After quite some time leading a hermit-like lifestyle, deep in the woods of South Dakota, the task of carving the backs of the heads into Mt. Rushmore became quite monotonous, and I began to desire an animal companion like the one I had as a child.
Upon much searching, the bulk of which I cannot describe for fear of legal backlash, I finally acquired a ferocious animal named Lucius Sewergrate Razorblades, or Luke for short. Luke was the apparent result of either a military experiment gone terribly wrong, or the masterpiece of some genetic engineer. Luke was a mixture of pit bull, tyrannosaurus rex, black mamba, hippopotamus, porcupine, lion and eagle. He was about the size of a horse, with brownish-red razor sharp hair, and long, tusk-like, venomous fangs. His claws were so sharp and strong that when I took him on jogs, he left potholes in the roads we traversed. He was so strong that whenever he wagged his tail in the woods, great oaks fell to the ground on either side of him.
I was the only person on earth who could control Luke, for he saw me as his equal. He loved me, and I him, and we spent many wonderful days in the Dakota mountains playing fetch, wrestling, and terrorizing the locals by stealing livestock.
One day, an effeminate little sports car approached my cabin. I stepped out into the afternoon sun wearing only a pair of jeans which embraced my remarkable buttocks like a mother would her child- gently and lovingly. My incredible upper body rippled and gleamed like a sexy river of masculinity in the rays of the sun. I was certain that only a female would drive such a vehicle.
To my great dismay, however, a curly, wobbly head un-squoze itself from behind the tiny feminine steering wheel. It was Dr. Bobblehead.
"Dr. Sneezefarts!" he exclaimed, quite bobbily.
"What do you want, Bobblehead?" I asked as I turned my back to him to return inside where I was putting the finishing touches on the first ever microprocessor made completely out of wood and stone.
"Dr. Sneezefarts, wait! I came all this way to find you and show you my new kitten! He is the snuggliest kitten in the whole wide world! I know it for a fact because he won the World's Snuggliest Kitten Contest in Tibet last week. I just had to show you!"
Bobblehead reached into his little girl-car to retrieve his silly pet, and had almost done so when Luke came barrelling toward him. The very moment that the kitten was fully extracted from the vehicle, Luke chomped down on it, leaving only that snuggly little kitten tail protruding from his fierce dog-like grin.
"No!" Bobblehead began to cry out, "I spend my entire life acquiring medical and law degrees so that I could finally get enough money to afford the snuggliest kitten in the whole world, and now this beast has killed it! This is your fault, Sneezefarts!"
I laughed and called Luke to me. He stomped toward me and lay down in front of me, dropping the snuggly kitten's tail at my feet.
I picked the tail up and tossed it to Bobblehead, who was still crying quite girlishly.
I considered making an irreverent joke about how that snuggly kitten must have been defective, because most cats are said to have nine lives. However, I did not desire to lower myself by referencing silly folklore, so I simply asked Bobblehead to go away and never return, for I wanted never to see him again.
"You just wait Sneezefarts. I'll get you for this!" he screamed through his sniffles and tears. He quickly got in his tiny lady-car and sped away, because he knew that I would have taken great pleasure in watching Luke eat him (and it would have saved me money, since Luke's diet consisted of two cows per week).
I laughed, tossed Luke a treat for being such a good pet, and then returned to my work in my cabin.
Monday, April 5, 2010
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Chapter 123: The Temptress Plain
During my many travels around the world, I met many, many individuals. However, few of them—nay, none of them (save for myself) had a rapport with the ladies which could rival that of Mr. Jonas P. Quattlebaum.
Jonas was a roguish young man and his appearance bore witness to that fact. He wore loose fitting clothes that were torn and lay dangling across his many rippling ‘ceps. He liked it because it gave him a sort of “Kevin-Sorbo-from-Hercules look.” He had long, curly hair that danced on his shoulders like thin, blond aborigines around a fire on a starry night. His eyes were as deep and blue as an empty ocean cavern. Women shuddered just to see his face, for they knew they would never find another man as desirable as he.
Looks were not all that Jonas had going for him. He was a true poet, an artist of words. He would sing sweet whispers into maidens’ ears, making hymn-like brushstrokes across the quiet air that could make the blind see his face, the lame dance for him, and the mute sing his name (he tended to prefer handicapped women for some reason).
One day, though, Jonas P. Quattlebaum made the greatest mistake that any great man has ever made. Jonas P. Quattlebaum fell prostrate to an evil temptress named Jezebel Cankersore.
It all began on a warm, rainy afternoon somewhere deep in the Arabian desert. Quattlebaum and I had just finished raiding a local camel farming community, and were enjoying some delicious sugar dates and camel’s milk in our tent to celebrate our new booty.
“Speaking of booty, Dr. Sneezefarts, that Jezebel Cankersore sure has a nice one,” Quattlebaum said to me, staring off across the empty miles of newly-wet sand dunes.
“Quattlebaum, could it be that you, the second greatest lover in the history of human relationships, have fallen for one single, fallible and imperfect lady?” I asked in mocking disbelief. I knew that such a relationship could never last, mainly because Quattlebaum was far too delightsome, and Jezebel was just sort of, for lack of a better word, plain—like a boiled egg, or noodles without any sauce.
Despite my endless mockery and shaming, Jonas persevered in his quest to develop a relationship with Jezebel. He became distracted from our camel raids, and was beginning to be more of a liability than help during our occasional sword fights and skirmishes with the locals. In fact, there is no telling how many camels we lost because of his incessant whining about how he had told that nasty, plain Cankersore that he loved her, and how he didn’t think she felt the same way.
I waited patiently, for I knew that this silly infatuation was sure to end. And then, one day, the inevitable finally occurred. Jezebel Cankersore, the quiet, weird, dumpy, smelly temptress, who had stolen Jonas P. Quattlebaums soul for so long, went out with Jonas for a very long camel ride. I did not trust Jezebel, so I tracked them silently, watching her every move. Jonas and Jezebel did not speak, and they interacted almost like strangers, even perhaps enemies, riding in complete silence that was only interrupted by Jezebel’s hideous, screeching attempt at singing.
The camel ride stretched from hours to days, and my mouth and skin grew dry from dehydration as I crept behind the dunes. I was forced to slay desert rodents and drink their fluids for hydration.
Finally, on the eleventh day of their camel ride, Jezebel made her move.
“You are far too great of a lover for me and I hate you for it!” she shrieked, her disgusting plain voice penetrating my skull with such a stab that I thought surely it had lacerated my brain.
Jezebel pulled out a golden knife studded with rubies and slashed toward Jonas, but I was ready. I sprung from behind the dune and with one great swoop of my saif, I chopped her arm off just above the elbow before her blade could come anywhere near Quattlebaum. The horrible pained shrieking continued and I swung my blade again, this time removing her plain head from her dumpy body.
To my great surprise, hundreds and thousands of cobras began pouring out of the two open wounds, and I furiously stabbed at the ground trying to kill all of them. Snakes are gross.
After I had killed the nearly three thousand cobras that Jezebel Cankersore’s plain, dumpy corpse had produced, Jonas and I returned to our camp, and I gave him some camel’s milk and some sugar dates, and he was back to normal within a few minutes. In fact, that very night, Quattlebaum and I went into the nearby town to gallivant, tomfool, eat, drink and woo the many beautiful Arabian maidens.
It was on that fateful shenaniganous night that I first crossed paths with Methuselah Firkington, Randall Stumpgrinder, Jericho Shamewater, Alouicious Carolscreamer, and Remus T. Railroad. Little did I know it, but two of these men would become my greatest allies. One of them would become my most hated enemy.
The other two I liked okay but didn’t keep up with them very well.
Jonas was a roguish young man and his appearance bore witness to that fact. He wore loose fitting clothes that were torn and lay dangling across his many rippling ‘ceps. He liked it because it gave him a sort of “Kevin-Sorbo-from-Hercules look.” He had long, curly hair that danced on his shoulders like thin, blond aborigines around a fire on a starry night. His eyes were as deep and blue as an empty ocean cavern. Women shuddered just to see his face, for they knew they would never find another man as desirable as he.
Looks were not all that Jonas had going for him. He was a true poet, an artist of words. He would sing sweet whispers into maidens’ ears, making hymn-like brushstrokes across the quiet air that could make the blind see his face, the lame dance for him, and the mute sing his name (he tended to prefer handicapped women for some reason).
One day, though, Jonas P. Quattlebaum made the greatest mistake that any great man has ever made. Jonas P. Quattlebaum fell prostrate to an evil temptress named Jezebel Cankersore.
It all began on a warm, rainy afternoon somewhere deep in the Arabian desert. Quattlebaum and I had just finished raiding a local camel farming community, and were enjoying some delicious sugar dates and camel’s milk in our tent to celebrate our new booty.
“Speaking of booty, Dr. Sneezefarts, that Jezebel Cankersore sure has a nice one,” Quattlebaum said to me, staring off across the empty miles of newly-wet sand dunes.
“Quattlebaum, could it be that you, the second greatest lover in the history of human relationships, have fallen for one single, fallible and imperfect lady?” I asked in mocking disbelief. I knew that such a relationship could never last, mainly because Quattlebaum was far too delightsome, and Jezebel was just sort of, for lack of a better word, plain—like a boiled egg, or noodles without any sauce.
Despite my endless mockery and shaming, Jonas persevered in his quest to develop a relationship with Jezebel. He became distracted from our camel raids, and was beginning to be more of a liability than help during our occasional sword fights and skirmishes with the locals. In fact, there is no telling how many camels we lost because of his incessant whining about how he had told that nasty, plain Cankersore that he loved her, and how he didn’t think she felt the same way.
I waited patiently, for I knew that this silly infatuation was sure to end. And then, one day, the inevitable finally occurred. Jezebel Cankersore, the quiet, weird, dumpy, smelly temptress, who had stolen Jonas P. Quattlebaums soul for so long, went out with Jonas for a very long camel ride. I did not trust Jezebel, so I tracked them silently, watching her every move. Jonas and Jezebel did not speak, and they interacted almost like strangers, even perhaps enemies, riding in complete silence that was only interrupted by Jezebel’s hideous, screeching attempt at singing.
The camel ride stretched from hours to days, and my mouth and skin grew dry from dehydration as I crept behind the dunes. I was forced to slay desert rodents and drink their fluids for hydration.
Finally, on the eleventh day of their camel ride, Jezebel made her move.
“You are far too great of a lover for me and I hate you for it!” she shrieked, her disgusting plain voice penetrating my skull with such a stab that I thought surely it had lacerated my brain.
Jezebel pulled out a golden knife studded with rubies and slashed toward Jonas, but I was ready. I sprung from behind the dune and with one great swoop of my saif, I chopped her arm off just above the elbow before her blade could come anywhere near Quattlebaum. The horrible pained shrieking continued and I swung my blade again, this time removing her plain head from her dumpy body.
To my great surprise, hundreds and thousands of cobras began pouring out of the two open wounds, and I furiously stabbed at the ground trying to kill all of them. Snakes are gross.
After I had killed the nearly three thousand cobras that Jezebel Cankersore’s plain, dumpy corpse had produced, Jonas and I returned to our camp, and I gave him some camel’s milk and some sugar dates, and he was back to normal within a few minutes. In fact, that very night, Quattlebaum and I went into the nearby town to gallivant, tomfool, eat, drink and woo the many beautiful Arabian maidens.
It was on that fateful shenaniganous night that I first crossed paths with Methuselah Firkington, Randall Stumpgrinder, Jericho Shamewater, Alouicious Carolscreamer, and Remus T. Railroad. Little did I know it, but two of these men would become my greatest allies. One of them would become my most hated enemy.
The other two I liked okay but didn’t keep up with them very well.
Monday, September 7, 2009
Chapter 102: Kidnapped
After a terrifying run-in with a firework explosion during my brief stint as a luggage loader for the railroads, I decided that I could no longer tarnish my hands with plebeian manual labor. It was time leave town, anyway; I never liked to stay in any one place longer than a month or two. Otherwise, some young, beautiful woman would inevitably fall in love with me. I hate when that happens.
I decided to take a spirit quest deep into the Canadian Rockies. It was there, without food or water, that I believed I could discern my true purpose-- my life's meaning. It was deep into the Arctic winter, and, as an added hardship that was almost certain to stir up the great mountain spirits, I decided to make the voyage completely in the nude.
For many, the route I chose to take would have been nearly impossible. They would have succumbed to the difficulty of the terrain, the cold naked nights, the thorns, and the wild beasts threatening their lives at every turn. I, on the other hand, found the craggy trek to be envigorating.
Before I knew it, I had reached the highest peak on the highest mountain. There I stood, in a windy blizzard, for three weeks without sleep, food or water, completely naked. The snow stacked up on my glorious, rippling, nude body as I stood motionless, waiting for enlightenment.
Finally, I saw a spirit animal, a great polar bear, approach me with a bowl of porridge. He came toward me and handed me the bowl, nodding kindly. I thanked him for the sustenance. He nodded all the more.
"I shall call you Sherman, spirit bear," I whispered to him as I took a bite of the porridge. I tasted the bitter hint of tranquilizer and I knew it was drugged, but I continued eat for I hungered greatly and I was confident that I was immune to the drugs.
Suddenly, I felt a sharp sting on my firm buttocks. Then another, and another. I looked back and saw several darts protruding from the my glistening, muscular, physique. Normally, even the strongest of poisons and tranquilizers could not have affected me, but I was somewhat weakened by the weeks without food.
I looked toward Sherman with great disappointment and vaguely remember him removing his mask to reveal that he was not a bear at all, but a person who nodded a great deal.
The next thing I remember, I awoke in shackles in a darkened room in what tuned out to be a Haitian slave market.
I had been drugged, for otherwise I would have easily ripped apart my shackles and crushed my captor with a single blow. I heard laughter, and from a dark shadowy corner emerged a figure with a nodding head covered with curly brown hair.
"Bobblehead!" I screamed, my speech slurred by the intense drugs, "you shall pay for this."
"I beg to differ, Dr. Sneezefarts. You'll never escape."
"Mark my words, Bobblehead. I shall have you ripped limb from limb. I will tear your soul into a thousand pieces. Your ancestors will cry for you. Your children will live forever in shame. I will end you, Bobblehead!"
At this moment, I was hit with a barrage of tranquilizer darts.
I decided to take a spirit quest deep into the Canadian Rockies. It was there, without food or water, that I believed I could discern my true purpose-- my life's meaning. It was deep into the Arctic winter, and, as an added hardship that was almost certain to stir up the great mountain spirits, I decided to make the voyage completely in the nude.
For many, the route I chose to take would have been nearly impossible. They would have succumbed to the difficulty of the terrain, the cold naked nights, the thorns, and the wild beasts threatening their lives at every turn. I, on the other hand, found the craggy trek to be envigorating.
Before I knew it, I had reached the highest peak on the highest mountain. There I stood, in a windy blizzard, for three weeks without sleep, food or water, completely naked. The snow stacked up on my glorious, rippling, nude body as I stood motionless, waiting for enlightenment.
Finally, I saw a spirit animal, a great polar bear, approach me with a bowl of porridge. He came toward me and handed me the bowl, nodding kindly. I thanked him for the sustenance. He nodded all the more.
"I shall call you Sherman, spirit bear," I whispered to him as I took a bite of the porridge. I tasted the bitter hint of tranquilizer and I knew it was drugged, but I continued eat for I hungered greatly and I was confident that I was immune to the drugs.
Suddenly, I felt a sharp sting on my firm buttocks. Then another, and another. I looked back and saw several darts protruding from the my glistening, muscular, physique. Normally, even the strongest of poisons and tranquilizers could not have affected me, but I was somewhat weakened by the weeks without food.
I looked toward Sherman with great disappointment and vaguely remember him removing his mask to reveal that he was not a bear at all, but a person who nodded a great deal.
The next thing I remember, I awoke in shackles in a darkened room in what tuned out to be a Haitian slave market.
I had been drugged, for otherwise I would have easily ripped apart my shackles and crushed my captor with a single blow. I heard laughter, and from a dark shadowy corner emerged a figure with a nodding head covered with curly brown hair.
"Bobblehead!" I screamed, my speech slurred by the intense drugs, "you shall pay for this."
"I beg to differ, Dr. Sneezefarts. You'll never escape."
"Mark my words, Bobblehead. I shall have you ripped limb from limb. I will tear your soul into a thousand pieces. Your ancestors will cry for you. Your children will live forever in shame. I will end you, Bobblehead!"
At this moment, I was hit with a barrage of tranquilizer darts.
Friday, June 26, 2009
Chapter 111: The Magic Show
One day, the season of which I have since forgotten, upon viewing several amateur attempts at illusion by the likes of David Blaine and David Copperfield, I took it upon myself to create a magic trick so delightful that the viewers of it would question their understanding of the universe.
I began to create tricks and perform them on the street under the pseudonym Darius Haystorm. I would cloak myself in mysterious yet luxurious velvets and silks and prowl the streets, making ladies swoon and grown men cry of shame and jealousy. Some of the tricks were simply illusions, and the others were demonstrations of actual magic that I had learned from the witchdoctors in Haiti when I was inadvertently sold into slavery some years before. I became so good at the magic that I no longer called them tricks, opting instead for "presentations" or "demonstrations."
Finally, after over 3 days of practice, I was ready for a show. I made a deal with several television broadcasting companies and the city of Washington, D.C. that I was to perform a live magic show which would be broadcast all over the world. Some even argued that the show should be broadcast into space so that if aliens existed, they would see my great powers and flee in fear.
My show began with great pomp and circumstances. Pyrotechnics roared across the stage and out into the open park in downtown D.C. I stepped out onto the platform in my wondrous flowing silks and my mysterious mask of mystery and began an intricate dance. Onlookers and viewers, which I was told included literally every single person on earth-- even the homeless and the blind, were mesmerized by the undulation of my hips, seeing in such sensual and pulchritudinous movement a truth that was truer than they had ever known.
My hips do not lie.
My movements shocked the entire world into silence, much like the tantalizing movements of a snake-handler taming a cobra. For several moments, I was the only human on the planet capable of movement. When the dance ended, the entire world exhaled. Many fainted. It was time for the magic to begin.
My first demonstration was to saw a man in half. I chose a man out of the audience. He had curly hair and wore women's acid-washed jeans and a pleather jacket with some bizarre and vaguely effeminate markings. He excitedly ran up to the stage, exclaiming that he knew exactly what I was going to do and how I was going to do it.
I slapped him across his face. "Shut up," I said to him. He cowered at the power of my voice. "I am going to cut you in half."
The crowd cheered. Apparently the gentlemen was not well-liked.
I ushered him into a coffin and closed the lid, but before I closed it entirely, I lifted my mask of mystery to him, exposing who I really was. He began to scream in terror, for you see, it was Dr. Bobblehead that I had brought up on stage, and it was he who I was going to cut in half, and never reassemble.
The magic show was all a trick, a clever ruse to get revenge on my enemy.
"This will teach you never to try to drug me, kidnap me and sell me into the Haitian black market again!" I exclaimed, slamming the coffin and locking it.
With that, I signalled the OK for the crane above the stage to drop an older, unattractive green Porsche directly on top of the coffin. Curly hair, blood-soaked denim and cheap pleather flew all over the stage.
When the smoke cleared, I disappeared from the stage and reappeared far away in a safe haven. From there, I could hear the crowd chanting madly, "Hay-storm! Hay-storm! Hay-storm!"
I hung my head, shed my luxurious cloak and mask of mystery, and began the long walk home. The deed was done. Dr. Bobblehead was dead. And Darius Haystorm would never be able to perform magic ever again.
I began to create tricks and perform them on the street under the pseudonym Darius Haystorm. I would cloak myself in mysterious yet luxurious velvets and silks and prowl the streets, making ladies swoon and grown men cry of shame and jealousy. Some of the tricks were simply illusions, and the others were demonstrations of actual magic that I had learned from the witchdoctors in Haiti when I was inadvertently sold into slavery some years before. I became so good at the magic that I no longer called them tricks, opting instead for "presentations" or "demonstrations."
Finally, after over 3 days of practice, I was ready for a show. I made a deal with several television broadcasting companies and the city of Washington, D.C. that I was to perform a live magic show which would be broadcast all over the world. Some even argued that the show should be broadcast into space so that if aliens existed, they would see my great powers and flee in fear.
My show began with great pomp and circumstances. Pyrotechnics roared across the stage and out into the open park in downtown D.C. I stepped out onto the platform in my wondrous flowing silks and my mysterious mask of mystery and began an intricate dance. Onlookers and viewers, which I was told included literally every single person on earth-- even the homeless and the blind, were mesmerized by the undulation of my hips, seeing in such sensual and pulchritudinous movement a truth that was truer than they had ever known.
My hips do not lie.
My movements shocked the entire world into silence, much like the tantalizing movements of a snake-handler taming a cobra. For several moments, I was the only human on the planet capable of movement. When the dance ended, the entire world exhaled. Many fainted. It was time for the magic to begin.
My first demonstration was to saw a man in half. I chose a man out of the audience. He had curly hair and wore women's acid-washed jeans and a pleather jacket with some bizarre and vaguely effeminate markings. He excitedly ran up to the stage, exclaiming that he knew exactly what I was going to do and how I was going to do it.
I slapped him across his face. "Shut up," I said to him. He cowered at the power of my voice. "I am going to cut you in half."
The crowd cheered. Apparently the gentlemen was not well-liked.
I ushered him into a coffin and closed the lid, but before I closed it entirely, I lifted my mask of mystery to him, exposing who I really was. He began to scream in terror, for you see, it was Dr. Bobblehead that I had brought up on stage, and it was he who I was going to cut in half, and never reassemble.
The magic show was all a trick, a clever ruse to get revenge on my enemy.
"This will teach you never to try to drug me, kidnap me and sell me into the Haitian black market again!" I exclaimed, slamming the coffin and locking it.
With that, I signalled the OK for the crane above the stage to drop an older, unattractive green Porsche directly on top of the coffin. Curly hair, blood-soaked denim and cheap pleather flew all over the stage.
When the smoke cleared, I disappeared from the stage and reappeared far away in a safe haven. From there, I could hear the crowd chanting madly, "Hay-storm! Hay-storm! Hay-storm!"
I hung my head, shed my luxurious cloak and mask of mystery, and began the long walk home. The deed was done. Dr. Bobblehead was dead. And Darius Haystorm would never be able to perform magic ever again.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Chapter 328: The Day I Wrote a Song
It was a warm summer's day and I and my servants and guests were absorbing the sun beside the garden pool of my Tuscan villa. It was there that we often enjoyed many diversions of the finest quality. The other four pools of my villa were larger and each had very unusual characteristics (for example, I kept my pet dolphins in the East Wing pool), but I preferred the garden pool for its breathtaking views of the green hills and ocean as well as its access to the golden rays of sunshine that fluttered across my vineyard.
I clapped my hands twice. "Scribe," I exclaimed, "fetch me a pen and paper and go into town and buy the finest guitar you can find. Here, take ten thousand dollars. Today, I shall write a song."
The scribe did as he was told, and a few hours later he returned with a guitar. This guitar was carved from a single piece of the rarest of rain forest woods. The strings were wrapped in metals so fine and rare that diamonds would be cast into the sea in their presence. The scribe informed me that the craftsman had been working on it for fifteen years and had cried many tears when he purchased it on my behalf. I laughed. Crying is silly.
I then began to pluck away a beautiful, entrancing tune, singing the lyrics that I had written while the scribe was fetching my new guitar. The servants and guests gathered 'round and listened as though they were hearing the greatness of Beethoven, Mozart, Hendrix, Zeppelin, and the Beatles being crushed and fluttering away from their memories because of my silky, velveteen voice and my thought-provoking lyrics.
Finally, as a special gift to the onlookers, I performed a solo. The notes were so perfect and the melody of such majestic intensity that many of the servants and guests began to writhe in pain. They did not want to leave and risk not hearing the next note, which was most certainly going to be even more perfect and beautiful than the one before it, but their faces were literally melting off due to the bizarre powers of my gargantuan showcase.
In a show of mercy, I ceased to play. They begged me to continue, because, despite the intense pain they experienced, the music was like heroin to them-- suicidal, yet irresistible. I refused, stating that my ownership of the guitar was too much power for one man to rightfully hold.
I cast the guitar out over the balcony into the moonlit Tuscan sea, never to play music again. However, I was quite hungry and decided to build a delicious sandwich.
I clapped my hands twice. "Scribe," I exclaimed, "fetch me a pen and paper and go into town and buy the finest guitar you can find. Here, take ten thousand dollars. Today, I shall write a song."
The scribe did as he was told, and a few hours later he returned with a guitar. This guitar was carved from a single piece of the rarest of rain forest woods. The strings were wrapped in metals so fine and rare that diamonds would be cast into the sea in their presence. The scribe informed me that the craftsman had been working on it for fifteen years and had cried many tears when he purchased it on my behalf. I laughed. Crying is silly.
I then began to pluck away a beautiful, entrancing tune, singing the lyrics that I had written while the scribe was fetching my new guitar. The servants and guests gathered 'round and listened as though they were hearing the greatness of Beethoven, Mozart, Hendrix, Zeppelin, and the Beatles being crushed and fluttering away from their memories because of my silky, velveteen voice and my thought-provoking lyrics.
Finally, as a special gift to the onlookers, I performed a solo. The notes were so perfect and the melody of such majestic intensity that many of the servants and guests began to writhe in pain. They did not want to leave and risk not hearing the next note, which was most certainly going to be even more perfect and beautiful than the one before it, but their faces were literally melting off due to the bizarre powers of my gargantuan showcase.
In a show of mercy, I ceased to play. They begged me to continue, because, despite the intense pain they experienced, the music was like heroin to them-- suicidal, yet irresistible. I refused, stating that my ownership of the guitar was too much power for one man to rightfully hold.
I cast the guitar out over the balcony into the moonlit Tuscan sea, never to play music again. However, I was quite hungry and decided to build a delicious sandwich.
Saturday, May 30, 2009
Chapter 99: A Brief Stint in the Professional Arm-Wrestling Circuit
As a young man I often found it entertaining to find a very rough bar and go in and start a fight. This was fun for several different reasons, the main one being that I had become an unstoppable force over the years of honing my strength and hand-to-hand combat skills. I also enjoyed making grown men cry tears.
One day, though, I walked into a bar that was very different than the others that I had cleaned out with my superb fighting style and incredible strength. This bar was filled with men who had all cut the sleeves off of their shirts. The men were all waiting in two opposing lines, centered by a small table, awaiting the opportunity to arm wrestle one another. It appeared to be some sort of single-elimination tournament, and from the looks of it the winner recieved an 18-wheeler rig.
Well it just so happened that I recently made a deal with a gentleman to drive some beer into Texas. The plan was that I would drive the truck with the beer and he would distract or impede police officers by driving haphazardly if the "smokeys" (as he called them) ever found out what was on the truck. So, long story short, I needed a good rig.
I announced that the winner of their silly tournament would arm wrestle me for the grand championship and for the title to the 18-wheeler. The ensuing tournament was a little "over the top" and there was great deal of musical montage. Someone's arm even broke while in the throws of arm-wrestlage. But finally, a well-built italian fellow emerged victorious muttering tearfully about how maybe now he could get his son back from his evil father-in-law.
I allowed this gentlemen to rest for one day so that we would both be rested for the battle-royale that would result in a great arm-wrestling champ. The next day, I showed up with the sleeves removed from my shirt as well. My bulging biceps rippled and glistened in the evening sun. I stepped up to the table, where the italian had already set up. He began trembling out of what must have been a terrifying intimidation and then burst into tears, begging me not to rip his arms off.
For the first time in my life, I felt a feeling that I now know as pity. I did not like feeling that feeling and my first inclination was to rip his arms off anyway, but I decided that I would allow him to forfeit. I told him that I would use the rig for a few weeks and then he could have it. He agreed.
And as I rode off into the sunset in my new 18-wheeler rig, I began to worry that I was getting soft, so I decided to kill a drifter the next day.
One day, though, I walked into a bar that was very different than the others that I had cleaned out with my superb fighting style and incredible strength. This bar was filled with men who had all cut the sleeves off of their shirts. The men were all waiting in two opposing lines, centered by a small table, awaiting the opportunity to arm wrestle one another. It appeared to be some sort of single-elimination tournament, and from the looks of it the winner recieved an 18-wheeler rig.
Well it just so happened that I recently made a deal with a gentleman to drive some beer into Texas. The plan was that I would drive the truck with the beer and he would distract or impede police officers by driving haphazardly if the "smokeys" (as he called them) ever found out what was on the truck. So, long story short, I needed a good rig.
I announced that the winner of their silly tournament would arm wrestle me for the grand championship and for the title to the 18-wheeler. The ensuing tournament was a little "over the top" and there was great deal of musical montage. Someone's arm even broke while in the throws of arm-wrestlage. But finally, a well-built italian fellow emerged victorious muttering tearfully about how maybe now he could get his son back from his evil father-in-law.
I allowed this gentlemen to rest for one day so that we would both be rested for the battle-royale that would result in a great arm-wrestling champ. The next day, I showed up with the sleeves removed from my shirt as well. My bulging biceps rippled and glistened in the evening sun. I stepped up to the table, where the italian had already set up. He began trembling out of what must have been a terrifying intimidation and then burst into tears, begging me not to rip his arms off.
For the first time in my life, I felt a feeling that I now know as pity. I did not like feeling that feeling and my first inclination was to rip his arms off anyway, but I decided that I would allow him to forfeit. I told him that I would use the rig for a few weeks and then he could have it. He agreed.
And as I rode off into the sunset in my new 18-wheeler rig, I began to worry that I was getting soft, so I decided to kill a drifter the next day.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Chapter 92: My Motorcycle Gang
Shortly after I quit my job as Head Chef of the Four Seasons in New York City, I developed an interest in motorcycles. After a few days of saving the money that I earned from various fruitful ventures into stock trading and the municipal bond market, I purchased one of the highest quality bikes I could find. I don't want to bore you with details, but suffice it to say that the bike was so amazing that every time I started it, an orphan got to make a wish.
After a few weeks of cruising on my beautiful new motorcycle, affectionately named Maria, I decided that, in order to maximize my enjoyment of motorcycle-riding, I would require a gang of others to follow me in a V-pattern. I immediately pulled over to the side of 1st Avenue and shouted "Those of you who desire to purchase a motorcycle and follow me in a V-pattern as I cruise on my motorcycle-- assemble!"
I quickly noticed a curly-headed man running toward me and nodding hysterically-- extremely excited at the thought of being in my motorcycle gang. He was wearing a leather jacket, women's jeans, and a collarless dress shirt.
"Welcome to my motorcycle gang," I said. "I shall call you Bobblehead."
"It's Dr. Bobblehead, to you."
"Shut up," I said as I slapped him across his face.
Other motorcycle-riders, including Roger Hiccuptoot, Tyler Applesocks and Gus Razorblades assembled behind me within moments and off we went to cruise the good ol' U.S. of A.
For a few days, Dr. Bobblehead, the gang, and I rode around the country, terrorizing places like Myrtle Beach and Panama City with my awesomeness and his disturbing knack for talking so much about stupid things that people tried to end their own lives. Bobblehead appeared jealous that I was getting so many ladies, and was outspoken about his dislike for riding on a motorcycle for such extended periods of time (he said he thought he could have more fun in a small, effeminate sports car).
After a short time, the gang and I began to grow quite weary of Bobblehead's voice. So, late one night, I pulled our V over to the side of the road in the dessert of New Mexico. As soon as Bobblehead dismounted his bike, asking what I'm sure was some asinine question about the size of the sand granules in New Mexico compared with Texas, I took an axe and chopped his motorcycle in half. The rest of the gang began beating him mercilessly, but I told them to stop and leave him.
I then rode Maria off into the sunrise. I wish I could say I never saw Bobblehead again.
But I did....
After a few weeks of cruising on my beautiful new motorcycle, affectionately named Maria, I decided that, in order to maximize my enjoyment of motorcycle-riding, I would require a gang of others to follow me in a V-pattern. I immediately pulled over to the side of 1st Avenue and shouted "Those of you who desire to purchase a motorcycle and follow me in a V-pattern as I cruise on my motorcycle-- assemble!"
I quickly noticed a curly-headed man running toward me and nodding hysterically-- extremely excited at the thought of being in my motorcycle gang. He was wearing a leather jacket, women's jeans, and a collarless dress shirt.
"Welcome to my motorcycle gang," I said. "I shall call you Bobblehead."
"It's Dr. Bobblehead, to you."
"Shut up," I said as I slapped him across his face.
Other motorcycle-riders, including Roger Hiccuptoot, Tyler Applesocks and Gus Razorblades assembled behind me within moments and off we went to cruise the good ol' U.S. of A.
For a few days, Dr. Bobblehead, the gang, and I rode around the country, terrorizing places like Myrtle Beach and Panama City with my awesomeness and his disturbing knack for talking so much about stupid things that people tried to end their own lives. Bobblehead appeared jealous that I was getting so many ladies, and was outspoken about his dislike for riding on a motorcycle for such extended periods of time (he said he thought he could have more fun in a small, effeminate sports car).
After a short time, the gang and I began to grow quite weary of Bobblehead's voice. So, late one night, I pulled our V over to the side of the road in the dessert of New Mexico. As soon as Bobblehead dismounted his bike, asking what I'm sure was some asinine question about the size of the sand granules in New Mexico compared with Texas, I took an axe and chopped his motorcycle in half. The rest of the gang began beating him mercilessly, but I told them to stop and leave him.
I then rode Maria off into the sunrise. I wish I could say I never saw Bobblehead again.
But I did....
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