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The first part (mind you, again, this is a work in progress) of this sci-fi mystery introduces several characters, all of whose attributes, physical or otherwise, change regularly. Death becomes even more of an abstraction in this first segment.

Enjoy and thank you for reading.

Submitted:Dec 13, 2012    Reads: 11    Comments: 0    Likes: 0   

By Clinton Smith
To be enjoyed alongside 'It Won't Go Away'
When the 'A-Pod Collapse' Happens
A Meditation
It is Monday, on an unusually warm day in December. Only two days from now, the 23rd episode of Forgotten and Fantastic will hit the airwaves, enthralling listeners worldwide. It is at this time that many silly things may or may not take place, and whatever hilarity that does end up ensuing is all given directly to you, the listener; that person of such grace to bestow upon me your gentle ear and undivided attention.
There's a certain thing I must address, before we lose all sense of physics as we know it, and words become mere building blocks for which the pilots of this mysterious ship, known as Forgotten and Fantastic, will use to their own musings. Music is changing. We have to introduce to you, friends, a sample of some of the many recordings of the amazing Lincoln, NE based music collective MILDRED BONK.
Tony Lien and Clinton Smith began playing aggressive metal music, which quickly became more experimental in their first jam sessions. It didn't take long for the two prodigies to realize the true potential of this musical collaborative. They began experimenting with unconventional guitar techniques, off the wall instruments, and random alterations between screaming and a cappella vocals. Melding these different contrasting styles and with and unfaltering dedication to the real craft of songwriting, the two came upon a sort of 'groove.' More musicians were called in, including David Bush and Alex Matzke.
The duo eventually chose the name Mildred Bonk, both for it's phonetic quality, and in honor of the late great author/essayist David Foster Wallace.
As we said before, the music you are about to hear is only a fraction of their wonderful discography, and that collection continues to grow.
There is, in the world, a fluffy cat named Alice. Meow, that cat says, from time to time. The Russian Gov't jettisoned me from their land long ago; to this day, I am unsure as to why. I look to this feline, so full of fluff, for some sort of solace or resolution, but for naught. She only hops off the recliner I sit in and makes her way toward the glowing space heater. There are piles and piles of paper on a dining room table in the same room as me. The table has been repurposed as a clutter collection unit, and is performing its task with fervor and gusto. From the corner of my eye, I keep seeing strange jelly flowing from between the papers, spewing out from between them. Just like blood from a wounded beast, the glop is spilling out and over the edge of the table to collect on the maroon carpet below. The sight alerts me, and as I look full on at the table, to discern the situation, I realize I've tricked myself somehow. Lies! Tomfoolery! Those dastardly papers are indeed everyday, standard, common: I had imagined whatever I had just seen.
Just then, Spigots O'Tooh, the man from two doors down, comes bursting through the wall with quite a ruckus. The cheap plaster continued to fall apart in his wake, O'Tooh already through the door, laughing like a stooge. Spigots is blindfolded and obviously intoxicated; impaired as he is, I quickly calculate that there truly are infinitely many explanations for this bizarre happenstance.
Confused to say the least, and not without much terror, I reply: "Could've used the door."
"AAAAAGGGHH!!!!" In a rage, O'Tooh thrashes for a moment, and then disappears back into the cavity in the wall that he had only just produced. What a relief, I think. Today's Tuesday.
Former Lady Josephine now wandered the burnt out scene, a ghost, a shell, a moral proven contrary. Her clothes hung on, but as rags, and her grey hair lay unkempt, scattered about her face. Her hair, white as sand on an untouched beach in some begot fantasy I haven't yet had. Her hair, which in a ratty nest stuck out like millions of little signals pointing in just as many different directions.
She wants to go back, somewhere where the warmth is. Anywhere, she don't care.
And the bitch mother Time's bones are being stored in the ice chest, Henri.
I'm all polished up like a silver can for a high priest. He'll keep his fish in that can. That's how shiny I am right now, and heck, I'm proud.
"Shouldn't walk 'round, struttin' yer stuff like a dern fool. Gonn' get shot down." Dad'll say. Foolhardy! Not least of all, untrue! I'll have to stuff another several animals to appease the family bloodlust, and then I can prance about outside, collecting the sun like a daffodil.
Phonetically illustrated by Kiev Cave-Dwella
A walkin' talkin' time machine from Vietnam.
She hadn't forgotten to love me, hadn't forgotten to lace the aquarium in Christmas shining twines and confections. No, no she hadn't.
I now consider myself apart from all this, those bygone years having thrust me into my new career, my new appearance, my customs, my house, my fish, the stones making up the walkway to my front door, down to minute details, like the names of each of my teeth and the smells of the paints I'd used on the walls to the interior of my extravagant abode.
It has been a strange autumn, indeed. For a month or so I truly believed that there was a man named No-Nonsense Finnegan luring in the dark corners of my home, spying on my wife and children and I, waiting for the most advantageous time to strike and mutilate us all. It turns out that these were some manifestation of my fear of the pressure involved with my then-upcoming promotion at work.
"Fiddlesticks!" I'd cried out, "Brush my teeth! Wax my car! Laundromat! LAUNDROMAT!!"
-and people looked on, sure, thinking,
Shark Faced Leonard
Stuart was a young man dreaming of planes and space travel at an affordable rate, when suddenly, out from the clouds
(continuation from previous title, 'Shark - Faced Leonard')
-came the overwhelming feeling of solitude and grace, a mass of some lusting achievement, and for what? Mere earthly possessions, and a scented candle (hickory, no less: a hickory scented candle).
Time had, in this instance too, made a cruel love to Margaret. Entombed within her divorce filings and international shipping receipts, the poor fob had sought out the relief of pain killers or any other expensive sedative she could get her hands on. Money had always been a stigma to her, and as she spread dijonnaise on the bread of her cucumber sandwich, she attempted to familiarize herself with the loss of her closest loved ones to this lifelong addiction.
"The Caspian Sea, the Caspian Sea. Gosh, Oh golly-gee, the Caspian Sea," she murmured, in between bites of the cucumber sandwich. The dijonnaise added much character and zest to the already wholesome goodness of the croissant itself and veggies inside. "I haven't seen a true forest in years."
"All forests are liars." Kevin explained as he came crashing down the secret staircase. Margaret and Kevin called in the secret staircase because, although they had a large main stair leading from the living room up to the bedrooms and the rest of their home from the 2nd floor and up (a small, well kept bathroom, a few storage closets and a large unfinished attic), there was also a far more narrow, less used staircase leading from the mezzanine to the kitchen on the main floor. "Besides, the beach is where you really want to go. Babes and water, man."
Kevin was not the brightest light on the tree, but far from the dimmest. Before you, reader, or anyone you may discuss this passage with make any premature conclusions, know that Margaret and Kevin lived in a completely professional, 'hands-off' relationship. It was symbiotic in more ways than one, true; they did not, however, partake in sexual release(s) or physical intimacy of any other kind.
The Plot Thickens Like Spoilt Milk Left in a Bowl for 5 Days
In an apparent attempt to sway the position of power in his homeland, Armahd had been exiled, out of his country and into a strange land. This new and weird place possessed many things that textbooks he had read in his scholarly days has taught him, rather acutely, to reject as myth, lie or a hoax.
Armahd was very frightened among other things, as one would be in an alien forest. His mind wandered around the idea that the place could even have potentially been filled with large venomous preying animals of some kind, or maybe worse, conscious beings that would seek him out, for what purposes he could only twist and turn inside thinking about.
As it turned out (unfortunately, for Armahd), he was indeed hunted down mercilessly by these otherworldly demons. The whole experience was terrifying: the awful noises that the beasts made occasionally had hypnotized him somehow; he began to feel a sort of strange peace toward the situation developing around him.
The monsters possessed no eyes or arms, just mouths full of razor-like teeth and gaping holes above that for nostrils (one would assume). The aliens looked a bit like strange murderous trumpeter swans, and it was clear they were aware that Armahd was trespassing upon their respected harems; he could only cower in fright as they charged from whence they came: the dark and foggy doom of this nightmare.
They first pecked out his eyes, then attacked his mouth until it was naught but a bloody mess of bone and flesh. Then the alien birds disemboweled him. One could only infer that the monsters relied on some amazing sense of smell. Armahd had already died, either from fear, or by now, loss of blood. His innards lay strewn about like confetti in some twisted party. The scoundrels soon grew tired of the sad corpse, and defecated what remained of their last victim all over poor Armahd's body.
The police arrived, as police do: slowly. Soon, though, and again, as per usual, there were many of them. You would wonder what takes those piggos so long to get one place and another, but then again, the world is full of mystery.
Then came the ambulances, and the family. The onlookers arrived then and finally, the fear mongers, and those that knew Armahd and openly despised him, for reasons case sensitive and personal.
"He was a giant bowl of good luck…" one comrade of Armahd's reminisced. "Occasionally, I would attack him with a spoon, and we would both run around a whole bunch of people, overjoyed each of them by our antics, in the cafeteria at any one of the dormitories."
This was just one routine for Armahd, as he lived and absorbed the 'college experience' during that semester that he passed away so tragically.
"I'm still a giant lemur. I shouldn't be bothered with fantastic questions like these. Feck off, then. Got any fruit?" Spigots O'Tooh offered, when inquired as to his knowledge of the horrific events that took place the night of May fourth, when student, athlete, friend, and funnyman Armahd was brutally slaughtered.
"Yes, I knew the man [Armahd] very well… from what I know, it seems this is, like, a total chance thing. You know? He would never get caught in a situation like that unless it came out of nowhere. I bet it was those killer alien birds? You know, like, the ones with the huge razor teeth that could easily tear someone to shreds? They did this, I reckon, cut poor Armahd to pieces like this. Jesus. Whole thing's terrible. Just terrible." An older man, who declined to give a name or any association to Armahd commented.------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
If You Do a Handstand or Something to Look at Me Upside Down, I Sorta Look Like a Lobster
(A Detective Short)
Dame's a lotta baggage. Can't say no, though. It'd be like saying no to a huge bag of heroin. My dick is so shriveled up and deflated that the thought of fuckin' her hadn't even crossed my mind. Sure, she was attractive enough; twenty-six, five-nine, brown eyes, dark hair. Curvy. Like I said, it was the heroin.
Once you start the shit, you're the bitch. Go ahead, say no. Try and see. After a while, everybody's the bitch.
She comes in, strollin' and frettin' about some dudes trashing her place, looking for a stash like she's some idiot and keeps her black balloon at her own house. I was surprised at this, but less so when I heard she kept if at 'a boyfriends.'
"Alright," I says, and "Yes, I'll find the guys," "Approximately," "Without hesitation," and so on, until I had her out the door grinning so big, if her head were a gas oven, and you could use her ear as a knob to turn the heat up or down, you could bake a goddamn pizza in that fucker.
Anyway, I took care of a few things the next few days. I had a couple guys in the Jewish neighborhood that owed me some money; also an asshole on the upper east side and another outside of Chinatown. I sell a lot and to a wide uh, demographic. Sometimes I gotta fuck a guy up to get money out of him. Like, kill a pet, maybe if it's really bad, that's only happened maybe three times in thirty years, but. Mostly when I show up and look the way I do, all fucked up and strung out, but pissed, man, which I usually really am… the fuckers just hand the money over.
I then contact my respected people and meet up with them, and the balance of authority is again reversed against me until the transaction is completed and I leave their respected residence with my score, be it heroin, hashish, or opium. I have this all figured out in my head like clockwork, this whole… system.
Where Have All the Olden Singers Gone
By Nedvedev Potter
I am telling you, I remember a time when people were not so fickle, not so quick to give in or give up. I remember a time, also, when you could sleep outside with the stars and the glow of the moon, with nothing but your rucksack as a pillow, and you didn't even think about being mugged or attacked or anything. There was less fear and money meant something different, too, I think. I'm not saying it was all roses; there was far more bigotry and resentment, and people a lot of the times just kept to themselves about certain things if they could. Like serious problems about you-name-it, or lord knows what else.
It's something I think about, when I sit in this old wicker chair, and listen to my old Glenn Miller records, and wonder where all the olden singers have gone. But… so it goes, in this life. I am old, and I don't use that word lightly, or improperly, I feel. I only bestow the word 'old' upon things of great wisdom or fortitude; something or someone that has withstood the test of time, only to some out of it more knowledgeable or significant in one way or another. Take a classic car, for instance. That's old, probably. It's just happenstance that a lot of the time, 'old' by my definition applies also to the common definition, at least with certain things like classic cars. I'm a giant fig pastry confection that enjoys nothing more than spreading a deep and sincere hatred upon a race of peaceful sentient beings. I eat earthworms and involve myself with orgies of insects and arthropods.
Suddenly, The Playlist for episode 24 of Forgotten and Fantastic:
1. Sorpresa De Flauta Cachao
2. Do Ghosts Have Diarrhea?
Mildred Bonk
3. Ye Olde Sweaty Napalm Mildred Bonk
4. No Greater Thing Mildred Bonk
5. Jam and Bread Mildred Bonk
6. Bass Fishing 2 Mildred Bonk
7. All of God's Sparkling Fingers
Mildred Bonk
8. My Neon Grandfather Mildred Bonk
9. Spigots O'Tooh,
Our Modern Day Lazarus Mildred Bonk
10. Reverse Penguins Mildred Bonk
11. Don't Forget Mildred Bonk
12. I Won't Mildred Bonk
13. Paper Talking Heads
14. Lady Rachel Kevin Ayers
15. A La Orilla Del Lago Los Indios Tabajaras
16. Let Down Radiohead
17. Rest Assured Eric B. & Rakim
18. Wind On Wind Robert Fripp & Brian Eno
19. Limoges 2 Lol Coxhill and Fred Frith
20. Sundown The Jesus & Mary Chain
21. Alliance Robert Wyatt
22. Backlit ISIS
23. Weedy Woman Bongzilla
24. Raining Twilight Coast Robyn Hitchcock
25. Superhimmeli Kemialliset Ystävät
26. Space Travel Is Boring Sun Kil Moon
27. Mash J Dilla
28. One Time King Crimson
29. Bizarro Zarro Land Lightning Bolt
30. Three Crowns of Wood The Lounge Lizards
31. Stoah Magma
32. Muh Magma
Witness the end of page 5.
Behold, the Bastions of 'Skeptitude'
Abigail went and done lost her broccoli. All of'n it. Least you could do. Still nothin,' though. Gadzooked by King Gadzooker.
Words with texture, and many places upon them could a bird of paradise perch and bathe in it's own luster; what, however, does the above passage really mean?
She felt it now, a little: that utter loneliness and need for solitude that follows directly after the last step had been taken; the ritual now over, she must wait another year. The cycle will begin anew. The house lay barren and forgotten, the children somewhere outside. Probably not too far, either. If the need arose, she was sure, in the back of her mind, that she could summon the two ruffians without much trouble.
Not long now, though, and our little schizophrenic tryst will come upon it's own hindquarters, and discover the filth that lay coating it for the past several decades. This beast will then twist and writhe, emanating a strange and frightening baritone from all of it's pores. This monster is going to become aware of itself and it'll cut the little kiddos down and her with them.
White coats and sterile instruments. The stench of clean permeates my nostrils and makes me sick. They tell me this is good, this is progress they say. Stinks though. It's funny, how some sayings apply to many or all subjects, then, some old parables and sayings are very particular, like a sharp knife, or a key designed for one specific door.
I find myself submerged in doom and gloom. Squalor-Towne in late spring: all the gutters are muddy and plugged up. Soon it will officially be Flood Day, where the citizens of this divine trash heap recognize the sheer glory of their own proverbial utopia by systematically drowning a small number of 'unwanted' townspeople. These people were chosen by a feverous few judges, using a meticulous process that may/may not be discussed further on in the novel. A number of 'signals' as the judges, who intentionally remained anonymous (even to each other; they communicated via an outside source (also anonymous) who managed the delivery of the mail from and to the proper parties, at a hefty price to the taxpayer, mind you), used to narrow down their choices to a fine few. They then use many other complicated and tedious processes to determine the final few who, unbeknownst to them, will be drowned in a seemingly accidental and natural fashion.
The town, you see, faulty as it was, was even more foolishly built inside a deep canyon bed, and a crumbling dam lay naught but ten miles in the wrong direction for the poor people of town. Now, crumbling as the structure was, it was still sound; the government of Squalor-Towne would simply feed this excuse to the proper inquirers, and the festival continued, without any interruption, for many, many years.
You thought I was using a hefty meat bone to chisel may way through solid granite, out into the sheer oblivion.
Well, I wasn't. Nothing that grand at all, really. It's like, have you ever tried to fish in an irrigation pond, or some body of water in which you are nearly certain there are no fish? I have. It isn't even about the fish, really. At the same time, though, it treads an uneasy line between those important spiritual feelings and complete idiocy.
I caught myself whispering to the lepers outside again. These days I drift between being mostly awake and a strange, dreamy state in which I can still perform basic motor skills and even carry on somewhat of a conversation. This was all a haze, though. Things were fine, and then I remember great lumbering clouds of austere grey and deep, deep blue enveloping me, smothering me, and eventually, I became the clouds and disappeared with them as they dispersed elsewhere. For a long time I remember nothing, and then, waking to a terrible sound like someone scraping bones against stone. It was then that I found myself, rather plainly and anticlimactically, strewn out on my third floor balcony as though I had carefully collapsed. The hordes of beggars, lepers and mongers of useless items swarmed beneath him, prepared to rip him to shreds if he dare make the mistake of setting foot out there, on the ground, outside the meager safety of his dingy old apartment.
Teeth gnashing, flesh on flesh, the monsters below him writhed in an awful stupor, obviously brought on by their hunger and amazing stupidity. He whispered gibberish and sweet nothings to them, cooing at them like they were a lot of newborn babes.
Translated from the original Latin by Sizlack van Blegh
The misadventures of a narcoleptic janitor with a taste for loose women
2. Chicken Fried Steak on a motherfuckin' bun
3. When a septic tank ruptures dangerously close to a nuclear power plant in fictional Wabash, Indiana, a true hero rises
4. A drunkard wanders off from one of his haunts and into an alternate dimension, inhabited by talking cats, yogurt that also sings, and a trippy psychic Doberman pinscher named Waldo
5. Dreams had by a man who, after falling asleep using a port-o-potty while on break at the construction site he worked, sleeps on until he meets a terrible and unsuspected fate
6. A borderline retarded old man recounts the foolish adventures he'd taken part in earlier in life
7. A woman has an epiphany after she splatters a tortoise on the highway. "What a fool I've been…"
8. Time seems certain to do Milton in - time, or feces
9. A gangster's victims come back from the dead to shit all over his little parade
10. A man falls in love with a rather sexy garbage can named Tracy
11. A con man learns from the ghost of a loved one that honesty isn't just easier - sometimes, honesty's the only thing that keeps you from being hurled into a huge vat of boiling diarrhea
Boastful King Sparkles Gloats About His Newfangled 'Buzzotron Maker-Matic'
But pouts like a spoiled child about other, more pertinent world events
Episode 25 of wonderful, glorious phaff:
FAF gets milked, squared: 'THE ALLIGATOR WOMAN'
ghost satellite - bob and jerry
roughly 12:05am-12:30am NEW MILDRED BONK LP: "KITCHEN TABLE"
stay in school - tim and eric
juanita banana - the peels
where are you? - frank sinatra
time funnel - jan davis
anti-american graffiti - j dilla
gluten-free on the right - matt moore
jungle superman - individuals
i gotta move - frank black and the catholics
unchained melody - jimmy scott
sweet breeze - vernon green and the phantoms
part of the dance -matching mole
eudite eyes - giles giles and fripp
squeeze box - fire on fire
uaxuctum III - giacinto scelsi
the drowners - flying saucer attack
south - to a warmer place - frank sinatra
reprovisional - fugazi
abutting, dismantling - gregor samsa
firdous e bareen - isis
much new phonetic illustration and confounding dialogue! tune in thursday morning (that's wednesdays night, to you night owls), 12am - 2am, for the best in rare and quality variety music, only on FORGOTTEN AND FANTASTIC, only on KZUM
Then our father above made the blessed mosquito
That last hit tasted like strange fungus. Mailmen are inadvertently going to destroy the world with their perpetual feeding to the masses useless advertisements, various well funded scams, and anything else a total fool with a large enough wallet can dream up onto a small sheet of oak tag.
Shirley was lost in her private dreamscape again, fearful of interstellar burglars. She had never seen a group of people so ravenously attack a pile of mere clutter - could that really have been all it was? Clutter? She wondered on. Perhaps it was hallucinatory, some strange facsimile brought on by her own mind, like a pest in some unknown and dark corner of an infinitely huge smelting plant.
For the taking, for the taking: the nectars of toil are subject to gluttony, and the Bastion of Skeptitude kept winding his tales of tomfoolery, seeming to hypnotize the townspeople that would stop and listen to him tell stories by campfire. This was America, this was a time and place of tourism, this was a true capitalist ideal going on here! A total fool, who according to Darwinian theory, should likely been rubbed out long ago, was instead thriving with his so-called lore, and bathing in the luxury that a few polished words had bestowed upon him.
His name must've been Richard or Gerald or something like that. Very Caucasian, as well, not that that is particularly here or there. Allergic to certain foods and famed for his temper, the lad would carry on, much younger, long before any idea of these aforementioned profit schemes first crossed his impish mind. Yes, carry on he would, with various enterprises: how he might go about getting his first blowjob; some small-ish secondary source of income, he still needed to do quite a bit of thinking about this one; also, he thought he might work on his cooking, so as to save some additional income by not eating out as much as he had been recently. Perhaps he could invest in a wok, or a slow cooker and some pans, skillets and utensils he would then use to devise all sorts of delicious concoctions. He was thinking at that point, mayonnaise and tilapia, pimentos, green beans and a bit of Dijon mustard, all mashed into a paste and eaten; then, after being regurgitated back into a greased cooking pan, baked at 350 degrees for 45 to 50 minutes. This was truly a tantalizing tryst he had found himself involved in.
Richard or Gerald then began to sweat at an incredible rate, until blood began to flow from his eyes. He then noticed that his fingernails were growing at a terrifying rate, and, to make matters worse, the nails themselves began to fade to a disgusting off yellow colour and also started to crumble somewhat as the nails grew, displaying that the decayed nails were not nearly as sincere as the normal ones before.
No, this is not good at all, Richard or Gerald thought, I should probably find something to counteract these debilitating and bizarre developments of mine.
A steady diet of fast food and low fiber foods has resulted in an awful stomach condition that causes chronic loose stool, and also it makes said stool smell really horrible. It is recommended that, if such a diet is for some reason desired, the person partaking in the diet should assume the extra responsibility of isolating themselves during 'gastric moments' (as the politically correct have so affectionately nicknamed the incidents) of any kind. The term 'gastric moment' means and includes any passage of gas through the anus, or passages of fecal matter of any kind through said anus. Also presides jurisdiction over any events related to the afflicted subject's anus that cause or induce in any way a foul odor similar to feces, or poop.
You can try to fuck an officer all you want. It's like fucking a huge piece of lead, man. That immobile. Try it. Fuck. I gave up, and it didn't even take as long as it usually does. Oh well. That's karma. I heard a big bull fucker say that once, say that's Karma. I don't necessarily disagree, but I'm not heads over my fuckin' head about the thought, either. I mean, I like having a certain small amount of control about things. I don't want to go about my things, knowing there is some seraphic fuck determining, based on the good or fucked-up things that I did, what red lights I would hit, which pussy I would or wouldn't get; would I eat, or wouldn't I; how long will I have a sister; will the cancer come back, and, if it does, how bad will it be? Yeah, I tried to fuck a girl-cop, and the only time I got as far as we're-both-naked-and-I'm-on-top-of-her or whatever and she wanted me to put it in, it didn't quite work out, not after a short while. It's so hard and she wants me to fuck her, the bitch lawwoman, and I oblige, but things quickly fizzle, I can't come inside this cold thing, not knowing what she did. Unfortunately, although he had to say she was indeed a fine piece of ass, he had the inside word on her past and it was a great big boner buzz kill.
1985. Some financial crisis but none really for Janet, the college graduate and trainee at the Wabash police academy, known to those who associate with the place as Ice House. Ice House because of the hard asses that work there, and the old school (and to many, overly harsh) training techniques used there up to and beyond that year.
Ice House had birthed a lot of sick fucks, but how can you expect anything otherwise with those fuckers hosing their men and women with fire hoses at a near full blast force, not once but twice a week. Then there was the insane running regiments and terrible 'health diet plans' case sensitive to each individual trainee at the academy. Janet was just a peon, and she knew it. She hated it there but she was almost done, almost ready to go out and make a difference in the world, albeit in a way she could never have predicted.
Ice House was a real toilet, indeed. The hazing rituals were legendary among other police academies across the nation. Oftentimes the newcomers were forced to strip naked and paint each others' privates with muscle relaxant, which would induce terrible pain and an uncontrollable urge to counteract the relaxant's effects of the sensitive skin. The poor souls were then forced at gunpoint to run amok in downtown Wabash, looting and pillaging anything and anyone in sight in a strange frenzy, brought on by their burning crotches. Screams of pain and joy mixed and melted together until the two could not be separated from each other. A true din was what it was.
Margaret again was sweating. Kevin was lurking, somewhere in the damp darkness of the house, waiting for her to come around the wrong corner, and to strike like some bizarre arachnid, relying on a cold grey blade like a scorpion would with it's venomous stinger. She knew she had to find him out, though: long as the two had been together, she knew a few things; she could be firm with the thought that he would definitely not take the offense here. He probably does have a weapon, maybe she could make her way to the kitchen, very quietly, and get a rolling pin, or hell… maybe she could find something even more utilitarian nearby. As of now she lay hidden between a couch and a large coffee table, around some blankets, looking like more clutter the two had created in the brawl earlier in the day.
She knew there were some heavy odds and ends on the display shelves in the room with her, maybe she could use a trophy? Or if she had to, she thought maybe one of the chairs at the computer desk had legs that could be unscrewed from the base of the chair. She could use a leg to bludgeon her once-beloved husband and end this nightmare, temporarily. There would be therapy and unseemly legal proceedings, but it is uncanny how the adrenaline of a bad situation can make all reality as you know it spill over like a cup of grape juice, and permanently leave a stain on your conscience not unlike the stain said grape juice would create on the carpet below.
Bears, butt rape, skunks, and the inadvertent werewolf, all a comin' to proselytize the weak and the overbearing (no pun intended) as well. Nope, no one was to be spared on this one. Orders from headquarters. Business is business, right? I really don't feel like it flows along the same plane as normal life. Business is like an alternate reality, a much harsher and honest (mostly) state of being that a lucky few can differentiate from the rest of their lives, such as hobbies, friends, family, memories, hopes, etc. When it comes down to it…. Fuck business, and the suits that support it. Industry, man, what a bitch, sick mistress, rabid dachshund with a bad attitude to begin with. I fucked my first grade teacher in the mouth, later on in life, of course. Funny how these things work out. I sound so crass sometimes.
The woman with the pretty voice sings a song about life is short, but love is old. Her fingers work over the strings, and without directly understanding how, the womans fingers find themselves all over the fret board of her guitar, her arpeggio blending the notes in a drunken and soothing way. I muse over the music, the woman's words and an Americano, drifting in and out of focus with the room around me, the sounds around me reflecting my nodding off. As I sink further, the sounds around me begin to change, as if I were falling into some huge metal tube or well or something, and all the fun and music remained up above me, no one seeming to notice my disappearance. The whole thing, life, right now seems like a far off and depleted cry for help, but I am far too busy in my catatonic state at the bottom on this metallic anomaly.
Eventually though, some unknown force, probably an instinct I'm not even aware of, lifts me back up and out of this fog, just enough that my body and my mind recognizes its' plight and lifts me the rest of they way. All the way out and back into this dive coffee shop and the decent Americano I was drinking (now lukewarm), and lo, the woman had stopped playing, completely disappeared from the stage. How long had I been teetering on the edge of sleep back there?
(a continuation of 'Squalor Towne,' REFERENCE PAGE #)
The curious reader may recall this document referring to a particular process, that the judges presiding over those soon-to-be-systematically-drowned (S.T.b.S.D.) used, firstly, to drastically reduce the number of 'runners up' from the entire population to something like seven or nine souls. Secondly they have very certain methods of discerning even further from these unfortunately chosen few, which will also be discussed in the following section.
Please only approach these next few scenarios, as it were, with a clear head, a good night's rest, and at least one decent meal consumed prior to fuel you through the tedium of this legal mumbo jumbo, and onto the climax of the segment: the ultimate fates of the players of this hellish sport.
Squalor-Towne, as noted pages before, is essentially a somewhat civilized trash heap, a massive garbage dump, if you will, gentle reader, that had, by some cosmic mistake, become aware of itself to some small degree. Thievery, violence, slapstick comedy and famine were rampant in this place. Worse, those unlucky enough to live in Squalor-Towne find it hard to leave, as there are very few opportunities to do so, let alone to assimilate a viable plan to do so. These were an extremely unintelligent people.
I remember watching an unfortunate man being eaten by wild dogs while trying to leave Squalor-Towne. It was long ago, when such an idea as fleeing didn't seem so fantastic and incredibly stupid. He had applied some sort of lubricant all over his body, so as to make it harder to pin him down, were he to run into any type of government security watching over the boundaries of the place. A truly sadistic border patrol that lot were; knowing their practices upon catching runaways, I do not blame the man for going to such extremes as covering himself with margarine to avoid capture at the hands of those fiends.
The man finished covering himself in the slick stuff (aside from his feet, of course) in the safety of his dismal but structurally sound garage, and without hesitation took off, on his premeditated path he had spent so much time choosing and planning. The man, I thought as I looked on, must always have been searching for the most efficient and safe way to go about this kind of thing.
Survival, I thought, that's what it was.
Chicken fried steak on a motherfuckin' bun!
I regain some sense of understanding, aghast there at the threshold of the massive hole in the wall that Spigots O'Tooh, the nincompoop from two doors down, had mere moments ago created so courteously. Appearing to be insulted by my comment toward his methods of exiting and entering rooms, the fool had vanished back into the cavity. I had no idea if he was gone for good, or if he was planning to come back soon. Maybe I should find a weapon or something.. I thought. This isn't exactly an every day, orthodox situation going on here.
The miles and miles of prairie one must cross in order to reach the natural habitat of the elusive Jeremy Finke are, to say the least, daunting. One cannot help but grow anxious thinking about the scope of that journey, and yet… so many wayward souls have found their minds captivated by the idea of embarking upon such a quest. Be it for fame, money, notoriety, or some other sociological crutch, Sebastian van Pilsner was far from alone in his yearning for this particular adventure.
Skunks and werewolves, how dare you forget to install your eye pennies! The zealots are after me, and unless I find some viable (and otherworldly fast) means of transportation, I am going to find myself a day late and dollar short (also, and perhaps worse, dead) at the foot of the throne of Zuup Kabaaz. Kabaaz was a ruthless cheat and unchallenged simpleton. He would like nothing more to gaze on in his usual stupor, knowing such an addition as myself to his collection of corpses had been made.
Luckily, I had a truly Zen soul at my side: Grandaddy Koozwalla. Make no mistake, Koozwalla and myself were in no way related by blood. The name Grandaddy Koozwalla was a name the man chose for himself, not long after recreating himself into a sort of sage or monk. Koozwalla was very secretive about his beginnings; to my knowledge, no living person is aware of Koozwalla's true origins. Many rumors, some of them quite entertaining, have surfaced throughout the years, and some of the more believable of these rumors have fallen into that strange grey area between fact and fiction.
It was not uncommonly known that Spigots O'Tooh was a repeat public masturbator. Not afraid at all to 'show a little skin,' O'Tooh prefers to show 'a lot of skin' and does so fairly frequently. Although he first choked the bishop during his second uncle's funeral, for which he was severely reprimanded, that was several years ago, and by now he had added many incidents at varying locations, each with a very special story behind it. O'Tooh held these stories close to his heart, and was now debating writing a memoir of sorts, to capitalize on his exploits and set aside a nest egg for retirement.
Six skeletons slunk about a poker table, smoking and chatting idly for some time. Eventually a strange idea was had by one of them, a real beat thing, you know? This wild adlib kind of stream of consciousness writing… one would write a sentence, or a stanza, maybe; then, the paper would be folded over to hide what had just been written from the next person to write, and so on.
Eventually, the paper was all the way folded up, the skeletons happy as clams at the achievement. And an achievement was what it was, really.
Then the bare boned stooges decided to read the piece aloud, and much laughter and delight ensued as the paper was read.
I was lucky enough to keep this paper, and it reads as follows:
He went to get a cigar from the funky duck pad. When a bird flies with stained glass wings, it's internal combustion requires a windy bellows, to remold against varying jet streams. Bold sunshine eyes - white horse shit - look inward - I appropriate shit piles & shit you, flames of falsehood! The third line is: crystalline forgotten ancient & wise! The bishop at the helm began to massage the villainous penis. The 'gangula' extended down around her ankles, reaching hard to the egg shaped membrane. Bo-ho Ha Ke No/Yes Bomb it - Napalm hands caress my dove carcass in the foiled light I wish SLEEP AND FUCK TO HELL I want to stay tall to cut it down in a wash of lies, tears & beer. Then again, it's a hydraulic pump which erects a penis. Their legs shook, wet like Jello slapped by a rich man's hand, wafting ridiculous ping-pong buns. The porcupine trembled in fear, smelling of ancient sexual excursions and cheap port wine consumed at a dive brothel.
I'm not as of yet entirely sure what to make of the document; I am sure, however, that, over time and as I continue to explore life and it's many facets, ins and outs, and blessings and also misgivings, I will grow more and more to understand the real meaning behind the previous passage. It is glorious and sexy, daring and dangerous.
Spigots won't dare fuck with this, I thought as I looked for my hatchet. I knew it was around somewhere. If that maniac comes back, he won't fuckin' know what he's in for, that piece of shit motherfucker. I'll bludgeon his throat open with the hatchet and make him drink a cup of his own blood before I slaughter him with the thing.
Then again… maybe he won't some back. Suddenly the rage leaves me, leaving only the terror again, the terror of not knowing. The loss of security, and also, to some degree, of my own fuckin' freedom. Christ on a cross. Maybe I should just go in there, after the prick.
The Wasting Away of Friendly Commons
An Atrophy in Six Parts,
Part I:
I wouldn't have guessed, my having just arrived here, in the wonderful and amazing future everyone hoped for, that everything would be controlled by a weird subsidized parliamentary bird festival… that, really, as complicated as things were, at the heart of it all things really came down to something like buckets upon buckets of worms, so many fucking worms that anyone in their right mind wouldn't know what the fuck to do with them. Sell them? Fuck. Limited market, and this ain't exactly farmin' country,
I step away from all that, for a while, though, to sing songs of prayer; songs of love and grace. Sometimes I truly seems adrift in a surreal snow blind of trumpeter swans, caressing me to heaven with their glorious sound.
Mysterious pasta!
Adlibbing with a paraplegic one day, the man and myself accidentally came upon an answer to everything, and found that, for some reason, we began to slowly disappear, like disintegrate or something. It was strange and sad, something like coming home from a vacation, to all of your things and routines. I say that because neither of us really wanted to go. At the rate we were vanishing, we had ample time and more to discuss such things. If need be, we could saddle in at a highway diner or something and talk the issue over a stack of flapjacks with plenty of bacon, too- but then, that's foolish when you only have so long, right?
This is, then, a note for David Lee, the unfortunate soul who was run down while unconscious in the street by a driver who, after admitting to texting, and also apparently claiming she thought she 'hit a box' and that it sounded like the box, which was actually a human being's body, was being drug under her pointless luxury (plastic) car. Legal procedures were announced over the issue and some media attention was given, as due; eventually though, the whole story faded into obscurity, and one wonders if the woman was properly prosecuted for the deed. Our hearts go out to you, David, you poor lost soul. You are remembered and live on here, sweet prince.
There was, at the end of 2011, it being only the second day in the year of our lord two thousand and twelve, an article concerning the homeless known in Lincoln to have died that year, and David Lee was not listed in the roster. This also alarmed me. Had everyone forgotten him?
All the holy palaces are now a-burning, and we must being a migration on an epic scale, to a place we are not even sure will provide us any kind of safety. They began to flock upon their gilded rooftops, with their patriarch of their little revolution, never forgetting the misled billions. Let's talk about Hessian metal freaks, no?
Cough Cough Cough Cough Cough Cough Cough Cough Cough Cough Cough Cough
It's pretty well-known that foosball makes you wretched, and I can usually tell when the drink is coming into effect by the prickling flush that I find creeping up on me from my chest. It'll start in my oven, the red warmth, and dance its way up into my face. And tonight, by the dim flickering light of the television screen, I can see that the alcohol is doing the same thing to alligators. She lifts her sweatshirt over her head and lays down on the recreation room table. The arms, and the pink flush of her chest. She's wearing this black t-shirt, and the neck of the shirt sort of dips down where you can see the little line of the edge of her bra-it seems to be black, too, with lace (sheer, her smooth skin underneath so visible)-and a little bit of the flesh of her breasts seem to spill over.
Without really thinking, the car began to slow down of it's own accord, seeming to care not for my wills or desires as to it's destination or velocity.
-Or the right way, a little pink sliver of nipple would be just visible. I try not to stare, and I stop the car instinctually.
Your tongue on mine is making me so excited, my heart skipping and flying, and one of my hands finds its way to the steering wheel; mine though and I doubt if you could fit two of them down there to access the idler pulley. Come; I don't want you to come until I'm inside you.
"Oh, god, I'm so, so hungry… I cannot run without fuel. Shove your dick way inside me and then pound me until I am screaming, until I can't take it anymore… I need you to fill me up, as I'm coming-you keep hammering into me even as my pussy explodes, impaled on your dick.
You pull out of me, and pause. me, thrusting into me so very hard. "Oh! Yes, just like that…Don't stop…" The gasoline began to flow.
I decided to start the car anyway. It hesitates, at first, and then turns over, and the two of us disappear into the thunderheads not so far in the distance. East and oblivion.
1` Phone Call Jon Brion
2` Boppin' To Grandfather's Clock Sidney Jo Lewis
3` O Fortuna Carl Orff
4` Nine Feet Underground Caravan In The Land Of Grey And Pink
5` They Want EFX Das Efx
6` Zone Doubt Sebadoh
7` Vermont - A Lazy Man's Colorado Sweet Pie
8` The Lonely Surfer Jack Nitzsche
9` Farewell To All Those Rotten Teeth Carissa's Wierd
10` Come What Molten Cloud The Muffins
11` Pseudonyms Gregor Samsa
12` Io 2 Art Zoyd
13` Die-Stay-Go The Residents
14` Larks' Thrak RF & the LCG
15` The Morning: Another Morning The Moody Blues
16` The Space Between Roxy Music
17` Piano Sonata No. 2 in B Flat minor, op. 36 Sergei Rachmaninov
18` Laughing Larry Six Finger Satellite
19` Cop Shoot Cop... Spiritualized
20` Song For Bob Dylan David Bowie
It seems as though a dusty grey cloud now looms over my head. Tall shadows lurk about, though not menacingly, more… watchfully, you dig? That crippled jazz man sitting on the dumpster over there, eking out a rusting melody, somehow he really knows, even knows that I know he knows, which is quite the clusterfuck, when you think about it.
He hasn't lost an ounce of his famed grace, that old sing-song clown. I sit down where I am, sure somehow that he knows I'm here, but it's okay; like a strange territorial thing. He keeps at his tune, which sounds something like a vacuum cleaner sucking water from a bucket, speckled with a note here and there. I was supposed to meet Kevin here, to discuss the terrible situation between he and Margaret; I had, however, already waited quite a bit longer than planned or anticipated.
Once again, skunks and marmalade. Watch out for werewolves! Those dastards will only commit myriad monkeyshine and confound everything you try to create, only to spite their own existences! The whole thing


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