Not here.
"Are you pooping into your sack-cloth panties out of fear?” She asks inquisitively, inquiring as only a chorister can.
I stare into my panties for a moment. “I don’t think so” I say, “But I’ll be sure to tell you first if it happens.”
Today we face the attitude test to discover which of the five fictions gives me maximum attitude. There used to be many more than five, including such classics as: Altered, Broken, Cress, Damaged, Emerald, Graceling, Hushed, Jumpers, Knots, Legend, Mocking, Naturals, Other, Prophecy, Roomies, Starcrossed, Testing, Ugly, Variant, Witch, Xenophobia, You, Zenophobia (that last one is for people who can’t spell Xenophobia).
There was one beginning with ‘F’ but it’s forgotten, and there was also one called ‘Identity,’ but it was stolen. The majority of these stinked and subsequently they didn’t, and so they became extinct. But this is all irrelevant. I merely include it just to pad out this first volume and make it look like I wrote a lot for the publisher. The more nonsense I write, the more they can jack-up the price, and it’ll only be a trice before they do.
The very next day, at the Schmoozing Ceremony, I’ll embrace a fiction; “I will use knife! Oh, as long as I know how to slay, I know I'll stay alive, I've got all trilogy to live, I've got shoulder pain to give...”
“Priceless! That’s enough!” My father has spoken, like the first father. His voice is broken, like the first voice. It’s been years, if not leers.
"Let’s have some brekkies," mumsie says. She smooches my cheek as I bend over to pick up the hair. I think my mumsie could be beautiful if only she wouldn’t kiss ass so much.
She has high cheekbones and we all know where that comes from. Perhaps if she’d spent less time getting high, and more time getting the low-down, we wouldn’t be so badly off. No wonder we so abject.
We walk to the kitchen together, in case I get lost again or have a panic attack over the muffins. I’m only sixteen. Only sixteen. Sixteen. Sick teen. One these muffins (and it won’t be very long), one of these muffins, they’ll look for me and I’ll be so gone. If they don’t keep an eye on me and make sure I don’t get lost again.
When my bro’ makes breakfast, it’s always very intelligently done. Perhaps I should divine something from this, but being a girl, I’m not allowed a divining rod and I’d only blow it off anyway.
My father’s hand skims my hair for contraband as I sit down, but he finds none. I haven’t worn any sort of hair band for a long time.
Mumsie humsie as she cleansie the table with carbolic soap, trying not to carbolix it up like she did last time. We never did find that table, but it was unstable anyway. This new one is much better in an abstract way; then we leave. The clean table is the only breakfast I’ll get today. Crumbs!
Another novella parody. It's all about the sand! In the year 90210, in a galaxy far, far away, dreams are messed up....
It was a period of house arrest as the various houses in the Effluvium became paralyzed by a feud that threatened the Emperor's power. The two most dangerous parties involved were the House Astolen, led by the brutal Hadavac Trumpenstein who was named Barren, because he has no heir (or hair), and the House of Traders, led by the aging Duke Jared Oftraders from their beautiful home world of Calamine.
After a routine vote to see who would next secure rights to mine the riches of planet Asskiss, the House of Traders won by a large margin. This predictably infuriated Barren Trumpenstein and his followers, who refused to accept the fair and square result of this democratic contest, and began spreading dangerous lies about stolen elections. it was right there in their house name. Tensions ran high, and the Emperor saw an opportunity here to pit the one house against the other, and thereby weaken them both, and preserve his own position.
Planet Asskiss is the source of untold wealth from the mining and selling of spice - known as sporty spice by those who abused it. In the warm, spicy, evening desert wind, a disembodied voice came to be heard, setting the scene: "Our planet Asskiss is so beautiful when the sun is low because then you can't see all the trash left lying around by the environmentally destructive Astolens. It's too hot to work in the daytime, but at night, their mining machines land, delivered to the site by contractors who promise spice-side delivery in thirty minutes or less. It's enough to turn my brown eyes blue. Their cruelty is a legendary picture that we try to warn our brothers about, but not everyone can escape their cruelty. For some, like me, it is all we have ever known. Our warriors, the best in the galaxy, couldn't free our planet from the Astolens because we were dark-skinned and they were white. Consequently, we needed a white savior to rescue us. It seemed prophetic then, that one day, the Astolens all left, called home by the Effluvium. Which oppressor should we expect next?"
On Calamine, sleeping comfortably in his soft bed between cool silk sheets, John Oftraders, the sole heir to Duke Jared Oftraders, dreamed, as any cishet man would, of a young, hot, exotic woman. She was the kind you might see in any perfume commercial, a collection of which John kept as a hobby. Honestly.
He dreamed of her in bits and pieces, some bits more than others, each time adding a new feature, one day lips, another, an ear. After such dreams he awoke feeling stiff as though he'd slept on a bone, and breathing heavily as usual. He tried to stifle it as a summoning drone arrived. No-one has cell phones or wrist communicators in the future. In space, no one can hear you ring.
The messenger invited him to breakfast with his mother, the concubine who had given his father an heir. The plan had been to provide four: John, Paul, George, and Richard, but only one had so far been summoned forth through everyday sex. Despite this success and his devotion to only one woman, John’s father was, curiously enough, unwilling to marry her or reward her for her invaluable service in any other way. She had sacrificed more than either of them knew, but such was a woman's lot in the 90210's.
John dressed formally, but ambled laconically to the breakfast table. They lived by a lake, hence the laconic, and it was one of the earliest skills he could recall his father ever teaching him. Sometimes it would take them hours to reach the breakfast table, his father pointing out every little deficiency in his gait and demeanor, and he loved him dearly for it.
His musing over his night dream visitor was interrupted annoyingly by his mother, the Lady Voissica, reminding him that this morning, Herald Willsome, the head of an Effluvium delegation to Calamine, would be arriving and that John would be required to attend in full dress uniform.
"Why? Why must I?" he complained churlishly. I'm not even in the military and neither is anyone from the delegation! We're not at war! They're just here to get the antiquated seal of the head of the House of Traders. I don't even need to be there. My history books tell me that years ago, this all used to be done by means of employing electronic signatures and yet now these people spend a fortune sending a spaceship so daddy can stick a ring into some hot wax? It's insane when there are hungry people in the world."
"Where? Where are there hungry people?"
John shrugged. "I dunno. There must be someone, somewhere who's hungry. I guess."
"John, you have to realize that this is politics. it has nothing to do with reality. By demanding your father's finger, the emperor keeps us under his thumb. Besides, you know electronics are banned. That’s why we need an Asshat."
John nodded absently. But he said, "You know they’re not really banned, right? None of our spacecraft would work without electronics. Neither would your drone messenger or our dot communicators. The ban makes no sense.”
“None of that is relevant. The fact is that the messenger is coming and needs our seal. Deal with it!”
“Why don't we send him a real seal as a gesture? In a documentary I saw a few days ago they had the most beautiful young furry pups. I'm sure he'd love one."
"I'm sure he'd eat it. Rumor has it that he ate one of his own pups once because he didn't like how it looked, raw. But the fact is that you really can't press a seal into hot wax. It would just end up ripping off its fur, and then the seal would be unsightly and would have to be discarded."
"I guess."
Lady Voissica smiled with self-satisfaction at winning yet another dispute with her son. To celebrate, she poured them both a generous glass of chilled water and began sipping at hers.
John eyed her and then the other glass, raising his eyebrows.
Lady Voissica saw his eyebrows, and raised him her own. The atmosphere became tense. She said, "If you want it, make me give it to you!"
"Don't be so disgusting! You're my mother!"
"I'm talking about the water, idiot! Use Your Words!"
"You can't use Your Words to command me to use My Words!"
"No, of course not! That would be silly. But you won't get your water without earning it. Now try. This is for your own good."
John looked at her sleepily and whispered, "Give me the water."
His mother said, "That's pathetic. Try again."
John started to get up to get the water himself but his mother used Her Words and commanded, "Sit Down!"
He felt like his body had lost all self control and maybe he had even peed his pants a smidge, yet he had no choice but to sit back down. Her Words were irresistible. He'd heard about this quality in women. It was rare in men. Men's words, his mother had told him, were so thin that women could usually see right through them, but he was not any guy. His mother was a member of the ancient religious cult: the Bene Hill, and he was her son, so he also had the gift. She had trained him. He tried again.
"Bring me the water!" he said, his tone deep, almost sub-vocal, his words powerful. In his mind's eye he could see the glass coming toward him without hesitation, but when he'd finished speaking, it had not moved. Neither had she.
"Nice try," she said, but you need more work. Most men do. They're too cocky and with nowhere near enough subtlety. Here," she said, and physically pushed the glass close enough to him that he could reach it for himself.
She asked, "Have you been having any more dreams?" but he lied to her in response.
"I ask only because you seemed to have a little bit of a stiffie when you came in here just now."
"Mother!"
"Sorry but I worry about you. I know how young people are and you have none of your own age that you hang with, which is downright weird. I'd been married eighteen times by the time I was your age."
"Eighteen?"
"That's all that I can actually remember."
"Isn't that rather excessive?'
"Of course it is, Darling! That's how I ended up in the Bene Hill. My life was deemed entirely farcical which is what made it such a perfect fit for the religious order. It's funny, but that's the same thing I used to say about some of my husbands, if I'm not very much mistaken."
"Mom! Seriously!"
"Sorry. But your father has been very preoccupied of late and a woman needs an outlet, you know?
"Mom!" John finished up quickly and hurried out.
After breakfast, and until it was time for the pointless ceremony, John went to his exposition class where the history of AssKiss was being voice-overed for him. He learned that sand storms on Asskiss could be so brutal that they could have been engineered by the Astolens. They weren't. In fact, it was the opposite way around: the Astolens had learned how to engineer such storms from their time on Asskiss. They called it foreshadowing.
The voice-over said that the local population, known as the Sandimen (there appeared to be no females on the planet, which served only to highlight the absurdity of John's dreams even more.) preferred to inhabit the remotest regions of Asskiss, which struck John as so odd that he actually began to pay attention.
Asskiss was a desert planet: everywhere was remote! Nothing grew there except the giant bland-worm which was scientifically known as Inferorum foraminis ingens, but it begged the question: what did it eat? What did anyone eat there for that matter? There was literally nothing but sand: no rivers to fish, no oceans to trawl, no forests to hunt in, no jungles to pluck fruit from. Just sand. For it is written in the ancient texts: thou canst not live by spice alone.
It's time for a rake-over for that Christmas Classic, so comb-over to my place! hey Hey, we're having a parody! If there were a benign god, she would have surely heard the helpless prayers rising over the penny-ante town of Bleddry Falls, home of the Bleddry Falls One-Horse Penny-Ante Slavings and Moan. The streets were empty save for the chill kiss of heavy snow – mainly because there was nothing to do in this one-horse penny-ante town save ride the one horse at the petting zoo, play in the Penny Ante Arcade, which was closed, or drink in the Savaged Alone Bleddry bar, which was also closed to all non-regulars that night.
The prayers were many but they carried the same desperate wish. Old Man Glower (commonly known as OMG!), was a delusional drunk notable for nearly poisoning several clients when he was in a funk over a telegram some years ago, but at least he was honest. “I owe everything to Bailey George!” he cried plaintively. “His father loaned me the money for the One-Horse Penny Ante Pharmacy and Solder Fountain, and I still haven’t paid it back due to the high cost of corporate pharmaceuticals, so I literally owe everything to his son Bailey. Please help him so he can keep helping me!”
Down at the One-Horse Penny-Ante Bar and Gorilla, the gorilla, Nick the Chewitt, was playing behind his locked door with his late-drinking clientele. The owner, Micksa Martini, also owed everything to Bailey, since the latter owned the title on his property too. “Giuseppe, Gesù e Maria. Aiutare il Signore George, il mio amico,” he swore fluently in Korean.
Bailey’s mom also prayed. Her husband was long gone (as husbands are, especially in Bleddry Falls), so when she was done praying that she never saw his worthless, penny-ante hide again, she got on Bailey’s case. “Dear gods help my no-account son, who never did a thing with his life. He needs all the charity he can get!”
Bertha and Earnestine, the local Muppet impersonators, had a better handle on him than most. “He never plans a thing, that’s why he’s in trouble!” said Bertha.
“He’s a good guy! Give him a break,” said Earnestine, “But not his leg this time, ‘kay?”
Bailey’s wife Marry Sue also prayed, in a way. “Dear lord, how can I fix this one?” Her voice was as regretful as it was ponderous.
All her life she’d wanted to marry an air force major, but in college, no one was majoring in air force, so she ended up with Bailey who, with his penchant for burgers and beans, could be an air force of a different color, but she liked him dearly, and on dress-up night, cheaply. What most people didn’t realize about Marry Sue, in all her pristine perfection however, was that she had another iron in her fire.
Bailey’s children also prayed avidly. Once they were through with their affirmation – of their Christmas wish list - they turned their juvenile attention to their juvenile dad. “Something’s the matter with daddy!” intoned Janie presciently. Everyone in this dumb-ass family had a name ending with an “ee” sound. Of course, everyone already knew something was the matter with their daddy, so this wasn’t news.
The last word was had by Zuzie Qvela, or Zuzie for short, since she was only three feet tall. In later life, she went on to form a post-punk band known as Zuzie Q and the Penny Antees, but this was before she knew the score. She did, however, agree with Janie that something was definitely amiss with daddy, with the emphasis on missing. “Please bring daddy back to reality!” she cried forlornly.
Meanwhile up above the sky that’s blue, hiding beyond crowds of clouds, were a trouble-making trio.
Franklin, in mint condition despite the fact that his advancing age and retreating hairline threatened to clash in something of an Armageddon in the middle said, “Hello, Giuseppe, is there a problem?”
Giuseppe frowned. “I’m sore afraid that we’ll have to send a messenger. A lot of people are asking for help for a man, so-called, named Bailey George.”
“Bailey George? We’re only just learning about this now on Christmas Eve? What happened to this much vaunted ability to know everything ahead of time? Aren’t we supposed to know if even a sparrow falls?”
“Please don’t get started with the frigging sparrows again. They die all the time. You don’t know jackdaw.”
Franklin wasn’t about to be derailed from a good rant. “Why do we have to wait to be begged for help, if our needs are known already, even before we ask? Are we some sort of a control freaks?”
“Franklin, seriously? Of course we are. Why would there have been an entire universe created just to focus minutely on a one-horse penny-ante planet, and then punish for eternity anyone who even mildly ticks us off? Get a grip, man! And forget about the sparrows, for Pete’s sake!”
“His name is Pete?” asked Franklin, suitably chastened.
Giuseppe gave him a look.
“Fine, but I don’t get why we’re always in the dark,” Franklin said, his tone, as usual, unilluminated.
Giuseppe sighed. “Hello? We’re in space! Besides, this is Bleddry Falls. It doesn’t apply here. We’re working in the dark because it’s close to midnight.”
Franklin sighed. “And I suppose this is yet another case where this is his crucial night and we have to send someone down at the last minute to cover all the angels? If we know everything, why can’t we plan ahead? Fine! Whose turn is it to get crapped on this time? Most of the angles are busy and of the ones that are left? I wouldn’t send a one of ‘em out! Michael’s still not over Lot volunteering him for homosexual rape at Sodom.”
Giuseppe took a hesitant, but deep, breath. “That's why I wanted to see you. It's that clock-watcher's turn. Again.”
“Claret? The wingless wonder-fop?”
”The same. You and I both know that he has the IQ and the interpersonal relationship ethics of a buck rabbit, right?”
”Yes, but he also has a faith only a virgin mother could love. Let’s give Claret clearance, Roger.”
Claret was singing A Day in the Wife melancholy in the toilet.
Shakespeare had it coming! Scene 1 Seen 'em All
On a dark desert moorland, pointy hats on their hair Among the fresh smell of heather, rising up through the air Through the fog in the distance, shone a shimmering light It was a cauldron being brought to boil; a magic spell for the night There they stood on the hilltop; we see candle, book and bell And now must you think to yourself: this isn’t Norway, what the hell? Then they lit all the candles, and in the book found their place Three voices chanting spells on the moor. Did you hear them say... "Welcome to these Scottish Highlands (and Islands) They're such a Scottish place (quite a hottish place) An enchanting place Plenty of magic in the lofty Scottish Highlands We have the best of seers - you can find them here!
As you draw foolishly closer, there will you find three witches: The Wayward Sisters who, having had little success with their band, have turned to magic to try to improve their fortunes. The first witch was tall, dark, and could can-can. Her name was Neach-snìomh O'Cloth, and she asked, "When shall we three meet again? In thunder, lightning, or in rain?"
Her sister, Trioblaid O'Cloth answered, "Why must it be in bad weather? Can't it be when the hurly-burly's done? When the hailstone's rattle's gone?"
The third sister, Do-ruigsinneach O'Cloth advised, "That's going to be before the setting of the sun."
"And where will it be?" asked Neach-snìomh.
"Upon the heath, of course!" said Trioblaid
Do-ruigsinneach advised, "And there shall we meet Macdeath."
"I'm sure I don't know. Shall we?"
"Didn't I just say that?
"I'm sure I don't know. I find it very hard to understand you when you Shakespeak.
Breathlessly, Neach-snìomh gasped, "I come, Grimalkin!"
"Seriously, do you really need a pet name for your pussy?"
"There's no need to be catty!"
"Now you've come, let us away!"
The three of them trooped off across the moor chanting, "Fair is foul, and foul is fair when it comes to dyeing hair."
Seen too: Camping near Fores
There was alarum within, so rumor had it.
King Dunkin', Malecolumn, Duq McDonald, Lennox, McCarthy et al romp in playfully, and they meet a bleeding Sergeant.
Malecolumn complained, "Who let that larum in?
King Dunkin' ignored his son's complaint and asked, "Is this a bloody sergeant I see before me?"
"What name hast thou, bloody sergeant?" asked Lennox.
"Pepper, Sir!"
"We have no Pepper. Why would you even need it? Surely salt is best for a bleeding wound! Now what is your name?"
"I think his name is Pepper, John," said McCarthy.
"Pepper John? What kind of a name is that?"
"No, his name is just Pepper. Sergeant Pepper."
Lennox and McCarthy looked at each other and said "We must write a song to commemorate his bravery!"
Malecolumn interrupted them, stating, "This is the sergeant who like a good and hardy soldier fought 'gainst my captivity. Hail, brave friend! Say to the King the knowledge of the broil as thou didst leave it!"
"Can we get out of the hail first?" Sergeant Pepper asked.
They all moved inside the nearest tent where Henry the Horse was hiding.
The Sergeant said, "The broil was just beginning. The meat had already been spiced and basted thoroughly. I think it's probably reaching perfection right now."
"Excellent!" said Malecolumn. "So much for the battle feast. By the way, how did the battle go?"
"Doubtful it stood as two spent swimmers that do cling together and choke their art."
"What? Who's swimming?" asked King Duncan.
"No-one my Lord. Sergeant Pepper speaks with a flowery tongue."
"Well, cut it out Sergeant Pepper! Just tell me the simple facts, straight and true. Don't elaborate unnecessarily, or speak in such a violently florid tongue!"
"Very well, sir! The Merciless Duq McDaffy…"
"The what?"
"The Merciless Duq McDaffy?"
"You mean the fictional traitor who allied with the Norwegians?"
"Yessir!"
"Then just say Duq McDaffy. There's no need to call him 'merciless', okay?"
Discombobulated, the sergeant went on, "Very well, sir! So, anyway, he was quite worthy to be a rebel, for to that the multiplying villanies of nature do swarm upon him from the western isles o' Kerns and Glasgae is supplied, and fortune, on his damned quarrel smiling, showed like a rebel's whore: but all's too weak"
"Stop! Stop! Which part of 'keep it simple' do you not understand, Sergeant? Now for goodness sakes tell me in plain, straight-forward terms the outcome of the battle. Please!"
"Very good sir! So Very Violent Macdeath - well he deserves that name - disdaining fortune, with his brandished steel, which smoked with bloody execution, like valor's minion carved out his passage,"
"Sergeant, for fuck's sake!"
"I'm sorry, Sir?"
"I didn't understand a goddamned word of that except 'Very Violent Macdeath' and we already know too well that he's very violent. Just use the names. We don't need all this Shakespeaking and flowery adjectives. Hasn’t anyone taught you how to give a military report?"
"No, Sir!"
"I thought as much. Just keep it simple and concise, or I swear you'll be sorry!"
"Hum, okay sir! So Macdeath fought on until he faced the slave with who he never shook hands, nor bade farewell to him, 'til he unseamed him from the nave to the chaps, and fixed his head upon our battlements!"
"You mean he killed him?"
"Yessir! Was I not clear?"
"No you were not! If he killed anyone, then for heaven's sake just say that! You used thirty words where three would have done!"
"Oh he didn't kill just anyone Sir! He killed the slave with who he never shook hands, nor bade farewell to him! Unseamed him from the nave to the chaps, he did!"
Malecolumn said, "O valiant cousin! Worthy gentleman!"
"Shut up, Malecolumn!" the king ordered.
"Yes, my Sovereign!"
The Sergeant went on, "As whence the sun 'gins his reflection shipwrecking storms and direful thunders break…."
"What?"
"So from that spring whence comfort seemed to come discomfort swells. Mark, king of Scotland, mark: No sooner justice had with valor armed compelled these skipping kerns…."
"These what?"
"To trust their heels, but the Norwegian lord surveying vantage, with furbished arms and new supplies of men began a fresh assault."
"What the fuck does any of that mean?"
"I think he means the Norwegian king rallied his forces, and attacked once more, my Lord."
"Then why the devil doesn’t this asshole just say that?"
"Um, he's talking out of his arse?"
"That I can believe!"
Malecolumn asked, "Were Captains Macdeath and Banquette able to defeat him?"
"They're not were-captains!" the King explained. "They don't change at the full moon, they're just regular captains. They actually don't change at all. Not even their underwear."
"They're Scots warriors! They don't need no stinking underwear!" said McCarthy.
"Exactly!"
"Okay, so did the regular Captains Macdeath and Banquette manage to defeat him?"
The Sergeant said, "Yes; as sparrows eagles, or the hare the lion. If I say sooth, I must report they were as cannons overcharged with double cracks…."
"Double cracks?"
"Yes. Obviously the effect of not wearing any underwear," said Lennox.
"Oh I see!"
The Sergeant went on, "They doubly redoubled strokes upon the foe…."
"Wait! What? They doubly redoubled?" asked Dunkin'.
"Yes Sir!" the Sergeant said excitedly.
"When did they redouble?" Dunkin' pursued, confused.
"I'm sorry sir?" asked the Sergeant."
"You said they doubly redoubled."
"Yes Sir! They did indeed!"
"How can they doubly redouble if they haven't redoubled in the first place?"
"And for that matter, how could they even redouble at all without having doubled to begin with?" asked Malecolumn.
"Exactly my point!" said the King.
"Were the Norwegians wearing stinking underwear?" asked Lennox
"Did the Norwegians have woodies?' asked McCarthy.
"Ooh! Norwegian Woodies! There's a song in there!" Lennox said, and began writing.
"They meant to bathe in reeking wounds, or memorize another Golgotha, I cannot tell, but I am faint, my gashes cry for help."
"Whose wouldn't?" asked Malecolumn.
Dunkin' said, "So well thy words become thee as thy wounds; they smack of honor both. Go get him surgeons."
The surgeons got him and dragged him out. He was already wearing a skirt so it didn't take much.
"Who comes here?" asked the King hearing heavy breathing.
Malecolumn said, "The worthy Thane of Hinter-Rossiter!"
Lennox said, "What cross eyes he has!"
"All the better to speak things strange," said McCarthy.
Hinter-Rossiter said, "God save the King!" and they all drank a wee dram which unsurprisingly tasted of urine."
King Dunkin' said, "Whence camest thou, worthy Thane?"
Hinter-Rossiter replied, "No my King, I come from Fife and Drum, both places in Bonnie Scotland. There the Norwegian banners flout the sky and fan our people cold, especially the Robert the Bruce Banner which is a great hulk of a flag."
"More flowery shit. Shall I ne'er be free of it?" The king sighed and asked, "And what of the Norwegian king?"
"King Canu rowed himself over in a small boat, nearly causing his death."
"He rowed himself over? How is that even possible?"
"The same way you would run yourself over. The King of Norway has many oars at his disposal, all of them willing to do his bidding."
"He travels a hard rowed. But pray, continue."
After a short prayer as instructed, Hinter-Rossiter continued, "With terrible numbers,"
"He never was any good at math," Lennox interrupted.
Hinter-Rossiter ignored him and went on, "Assisted by that most disloyal traitor The Thane of Mordor, began a dismal conflict until that Bellona's bridegroom, lapped in proof,"
"What the fuck are you waffling on about? Who the hell is Bellona's bridegroom?"
"I meant Macdeath my Lord."
"Then why the fuck not just say 'Macdeath' you asshole? Give it to me straight: who won?"
"We did your highness. We confronted him with self-comparisons, point against point rebellious, arm against arm, and curbing his lavish spirit, the victory fell on us."
"Jesus Christ! Next time, lead with that, and Shakespeaking be fucked!"
Hinter-Rossiter said, "It is great happiness, Sire! 'Tis a great pity you were not with us, leading us to victory."
"I, um, had other important kingly business to attend to."
"Of course you did."
(Chicken sounds and general alarum)
Hinter-Rossiter said, "Now Canu, the Norwegian king, craves composition, so we charged him ten thousand sovereigns to bury his dead, and gave him an English language textbook!"
"Ten thousand sovereigns? There are not that many kings in the whole world!"
"Exactly, your highness! He will never be out of our debt!"
"I see! Excellent!" said King Dunkin' happily, adding, "No more that boring Thane of Mordor no law for sure shall he escape. Go pronounce his present death, and with his former title greet Macdeath!"
Hinter-Rossiter said, "I'll see it done. What he hath lost, noble Macdeath hath won!"
The king sighed heavily.
It's enough to make Agatha Christie wish she'd stayed missing. It was five of the clock in the morning, the conversation got boring in Syria, but Syrian winters are quite mild compared with those in Britain, so I don't know what those people are complaining about. I'd be more worried about a civil war, quite frankly. But that's by-the-bite the dust.
Now standing alongside the platforandonesixteenth at Zeppo was the train which is pretentiously appointed as the Flying Bos Taurus. Again, how this even garnered for itself such a grandiose name is a bit of a mystery to me, because I've seen some bull in my time and this train has nothing on your average real man's studly male bovine.
Anyway, it consisted only of a dining-car with its associated kitchen of course, along with two local cars, and a sleeping-car for those folks who had some real stamina for this kind of business. First, of course, they would have to wake it up, which isn't easy given how many sleepers have to be walked over to achieve this end.
A man nearby was trying to hawk hair restorer with a quaint little song he learned in Clapton junction:
If you want it to grow out, you gotta to take her out: Rogaine®. If you wanna get grown, long down to the ground: Rogaine®. She grow fine, she grow fine, she grow fine: Rogaine®.
He was escorted away by a police woman named Min Oxidil. This revealed, standing by the step leading up into this French sleeping-car, a young French lieutenant without his French woman.
He was resplendent in his French uniform, and he was conversing in French, with a petite man who wasn't French, yet who was wrapped up like a Christmas turkey, (which was the country just next door, to the north as it happened). All that anyone could, or perhaps even wanted to see of him was a tiny pink button nose, and the twin tips of the mostly expertly curled and exquisitely manicured and waxed mustache outside of Madame Tussauds. He also had an indeterminate chin, mainly because no one knew where it was.
Contrary to what some writers of yesteryear might think, it was far from freezing, but the man was nothing short of a complete wuss, and fastidious to boot, or shoes, which was what he was wearing right at that moment.
The French Lieutenant Dew-Bonnet was there to see the visitor off, although he knew next to nothing about him. What he did know was not good. The visitor was evidently a Bilges from England. How that worked, he had no idea. The man was some sort of wizardly private detective who caught murderers and imprisoned them in little grey cells. His name was Herakles Parrot.
Unfortunately, everywhere the Bilges traveled, there seemed to be murders, and this man always seemed to have the solution as to who did it, leaving a trail of dead bodies in his wake. On this trip alone not only had there been a murder, but also the French Lieutenant's colleague who had been accused of it had committed suicide, leaving yet another body. In addition to that, another very distinguished officer had resigned, although how one summarily resigned from the army was a mystery to the Lieutenant. He had never been able to get out, let alone get out more as he was often recommended to do by his psychiatrist.
Dew-Bonnet had this information about the Bilges only from a conversation he had overhead between the general and Parrot who were flying around as they spake. "You have saved us, mon chair," the General had said emotionally, which was a novelty in and of itself. Why was he speaking a mixture of English and French to someone who understood both languages? Belgique! Would it not have been more natural for both to have spoken French?
So overcome was the general that his monstrous mustache trembled with every word. The Lieutenant had never encountered such a phenomenon before! And his language was so replete with superlatives that the French Lieutenant was afraid that the French General might perform some act of French sexual gratification upon the Bilges privates of the Bilges detective, a behavior that could lead only to general disorder even as the privates were stiffly at attention. Corporal punishment would follow and there would be a major uproar. Perhaps this was why the general said, "By getting to the kernel of our problem, you have saved the honor of the entire French Army, and averted a civil whore. Not that any whore I have ever been in was civil, but you know what I mean, right?"
This time the man spoke Plegmish and it took some time for Herakles Parrot to clean the spittle off himself, but when he was done, he replied jovially "You once saved my life. I have saved your entire army. We are even."
Lieutenant Dew-Bonnet was all spit and polish, especially now, and he had no clue what this was all about, but he did know the day of the week. Once again, he spoke English to Parrot, which seemed to be his favored tongue despite his dedicated habit of peppering his speech with obscure French idiom. "Today is Sunday!" the Lieutenant said proudly, pleased with himself for remembering correctly. "Tomorrow will be Monday! By the evening, you will be in Eastern Balls."
This was the fifteenth time he had made this observation. They were standing on the small part of platforandoneeighth, which was currently under construction, and even as they spoke, Turk-men were busy all around them, building, and making any attempt at decent conversation difficult. Indecent conversation was, on the other hand, a doddle.
You'll marvel at how insane these characters are and wish they'd been DC'd. If only Thanatic had been disarmed.... The spacecraft was hit by space mines! It was a mine game. A few more hits from the Bong and it would be totally out of it. The final warning had been issued: "This is the Assguardian runaway craft Stamen! We are under attack from the Rutin-Tutanian spacecraft Bong! I repeat, because this message is in no way ever going to be retransmitted automatically; we are being attacked by the Bong. Our engines are destroyed and our crowd-source support is failing! Our insurance claim has been filed and we will bill a bong, but until then, anything you can contribute will be depreciated over several years. We are requesting aid from any craft within range. We are at meaningless coordinates BH90210. Our craft carries only Assguardian families. We are not a war craft!"
Black Mouth stepped among the fallen as though he were a poorly animated CGI character. He wore appropriately asinine clothing that was entirely impractical and must have weighed a space ton because it was heavily-larded with leather.
Assguardians were lying around everywhere, but that was normal for them, since they represented a culture of drunkenness, gluttony, and white male privilege.
Black Mouth said, "Hear my ridiculously pretentious words and rejoice. You corpses have had the honor of being rescued from your depravity by the Greatest of the Rutin-Tutans: Thanatic."
"He's just a Darksnide wannabe!" someone yelled, and he was immediately impaled on a Sarah Impaling device.
Black Mouth continued, "You may recall reading about these same psychotic Rutin-Tutans in this author's Titans and Gods novel." He cleared his throat, and with that clearance generously granted by his overlord, he found that he was able to speak some more. He said, "You may think this is suffering, but let me tell you mofos about suffering. You people don't know suffering from syphilis until y'all have grown up with a black mouth. A black mouth on a predictably white body! I can’t begin to explain the prejudice I suffered; the profiling, the rap sheet I had to endure. I hate rap! But I digress. What you're now being treated to is salvation from life! Universal scales, some of which you can see carved into this ungodly amount of creaking leather I'm wearing, have tipped the balance just as it’s likely to tip me over. On each planet he has visited, he did not have to plan it, for the Great Rutin-Tutin tossed his scarred coin every time to decide which fifty percent lives and which dies to cast! Smile for the camera one and all, even if it’s only the rictus of death!"
Thanatic himself stood there, imposing and posing as ever, his scrotal sac risibly visible on his chin. Some wear their heart on their cleaver, but Rutin-Tutans wear their scrotum on their chins, one ball on each, as a mating display. It had been fun, Thanatic recalled, when Tess tickles.
He was looking impassively through the improbably large window into the blackness of space, eying the still, cold stars out there, insane distances away, and thinking about the nice cup of tea he would enjoy when he'd done killing a few more people. There were always more people to kill, which was why he never ran out. He never ran anywhere. It was his job to walk sedately through life making sure that any slaughtering was done as fairly and impartially as possible, hence his coin which he had inherited from a two-faced man he once met in a bar, but his private life is none of your damned business.
He turned and gazed over the bloody carnage in the hold of this Assguardian refugee craft where far more than fifty percent had been killed, especially given that this was only a remnant of Assguard, the vast bulk of which population had already been destroyed by a combination of O'Hell and Cesspit – hence the refugee craft. The refu-eff craft was long gone, and there were insufficient resources to build a refu-aitch, so refugee it was.
Thanatic said philosophically, "I know what it's like to lose. I mean like, folks who have lost stuff! Hey, we have, man! We've lost stuff. Lots of stuff. All of us. Homes, families, normal lives. Not that mine has ever been normal. It’s easy to start to believe that life takes more than it gives, and you know something – that's absolutely true, especially for you losers. But today it's giving us something. It is giving us a chance to either live or die based on the flip of this coin of mine."
"Why not a flip of a die?"
Thanatic didn't like to be interrupted at the best of times, but it was the worst of times; it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of Normans, it was the epoch of belle, it was the epoxy of glue guns, it was the season of light entertainment, it was the season of dark lords, it was the spring of mattresses, it was the winter of our incontinence. Thanatic grabbed the voluble Musculor by the head of his penis.
"It's frightening!" he declared, giving Muscular a sideways glans. It turns the legs to jelly doesn't it? And I don't mean that stuff you spread on toast, I mean that stuff that's clear and comes with things embedded in it grossly…whatever it is."
"Aspic?" suggested Black Mouth.
"No" responded Thanatic at once and slightly, "I don't need an ass pick..."
Somebody had to step in and clean up Disney's mess. The Worst Order, the name of which arose from a bad breakfast at Dex's Diner, has sworn that it will not rest until the completely ineffectual and cowardly unavailable Lute Litesabre is utterly destroyed! Why that would make a difference given that they already operate with impunity and Lute, who is quite obviously doing diddly, is nowhere to be found, is testimony only to the megalomania and ruthless pursuit of money that is embodied in the hugemoney of Darpa Holiwud.
Supported by Republicans, General Playa Organ also searches for Lute, who owes her money; plus, she wants to ask him about that kiss way back when. Rather than do this herself, as any Enterprising captain would, she elects to do this the realistic way, by delegating the task to an underling.
No underlings, however, are available, so she sends her most incontinent pilot, Potti Decameron to find him. Potti spends his time looking for the ba'athroom where he lost his religion, as well as a piece of this magical jigsaw puzzle. It’s in 3-D and looks very cool. Destroying it would prevent the morons at Versed Hors d'Oeuvres from ever dining out again, but no one thinks of this.
Instead, her pilot is expected to Jackov, where an ex-assassin, who ought to be enjoying a well-earned retirement, keeps the vital information on a thumb drive in his pocket - a pocket which will get him killed as sure as alien males of all stripes inexplicably find humanoid girls attractive. Rather than transmit the information, encrypted and secure, to the people who need it, and settle the whole matter right there and then, Potti has to physically pick up the drive and fly it back through the unaccountably massive and controlling Galactic Empyre's religious order, which operates with impunity, unopposed by any Republican forces at all, of course.
Once again a massive Galactic Empyre Theater, er Starship, blots out the sky and menacing, little-bitty ships peel off from it and head down to the planet's surface station. Once again the entire population is caught unawares and undefended, and are rapidly overcome and liquidated for drinking later. Twenty Scorn Truppen populate each vehicle. What's in it for them is another unsolved mystery. I mean seriously, why would anyone volunteer for this, now that the threat of being abused by the Dork Sigh of the farce is long gone? We will never know. All we can do is to tell their tale, and that's a tall order. It’s a tall tale.
Meanwhile in the peaceful village below, fake animals are settling down for the night, only to be disturbed by a rotund mechanical druid, white with orange circles on the body, looking like a large soccer ball with a disconnected pudding bowl head. This must be Pudd'n Head Wilson, best friend to Tom Hanky, but it goes by the code name of OCD.
Who designed this druid in such a way that it’s constantly feeding sand, dirt, and god forgive me, lint into its circuitry is a mystery. Why not give it legs? Why not make it speak plain English, the obvious choice, of course, for a galactic language? Well, I got the answer to that. Druids with legs walk in a very spastic and stiff-legged if prissy manner, and chatter worse than a Binks, which will jar jar your brain dangerously, so most of them end up being destroyed. That's why he's designed the way he is. And yes, he's a 'him' (according to Mucousoft Word). All druids are male. Got a problem with that? Take it up with Emperor Hilarious Glinteye.
This little druid, known as OCD as I said, takes one look at the invading force and runs away faster than a lute. He’s heading for the hut wherein sits his master. Why he was even out here getting sand in his unmentionables is a mystery, but he arrives just in time to witness a small leather pouch, not a sack, not a bag, not a tote, but a pouch being handed from the soon-to-be-doomed retiree to the equally soon-to-be-doomed tall, handsome, studly, and largely under-used Potti Decameron who, building on heroes of yesteryear, has lots of stories and many flaws.
The soon-to-be-retired retiree is named Ill Legaltek. He says, "This will begin a trilogy. Guard it well, young Pott-u-wan. I have seen horrible things, but despite that, I decided to wait until now to try to put a stop to them. Without the Deadeye assassins, there can be no balance to this farce, although god knows why. When we had a whole shit-load of them, it did nothing to stop Darpa Vapor."
Potti says, "Because you have finally decided to take action, maybe it won’t be too late to stop this horrible, non-canonical trilogy. The General has been trying to track Lute down for some time. He owes her money. And an explanation. Now maybe she can recover hair losses and put up some financing for an episode in a new trilogy. Maybe we can finally buy a few giant Star Ticklers for ourselves! They actually don’t destroy stars, but you get the picture, right?" he says, handing an official campaign photograph of Emperor Hilarious's look-alike stand-in, to Ill Legaltek.
Anyone else think dinosaur stories are getting a bit long in the tooth? If you liked those movies you'll need a thick skin to scale this one. On Isla Blair, sixty-nine condometers east of Eden, very naughty boys were up to very naughty antics. A submersible, submerged submersively, was picking its way through eight or nine degrees north in the salty Pacific making salty remarks. They slid past an old, massive, but evidently exceedingly well-oiled underwater door which diverse divers had only just managed to prise open to pry on the prize that awaited them, skeletally secreted on the shallow, but murky, muddy bed of the ocean here. Actually most of the mud was Moses Sorass shit in the ocean here.
Oceaneers, they sought the fabled Condominous Rex, a becalmed ominously acrobatic, aquatic, prophylactic, didactic treasure chest once owned by the Reed-Barker family, but now dead by the jaws of the gigantic Moses Sorass, the biggest prophet that Thoracic Pearl had ever known, and they'd known some fat profits until recently.
Moses would come down from days of sitting on the mountain (hence the sore ass) with two tablets, taking them in the morning and eating Trex® - which is lower in saturated fat than butter, is dairy-free, and has no hydrogenated vegetable oil - to wash them down. At least that's what the command meant, but as you know after the previous five episodes, nothing obeys commandments in Thoracic Pearl, the chest-heaving gem of the dino-resurrection industry.
The submersible shone shockingly bright lights across the dull, nondescript mat of the ocean floor, carpeted as it was with plastic straws surreptitiously dumped by the fast food chains, and unglamorous Mud, the remnants of the seventies British glam-rock band, but something down there glowed white in the light.
Anonymous Aquanaut Number One said, "Relax! Don't do it, now we're about to get to it! Anything that might have once lived in here will be dead by now. Excepting, of course, for things that are big, scary, and that own lots of teeth. Those things never die in this world, as you know."
Aquanaut Number Two felt like shit, but where could he find any at this time of day? On a Sunday? In the ocean? He knew nothing of the defecations, much less the depredations of the Moses Sorass.
He hated being submerged, but it was the only work he could get aside from his job waiting tables at Manor La Mensche on Hollywood Beloved (Starring Mrs Which, Roger Murtaugh, and Nyah Gawedoff-All) back in Los Angeles. He was the typical white male extra because there is no way in hell that central casting is ever going to hire a female or a person of color for tiny, fill-in roles like these, and all the heroic folks in Crichton-Spielberg Industries Inc were irredeemably white.
He said, "Thar she blows!" and they looked down to see the gaping gigantic mouth of Condominous rex wrapped around the stiff tail of another dinosaur, caught even in death, in flagrante hardicto.
Aquanaut Number One, on top of his game and proud as a new father said, "The Condominous Rex," like it meant anything.
A little mechanical arm stretched down and seized the end of the largest premaxilla tooth it could reach, while on another arm, a midget dentist hacked with some effort through the impressive penetrating organ with a large, stainless steel toothpick wrapped in sandpaper, while hanging upside down and wearing an authentic ballerina costume from the Teamster's Union official production of 1776 - The Pursuit of a Penis, in which all men are born free.
Even though it was a mint-flavored tooth pick, it took a while because the tooth was so huge, and the dentist gritted his teeth with the effort. The grit provided for some extra abrasive power, and it eased the cutting process.
Once the tooth was fully-severed, the dentist was recycled and the large tusk was attached inexplicably to a balloon and sent to the surface.
"Crucially important specimen collected, and randomly and blindly dispatched to who knows where," Aquanaut Number Two announced with a toothy grin.
"Roger you!" responded the pansexual pilot named Murtaugh.
"Air Head? Cleared for taking off. Begin tracking my clothing."
"Copy that and sell it at knock-off prices," came the expected response.
"Go, go."
"What?"
"I said 'Go'!"
"No, you said 'go-go'."
"So go!"
"I don't understand. Do you want me to go twice, or do you want me to dance? I don't have my gold lamé boots with me, only my bronzed lame boots."
"You need to go. You don't need gold lamé boots. They're not the boots you're looking for. We don't need to see you dancing."
"The gold lamé boots aren't for dancing. They're my hiking boots."
"Then take a hike!"
