Chapter 9 (Nine) - Some Dream In/Of Hell, Jeffy Coitus
Pump Meat. Winterfrosh. Doublemount.
Ixtra?
When knocked out, the uneducated say you do not dream. The uneducated.
Educated.
But much stock is placed in education, when truth be told half the learning is socializing.
Or not, what do I know.
And the truth is that Lanugo Batter had failed himself in his education, as most students do.
Thus, he was present when some local toughs decided to rob Jimmy Dong's Gas Station in a fit of phallic rage, vendetta, and drunkeness.
Being knocked out, he dreamed. His dream went as follows::swollof sa tnew maerd siH
Sulfur stinging the nose, he awoke to find the most beautiful woman he had ever seen looking at him. And what's more, he was fairly certain this fiery beauty (literally- she was surrounded by fire) had come to the gas station before. But then again, who didn't buy gasoline these days? Homeless people?
It was only then that he realized homeless people buy gasoline for barrel fires, and scolded himself for his previous ignorance.
Having finally arrived at the conclusion that everyone buys gasoline, including the homeless and non-voters (Vote), Lanugo stared into a pair of eyes so blue he was sure they were black.
Then again, he thought, that was pretty silly. Nobody really has black eyes except for eskimos. Inuits! he quickly corrected himself as a gunshot rang off somewhere nearby, inexplicably. He was beginning to feel like he was embarassing himself to this beautiful girl (certainly beautiful) whom he had only just met. Ignorance seemed to leak into his every thought, or so he thought.
Never realizing, of course, she had no idea his thoughts.
Following this was an inner debate about whether this girl's blue eyes were "Deep Sea Blue" or perhaps "Midnight Blue" or "Grand Majesty's Navy Blue" or just "Dark Blue," which you will here be spared. He landed on "Dark Midnight Navy Blue" which conjured to his mind an army of Norsemen storming a beach, for some reason.
NORSEPEOPLE! You ignorant moron! She is judging you!
While Lanugo wished desperately that he'd paid more attention in school, the girl brushed back her red hair and spoke to him with teeth almost obtrusively wet. Details that men notice are always insignificant, and yet the fact that he managed to not stare at her chest is admirable enough that I feel OK telling you these pointless details.
"You're Lanugo Batter, and you're dead."
"No fucking way!" he shouted in her face, spit flying from his tongue and landing on her cheek.
She punched him in the gut with a heavily ringed, rather pale fist. For all the metal and force, he barely felt a caress.
"You are dead."
"Oh fuck." He believed her. This belief led to the realization that, as predicted by his mother (and all mothers for their children, really), that he had ended up in hell.
"I'm in hell, man, hell."
"I'm not a man, Lanugo Batter."
"But, like, you're Satan, right?"
"Yeah."
"Oh," he pondered for a moment, tried to think, failed, then tried again. "So, like, you're a chick."
Red lipped frown. Natural, though. There's no such thing as lipstick in hell. "I'm not a chick, Lanugo Batter. I'm dead."
Taking this thought in, which he felt was a bit heavy handed, Lanugo only managed a blank, slightly unnerved expression. "Oh, so, you don't have a..." but, thinking better for once in his life (death) he stopped himself and merely sat quiet.
"It's time to rebuild yourself, Lanugo Batter, so that you can herd."
"Heard? Don't you mean hear? Is there no such thing as grammar in hell?" Lanugo wasn't sure why he was being so sassy, but it felt pretty good, so he just rolled with it.
"You got a C- in senior English and only passed because the teacher pitied you. This after she saw you fondling a girl in the back of class daily and knew you'd never make anything of yourself besides a womanizer who'd eventually be 28 (TWENTY EIGHT) and have exhausted all chances of marriage due to an unfortunate herpes acquisition at a party that was not only highly popular, but also taped by three separate people. Taking the roundabout way, we arrive at the point of the story: you are not, and will never be, in a position to offer grammatical advice to anyone.
"Now get up," she didn't smile, or look smug, but was just very matter of fact. Satan is basically all business.
Scratching his crotch nervously, he lifted himself up with one hand. He could not take his eyes off of Satan's rather Dark Blue eyes. Or was that Navy Midnight... Ah fuck it, I can't remember.
"So you really don't think I'll ever get married?" he asked, defeat tinging his voice.
"I never said that. You'll be married when you're 38 (Thirty Eight) to an 18 (Ayteen) year old whose father will kill you," she replied, turning on her pale, bare feet that somehow managed to stay perfectly clean among all the ashes that received her toeprints like twisted, disturbing beach sand.
Toe prints, small, comforting, and alluring. Orange fire throwing light onto tiny puncture wounds in dark, dark grey under a hundred foot ceiling so high up it appeared to be a vaguely contoured and textured black. White robed, and swishing forward, there went Satan, flowing with predictably red hair, inexplicably dark blue eyes, and tiny little toe prints leading on through a grain sea of dark, dark sinner ashes.
Feeling emotional, and not entirely certain why, staring at Satan walking away, Lanugo realized exactly why all the angels revolted with her. Innate charisma, and beautiful in ways that no woman could possibly be, she certainly could convince him to denounce God.
And clearly had. For he was now dead. He was now in hell. Or so he thought.
Distracted enough by the wave of beauty that had crashed upon the vague, uninhabited cells of his brain, Lanugo would fail to realize the innate contradiction of a death dream predicting his future life (and death).
"So, what do I have to do to change? When do I do it? I'm still in my work uniform..."
Somewhere, ten (10) or more miles above his current position in Traditional King James Hell, the unconscious body of Lanugo Batter began to stir a beat as realization zapped around the core of consciousness in his head, failing to connect.
Frankly, it was like watching the Yankees play baseball. So much invested that it ought to have been nothing for this small victory, but struggle and defeat were the order of the hour. And thank God, the Yankees are a sad joke propagated through the years by rich cynics with no goal in life but masturbation and ego stroking (masturbation).
"What do you want to look like? How do you think you can look most powerful?" Satan asked, gazing out over a small hill they'd walked up when he wasn't paying attention. Or had he walked up the hill at all?
Strange.
"Powerful? Why would I need to look powerful?" he scratched his crotch, which had begun to burn slightly. Interestingly enough, he had yet to even feel the least bit of heat from the fire all around him. He was actually quite comfortable.
Satan smiled at him. "You're going to be herding those into the 'Try Again' pit." She raised her pale hand, and thin fingers, pointing at a furious group of souls rampaging around a Hell Hillside. They looked like Bison having a go at railroad workers. Nancy Grace's damned soul thrashed about, regretting every offensive breath she'd ever taken, finally.
"It'll take some time, and you'll need to be able to keep the attention of beings who are burning in all the fires that you aren't feeling yet."
The last word that fell off her pink tongue and into his ear made him shudder. "Well..." he said slowly, "I suppose I'll want some wings then. Big red glowing ones would be cool, I've always thought," and he began to float above the embers. Not understanding the dynamics of wings, Lanugo Batter wasn't aware that they were merely ornamental.
He was, in fact, levitating. Not flying.
"And to look tough..." he continued, "I suppose..." His thoughts immediately focused on his father, as most men do. Trying to conjure an image of the man in his head didn't work entirely, but the trauma of childhood was just enough to twist his current features into something much more hideous than he'd been previously.
If he had not been dreaming of this in hell, many women in Espantosoville would testify that anything managing to make Lanugo Batter's face uglier than it was would be unnatural, and perhaps impossible. Indeed, it was.
11 (ELEVEN)
13(Thurteen)
"Oh man, I want one of those sweet ass rings with my initials too!" he said, eyeing the ring on Satan's finger that had two letters inverted on it.
Curving her red lips into a smile, she replied, "Sorry Lanugo Batter. This is my seal. This is my weapon. You see, it's my name."
The point was, as usual, lost on Lanugo. "How is your name a weapon? And isn't your name Satan anyways? You have a last name, like Antichrist, or something?"
Lanugo thought this entirely clever. Sadly, for him it was.
"You don't get it because your name is only remembered by people who accidentally read the tag you wear on your chest when they're done pumping their gas. Now look in the mirror and tell me if you think you look intimidating enough to ward that crowd into what they will believe is a pit of lava," Satan stretched out her large white, strangely light-like wings. It was as if they weren't there at all, thin as air- If not for how bright and distractingly big they were.
"I think," replied Lanugo smugly, "The term you were looking for is Magma. It's alright Satan, you can't always be right."
"You do realize this is one of the easiest positions in all of Hell, right? You want to go out there and be herded like a fool among the other idiots? See how pained Johnny Depp's soul looks? I could put you in his corral for a while..."
Directing his dull eyes to where Satan indicated, Lanugo saw a soul branded enormously with the words "One Trick Hack" being stabbed by children with pointed steel sticks everytime he approached the edge of a circle-bed of burning coals. It looked pretty painful.
"Alright, sorry, I get it," he said, genuinely penitent, as he turned to the mirror that had appeared at his left.
He'd been turning to the left hand path all his life, really.
Gazing into the mirror, he realized that he was not a very attractive person. Like most people, he'd allowed politeness to convince him that he was at least decent looking, but that wasn't the truth.
Like his father, and all his male friends, he was hideous. But, he did look ready to run Nancy Grace around for a while with a sword, or maybe a very sturdy polearm. Both (htoB) were conveniently in his hands.
He decided to stick with the polearm.
"Alright, Satan, I'm ready."
"Who the Hell is that?" the girl said, not smiling anymore. She looked panicked, and blood ran from her nose. It dripped onto her pale feet, rolled into the cracks between her toes, and into the thick ash under her white feet.
Lanugo was confused. Not just by this sudden turnaround, but by all the shouting, and the feeling of shaking. The ground felt unstable.
Not Satan collapsed to her knees, her white robe being stained by profuse amounts of blood pouring from flared nostrils, and the ash under her. She coughed blood, spit blood, had blood all over her teeth.
"Satan, you should..." Lanugo heard his name repeatedly.
"I'll see you down here in ten (10) years, Lanugo Batter" forcing a tiny smile through the coughing, Not Satan looked up at him from her knees, as blood from her nose dripped onto the ring bearing the initials only she knew.
The educated say that you do not dream when you are knocked out. Interesting.
"Lanugo!" shouted Mindy Mashtatoor in his high pitched way of speaking. It's pretty obnoxious, no lie.
Slowly, LB regained consciousness. "What? What's going on?"
"You got knocked out, sweetheart, just take it easy," Mindy said, his hand uncomfortably close to Lanugo's balls.
Looking around the wrecked shop, head ringing with ache, LB couldn't figure out what was going on. Nothing seemed broken, even though some things were out of order.
And the cash register tray was on the floor, to his left. He pushed himself up against the counter. Vaguely, he recalled crossing to the other side of the counter when he noticed a sketchy looking guy stealing several packs of Winterfrosh gum.
The educated are well aware that there's a big difference between someone who buys Winterfrosh gum over Doublemount gum. Seriously, Winterfrosh tastes like frozen pubic hair. You can't trust somebody like that.
"According to the girl the cops have in custody," Mindy continued as cops milled around behind him, seemingly surveying the place, but really not doing much of anything, "when you stepped away from your drawer, the guy now in the cop car outside hit you in the back of the head with a baseball bat."
That seemed to match, thought Lanugo. Never in his life had he felt such a thumping within his usually empty brain. "She's in custody?" he asked, slowly trying to regain his faculties, Failing, but trying again.
"Yeah..." Mindy said, turning his head towards a dead body in front of the never-used second counter. Blood spatter had ruined several perfectly good copies of STARITCH magazine that claimed to have pictures of Jennifer Love Hewitt naked inside.
Lanugo's head dropped to his chest, he felt a terrible nausea rising up in him that had nothing to do with the body. From the time he was 9 (NINE) he'd watched violent movies for arousal's sake, so the blood didn't do anything to him.
If Mindy hadn't had his hand so uncomfortably close to LB's herpe nest, he might've even been aroused, headache or no.
"She... shot the guyth thbat?" he asked, slurring his speech.
"Oh, no," Mindy replied as he waved over a paramedic who had just arrived. Rather late, I know.
"Apparently she shot the guy who was going to shoot you. Guess you got some enemies, eh? Cops have her in the back of a car outside."
"... saved my life?" Lanugo forced out as a paramedic began to exercise his education on him.
Mindy nodded slowly, standing up, but not without a subtle rub on LB's thigh. "Yeah, I would say so."
Lanugo began to feel dizzy, and thought he might pass out again.
Not to dream, however. When one passes out, they do not dream. I'm assured of this by educated people.
"Whassername..."
"Oh," Mindy looked down at the pathetic, slightly bloodied mess that was Lanugo Batter, "Corrine Tubdolor, or something like that. Get some rest, I'll be out to the hospital later tonight. I just left a housefire, so I gotta go change."
He smiled down at LB, "Been a hell of a day for the both of us, eh guy?"
With that, he walked out of the store and into a night that was just beginning to cool.
Lanugo passed out.
Keith "Asshole Who Hit Me With A Bat" Merkin sat in a cop car, still shaking. He really couldn't believe he managed to not get shot by that crazy bitch who killed his friend.
Corrine Tubdolor shook also, her hands sweating a significant amount, and her lip bloody from biting. Her brown hair stuck to her wet, tear-stained face.
Everyone had a bad day.
Even Tony Kinter, who was too busy stabbing himself in the leg to notice the biggest part of the "Gas Station Holdup" piece the next day. Coincidentally, he would go to the same hospital Lanugo Batter had just been to, and arrive just as LB was leaving.
But that's life. Unless you get shot in the head holding up a gas station.
END CHAPTER 9 (NINE)
Sunday, July 6, 2008
Sunday, June 22, 2008
Teetering Bluffs: A Story Of Confusion: Chapter 8 (Eight) - Jeffy Coitus Sleeps Soundly With New Caretakers
Chapter 8 (Eight) - Jeffy Coitus Sleeps Soundly With New Caretakers
0. 1581 (Fifteen Eighty One)
1. 1657 (Sixteen Fifty Seven)
2. 2043 (Twenty Forty Three)
3. 2373 (Twenty Three Seventy Three)
4. 1891 (Eighteen Ninety One)
5. 1520 (Fifteen Twenty)
6. 2080 (Twenty Eighty)
7. 1996 (Nineteen Ninety Six)
If this story is
O
ne thing th
en it's certainly
Confusing.
And sometimes
The readers are confused.
But not today.
Today's chapter will be very straightforward.
To prove this, I began it with a list of numbers I'm not going to bother explaining.
It's not confusing! Figure it out! Seriously, how will I ever be considered a high caliber friend to you if all I do is hold your hand, and give you everything (even that which could be deduced with only a little bit of thinking!) straight up like I would serve you a poisoned muffin?
Precisely my point. You don't want poison muffin friendship do you?
Well, that's not the issue here.
What's the issue is the confusing state of affairs. And let's face it, sometimes, people get confused.
The paramedics who came in to carry Tony Kinter down to their ambulance were highly confused. As was the entire Espantosoville/Currantboraboratown broadcast area as to why "The Voice Of The Ville" was no longer reading their news, and instead some obnoxious guy from the noon show was.
He had a big nose. They didn't like that. Nobody does.
But sometimes, in my rather large opinion, a big nose doesn't make any difference.
You don't agree? Well fuck yourself then. It's my opinion, and that's the one that makes the world go round.
I took that line from a Golden Girls episode. I'm not even kidding.
One of the confused was Kiley Merona.
Brushing her red hair, which, since last you met her, had grown down to her ass (OK, so it was right above her ass), Kiley didn't know what happened to the newsguy.
"Tubs, what happened to that strange asshole who was reporting the news? Does he always disappear like that?"
"Oh..." her friend Devon "Tubs" Toddlebreath looked up from her chest, over to the television. "Not usually..."
Kiley, like most sane people, did not waste her time on television news. Thus, her uninitiation on the matter is not to be viewed as a sign of ignorance.
As you already know, Kiley Merona was quite clever.
Kiley Merona is the most dangerous person in this story. Write that down. Seriously, get a piece of paper and a pencil and mark it down.
K I L E Y M E R O N A
"You planning on staying long, Kay?" Devon asked, his dark skin covered in sweat. He had to shit (this was not the cause of his perspiration).
Hearing her old nickname made her shudder through the 86 (EIGHTY Six) degree heat. "Well, I think I might go back to that hotel in Chanbara. I mean, it's an hour drive though."
"I've offered to let you stay here about six (6) times now... you really don't have to hint anymore that you'd like to."
Scoffing half-heartedly, she smiled at him. Her lips were wet and red, Devon would note. "If I wanted to stay in your Turkish Prison Apartment Complex I'd say so. You know me."
"And I thought your recent stint of homelessness might have made you a more agreeable person. I'm gonna take a shit," his six and a half (six and a half) feet of lanky body with a side of personality rose and headed towards the toilet.
Kiley grimaced, then swung her thin, pale legs over the arm of her recliner. Her cell phone's battery fell out of the left pocket of her sort-of-too-small shorts. The phone lay safe on her right.
Aren't you confused?!
The battery had been out of her phone for a couple days. Since after she'd gone to Mollie's funeral. OK, so maybe a little after that too.
And everyday since then she'd been reconnecting with all the loose ends she left waiting when she walked out of Espantosoville. I don't mean she literally walked out, idiot. She drove.
For three days she'd been coming to Devon's apartment where they had been reconnecting. And by reconnecting I mean fucking. Except for the day he went to a housefire to play a show, or something like that.
Yesterday.
In the background, the news droned on, as she flipped the battery between fingers. Being against her hip all day, it was quite warm. Like everything else around her, within her, about her.
She wasn't sure she'd cooled down in seven (seven) days. And she wasn't sure why she'd come back, either.
No, that was for dramatic effect.
Kiley Merona knew exactly why she was back in town. And she knew exactly why she couldn't leave yet. She knew exactly why her phone battery was out. And she knew exactly why she wasn't putting it back in. She knew exactly why she was loitering around Tubs' apartment with no intention of sleeping there. And she knew exactly why tonight she would sleep in her car.
As you already know, Kiley Merona was quite clever.
The toilet flushed loudly, and she anticipated the door clicking open. But it didn't. Men.
She laid the battery on top of her phone, and slid them into her purse. Mollie's obituary lay crinkled just inside.
Everyone at Mollie's funeral was shocked at her presence.
It wasn't her first Norina funeral. Unfortonately, everyone laid the blame for the previous one on her. And they weren't wrong.
There were news cameras all around outside. Harried ushers tried to push back obnoxious 15 and 16 (FIFTEEN and SIXTEEN) reporters.
Kiley had left her home on bad terms with her parents, like everyone. Thus her wardrobe selection was somewhat pitiful. And her black skirt and sweater were under-dressing at best, and inappropriate at worst. To say the sweater was low cut would be a kindness undue.
To be blunt, she looked a little slutty.
Nastasya spotted her immediately as she walked through the front door, past a surly looking old man smoking what appeared to be a thin. Ha ha ha.
Kiley didn't immediately see Nastasya, or her mother Ellie. Nor did she see Mollie, but a lot of that was probably the closed-casket-so-as-not-to-reveal-the-bullet-wound.
Fortunately, when Derek Norina died, the drugs didn't do anything to his physique. The open casket was lovely (as an old crusty woman who smelled too strongly of perfume said later, unaware that the funeral's pariah was standing next to her- You know the kind, who always have a thin crust of dried skin across their face and refuse to wax the moustache).
The service was ho hum. Most funeral services are. Some nice things were said, none of the bad things were said.
Of course, there was that one interesting part... OK, I'll tell you what the guy said.
And no, I don't know who he was. Maybe a pastor. She didn't tell me.
"Perhaps the greatest mark of Mollie's kindness, being only 26 (twinty sicks) and recently single, she still decided to go through with adopting a small baby whose parents were unable to raise him. Young Jeffy Coitus, adopted by a wonderful, caring young lady, our Mollie Norina. Jeffy was in the car at the time of his mother's passing, and I thank God, as I'm sure we all do, that the young boy will have no memory of these events. Praise the lord for this small happiness, and for the wonderful sister who survives Mollie. I'm speaking of course of Nastasya, who agreed immediately to take in the young child and care for him.
"We all feel deeply for the Norina family. Mollie will be missed in a way that few women passing from this world are. But a small boy will be given a wonderful home, and a wonderful upbringing now, thanks to her love, thanks to God's love that shone from her bright, bright eyes. Now, let us pray for her soul, and for the soul of Jeffy, and Nastasya, and all the Norina family. Oh Lord..."
With a shocked expression, Kiley stared at the stoic and somber Nastasya, sitting next to her mother.
Something from her history with Derek clicked. Even though Nastasya had always hated her, she pitied her. She felt a sympathy she wasn't sure was sincere. Then she remembered all the cruelty of Nastasya.
Nastasya was a balanced girl until around Kiley Merona. Kiley Merona might not have been a balanced girl, but she was never so vengeful as when around Nastasya.
For obvious reasons!
After the service, as the pallbearers came in, Nastasya walked directly to Kiley. Her heeled step was quick and sharp, like bayonets into the flesh of church floors.
"I'm confused, Kiley. Why are you here?" she asked, her green eyes flared in barely-disguised fury.
"I... just thought I'd come to apologize for your loss. I knew Mollie pretty well, Nastasya," Kiley felt pushed back by the personality bearing down on her. Many claim they feel that way in Nastasya's presence.
Eyes rolling as she scoffed, Nastasya fired back, "Oh thank you so much for your sincerest condolences. I think you just like watching my family shrink, Kiley. God knows you've been all apologies for two years now!"
Hate spun in razor-edged, tight circles of fury behind her dark blue eyes. She wanted nothing more than to sink something sharp into the small-breasted chest of Nastasya Norina. Her tongue flicked angrily across her slightly uneven teeth.
"I think I'll go now..." she said, control coming at great effort. Until she realized the weapon in her hand.
"Nastasya!" she shouted as she turned back. Quickly, Nastasya's head jerked back. "It's so great of you to adopt that baby! Jeffy was it? Just thought I'd tell you."
If a smile could be sinister, evil, and extremely satisfying all at once, then Kiley Merona was wearing it as she walked out of the church, past a Home Exteriors table next to an open van.
"Cold. Cold. Cold. Kiley."
Turning slowly, KM saw someone she thought she should recognize, but couldn't think of her name. It's that confusing sort of situation where you talk to someone and say later "OH MAN I SO KNEW THAT PERSON BUT I COULDN'T THINK OF THEIR NAME!!!!!!!!"
"Oh, no, I was being sincere..."
What struck her most instantly was this woman's hair. It was short, light blonde, and swung back over her ears, without managing to cover her neck. It was complicated, but somehow attractive.
"Kiley, in all the time I've known you, I've never known you to be sincere," she smiled lightly, laying a cold, long-fingered hand on KM's arm.
Recognition still did not manage to even approach.
"My name is Caitlyn, did you forget me?"
7 (neveS) days, 4 (ruoF) fucks, 6 (xiS) blowjobs, spare moments of sleep, a phone without a battery, and 1 (enO) young man released from a box later, Devon "Tubs" Toddlebreath finished wiping his ass and walked out of his bathroom.
Unwashed hands. Interestingly enough, the strange poetry of the universe will cause him to die from an infection that could've been avoided had he just taken up good handwashing habits.
It's confusing how some people lose their lives for the silliest reasons.
Like Derek Norina.
He stepped back into the room, Kiley had switched off the TV and laid back in her chair. Eyes closed, he knew she wasn't sleeping. But he still took the chance to eye her rack anyways.
"Our last story of the night is truly a strange one. Police are reporting to us tonight that a strange 'Deviant's Brothel' has been discovered near the county line. They discovered it two nights ago, after responding to what neighbors described as 'Frightening shouts.' Dixie Lunsford is on site with details..."
Tubs giggled. "Hey, two nights ago, that's when you first came over and we fu-"
The look on Kiley Merona's face, fury, anger, what have you, cut him short. Not out of kindness for her feelings, of course.
9/10 men weigh all interpersonal reactionary options with the grand judge of the libido.
And I'm sure you find that the least confusing detail yet.
END CHAPTER 8 (EIGHT)
0. 1581 (Fifteen Eighty One)
1. 1657 (Sixteen Fifty Seven)
2. 2043 (Twenty Forty Three)
3. 2373 (Twenty Three Seventy Three)
4. 1891 (Eighteen Ninety One)
5. 1520 (Fifteen Twenty)
6. 2080 (Twenty Eighty)
7. 1996 (Nineteen Ninety Six)
If this story is
O
ne thing th
en it's certainly
Confusing.
And sometimes
The readers are confused.
But not today.
Today's chapter will be very straightforward.
To prove this, I began it with a list of numbers I'm not going to bother explaining.
It's not confusing! Figure it out! Seriously, how will I ever be considered a high caliber friend to you if all I do is hold your hand, and give you everything (even that which could be deduced with only a little bit of thinking!) straight up like I would serve you a poisoned muffin?
Precisely my point. You don't want poison muffin friendship do you?
Well, that's not the issue here.
What's the issue is the confusing state of affairs. And let's face it, sometimes, people get confused.
The paramedics who came in to carry Tony Kinter down to their ambulance were highly confused. As was the entire Espantosoville/Currantboraboratown broadcast area as to why "The Voice Of The Ville" was no longer reading their news, and instead some obnoxious guy from the noon show was.
He had a big nose. They didn't like that. Nobody does.
But sometimes, in my rather large opinion, a big nose doesn't make any difference.
You don't agree? Well fuck yourself then. It's my opinion, and that's the one that makes the world go round.
I took that line from a Golden Girls episode. I'm not even kidding.
One of the confused was Kiley Merona.
Brushing her red hair, which, since last you met her, had grown down to her ass (OK, so it was right above her ass), Kiley didn't know what happened to the newsguy.
"Tubs, what happened to that strange asshole who was reporting the news? Does he always disappear like that?"
"Oh..." her friend Devon "Tubs" Toddlebreath looked up from her chest, over to the television. "Not usually..."
Kiley, like most sane people, did not waste her time on television news. Thus, her uninitiation on the matter is not to be viewed as a sign of ignorance.
As you already know, Kiley Merona was quite clever.
Kiley Merona is the most dangerous person in this story. Write that down. Seriously, get a piece of paper and a pencil and mark it down.
K I L E Y M E R O N A
"You planning on staying long, Kay?" Devon asked, his dark skin covered in sweat. He had to shit (this was not the cause of his perspiration).
Hearing her old nickname made her shudder through the 86 (EIGHTY Six) degree heat. "Well, I think I might go back to that hotel in Chanbara. I mean, it's an hour drive though."
"I've offered to let you stay here about six (6) times now... you really don't have to hint anymore that you'd like to."
Scoffing half-heartedly, she smiled at him. Her lips were wet and red, Devon would note. "If I wanted to stay in your Turkish Prison Apartment Complex I'd say so. You know me."
"And I thought your recent stint of homelessness might have made you a more agreeable person. I'm gonna take a shit," his six and a half (six and a half) feet of lanky body with a side of personality rose and headed towards the toilet.
Kiley grimaced, then swung her thin, pale legs over the arm of her recliner. Her cell phone's battery fell out of the left pocket of her sort-of-too-small shorts. The phone lay safe on her right.
Aren't you confused?!
The battery had been out of her phone for a couple days. Since after she'd gone to Mollie's funeral. OK, so maybe a little after that too.
And everyday since then she'd been reconnecting with all the loose ends she left waiting when she walked out of Espantosoville. I don't mean she literally walked out, idiot. She drove.
For three days she'd been coming to Devon's apartment where they had been reconnecting. And by reconnecting I mean fucking. Except for the day he went to a housefire to play a show, or something like that.
Yesterday.
In the background, the news droned on, as she flipped the battery between fingers. Being against her hip all day, it was quite warm. Like everything else around her, within her, about her.
She wasn't sure she'd cooled down in seven (seven) days. And she wasn't sure why she'd come back, either.
No, that was for dramatic effect.
Kiley Merona knew exactly why she was back in town. And she knew exactly why she couldn't leave yet. She knew exactly why her phone battery was out. And she knew exactly why she wasn't putting it back in. She knew exactly why she was loitering around Tubs' apartment with no intention of sleeping there. And she knew exactly why tonight she would sleep in her car.
As you already know, Kiley Merona was quite clever.
The toilet flushed loudly, and she anticipated the door clicking open. But it didn't. Men.
She laid the battery on top of her phone, and slid them into her purse. Mollie's obituary lay crinkled just inside.
Everyone at Mollie's funeral was shocked at her presence.
It wasn't her first Norina funeral. Unfortonately, everyone laid the blame for the previous one on her. And they weren't wrong.
There were news cameras all around outside. Harried ushers tried to push back obnoxious 15 and 16 (FIFTEEN and SIXTEEN) reporters.
Kiley had left her home on bad terms with her parents, like everyone. Thus her wardrobe selection was somewhat pitiful. And her black skirt and sweater were under-dressing at best, and inappropriate at worst. To say the sweater was low cut would be a kindness undue.
To be blunt, she looked a little slutty.
Nastasya spotted her immediately as she walked through the front door, past a surly looking old man smoking what appeared to be a thin. Ha ha ha.
Kiley didn't immediately see Nastasya, or her mother Ellie. Nor did she see Mollie, but a lot of that was probably the closed-casket-so-as-not-to-reveal-the-bullet-wound.
Fortunately, when Derek Norina died, the drugs didn't do anything to his physique. The open casket was lovely (as an old crusty woman who smelled too strongly of perfume said later, unaware that the funeral's pariah was standing next to her- You know the kind, who always have a thin crust of dried skin across their face and refuse to wax the moustache).
The service was ho hum. Most funeral services are. Some nice things were said, none of the bad things were said.
Of course, there was that one interesting part... OK, I'll tell you what the guy said.
And no, I don't know who he was. Maybe a pastor. She didn't tell me.
"Perhaps the greatest mark of Mollie's kindness, being only 26 (twinty sicks) and recently single, she still decided to go through with adopting a small baby whose parents were unable to raise him. Young Jeffy Coitus, adopted by a wonderful, caring young lady, our Mollie Norina. Jeffy was in the car at the time of his mother's passing, and I thank God, as I'm sure we all do, that the young boy will have no memory of these events. Praise the lord for this small happiness, and for the wonderful sister who survives Mollie. I'm speaking of course of Nastasya, who agreed immediately to take in the young child and care for him.
"We all feel deeply for the Norina family. Mollie will be missed in a way that few women passing from this world are. But a small boy will be given a wonderful home, and a wonderful upbringing now, thanks to her love, thanks to God's love that shone from her bright, bright eyes. Now, let us pray for her soul, and for the soul of Jeffy, and Nastasya, and all the Norina family. Oh Lord..."
With a shocked expression, Kiley stared at the stoic and somber Nastasya, sitting next to her mother.
Something from her history with Derek clicked. Even though Nastasya had always hated her, she pitied her. She felt a sympathy she wasn't sure was sincere. Then she remembered all the cruelty of Nastasya.
Nastasya was a balanced girl until around Kiley Merona. Kiley Merona might not have been a balanced girl, but she was never so vengeful as when around Nastasya.
For obvious reasons!
After the service, as the pallbearers came in, Nastasya walked directly to Kiley. Her heeled step was quick and sharp, like bayonets into the flesh of church floors.
"I'm confused, Kiley. Why are you here?" she asked, her green eyes flared in barely-disguised fury.
"I... just thought I'd come to apologize for your loss. I knew Mollie pretty well, Nastasya," Kiley felt pushed back by the personality bearing down on her. Many claim they feel that way in Nastasya's presence.
Eyes rolling as she scoffed, Nastasya fired back, "Oh thank you so much for your sincerest condolences. I think you just like watching my family shrink, Kiley. God knows you've been all apologies for two years now!"
Hate spun in razor-edged, tight circles of fury behind her dark blue eyes. She wanted nothing more than to sink something sharp into the small-breasted chest of Nastasya Norina. Her tongue flicked angrily across her slightly uneven teeth.
"I think I'll go now..." she said, control coming at great effort. Until she realized the weapon in her hand.
"Nastasya!" she shouted as she turned back. Quickly, Nastasya's head jerked back. "It's so great of you to adopt that baby! Jeffy was it? Just thought I'd tell you."
If a smile could be sinister, evil, and extremely satisfying all at once, then Kiley Merona was wearing it as she walked out of the church, past a Home Exteriors table next to an open van.
"Cold. Cold. Cold. Kiley."
Turning slowly, KM saw someone she thought she should recognize, but couldn't think of her name. It's that confusing sort of situation where you talk to someone and say later "OH MAN I SO KNEW THAT PERSON BUT I COULDN'T THINK OF THEIR NAME!!!!!!!!"
"Oh, no, I was being sincere..."
What struck her most instantly was this woman's hair. It was short, light blonde, and swung back over her ears, without managing to cover her neck. It was complicated, but somehow attractive.
"Kiley, in all the time I've known you, I've never known you to be sincere," she smiled lightly, laying a cold, long-fingered hand on KM's arm.
Recognition still did not manage to even approach.
"My name is Caitlyn, did you forget me?"
7 (neveS) days, 4 (ruoF) fucks, 6 (xiS) blowjobs, spare moments of sleep, a phone without a battery, and 1 (enO) young man released from a box later, Devon "Tubs" Toddlebreath finished wiping his ass and walked out of his bathroom.
Unwashed hands. Interestingly enough, the strange poetry of the universe will cause him to die from an infection that could've been avoided had he just taken up good handwashing habits.
It's confusing how some people lose their lives for the silliest reasons.
Like Derek Norina.
He stepped back into the room, Kiley had switched off the TV and laid back in her chair. Eyes closed, he knew she wasn't sleeping. But he still took the chance to eye her rack anyways.
"Our last story of the night is truly a strange one. Police are reporting to us tonight that a strange 'Deviant's Brothel' has been discovered near the county line. They discovered it two nights ago, after responding to what neighbors described as 'Frightening shouts.' Dixie Lunsford is on site with details..."
Tubs giggled. "Hey, two nights ago, that's when you first came over and we fu-"
The look on Kiley Merona's face, fury, anger, what have you, cut him short. Not out of kindness for her feelings, of course.
9/10 men weigh all interpersonal reactionary options with the grand judge of the libido.
And I'm sure you find that the least confusing detail yet.
END CHAPTER 8 (EIGHT)
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Teetering Bluffs: A Story Of Extravagance: Chapter 7 (Seven) - Jeffy Coitus And The Media
Chapter 7 (Seven) - Jeffy Coitus And The Media
Extravagance.
As a concept, hardly one to make mention of.
Extravagance is decadence that hasn't grown customary. Yet.
Nothing is more extravagant than a local news station feud. Nothing.
Stop arguing with me, you asshole. And you were so quiet the past couple chapters...
So, as I was saying.
Maria Tunderro was an extravagant lady. She gave birth to a son named Kevin who would remain a closeted homosexual until he went to the university. Then, like all niche group members who go to college, he chose to become an extremist.
On campus, he formed a group of gay rights activists who took to near-terrorist actions to get attention. Unfortunately this group's cry for equal rights (to be clear, they already had them) was overshadowed by their typically whiny, never productive rally's that ended with damage totals in the low 1000s (Thousands) on a good day.
After that he decided to petition for equal rights in forums like the student government. Unfortunately, as Kevin would fail to realize, student governments never accomplish anything. So he would leave college with a bachelor's in Mass Media and a healthy lack of appreciation for his rights.
You see, it's the niche group mentality that makes members believe they are not special enough to be normal. I know, you don't have to tell me they're wrong, I just indicated it with the entire tone of the previous passage!
Goddamn! Shutup! You are really annoying me.
Kevin wouldn't be hired directly out of college. As a matter of fact, he would have a very hard time finding a job, because of his ties to extremist groups in college (Patriot Act).
His friend Tony, however, had no trouble. Tony was a member of the peaceful gay rights group that Kevin would eventually join. With a blemish free record (Patriot Act) he found getting work quite easy.
Hired by Channel 15 news, Espantosoville and Currantboraboratown broadcast, Tony landed (ironically) in the middle of a war. The two major Espantosoville/Currantboraboratown networks with local news were 15 and 16. And both spent massive amounts of cash to try to convince gullible housewives everywhere that they were the best.
Idiots who buy into local news I-Team reports ate the battle up, and took sides.
Channel 15 was the clear winner on the weather side of things.
It's worth noting that stupid people/rednecks judge a news station based on their weather reports.
They had dumped more than 55% (Extravagant) of their budget into pointless sattellites and scanners that gave them different colored readouts to display to people of the same weather systems. So, for example, anonymous Sea Storm D could be either pink red green, or blue, dark blue, teal.
Enthralling.
Then, as if this wasn't a cheap enough ploy, they labeled their weather reporting as High Definition because they had a computer program that showed the actual textures of clouds.
No, I'm not kidding.
"Coming up as we begin our newscast is our Alpha Omega Supreme Quad-Doppler XTREME Weather Report, so be sure to join us! Channel 15 news at 5 (Five) is up next." Cheesy newscaster smile.
"OK Tony, take a breather. You're good for a minute," a crewman next to him, behind a camera said. He had thinning hair, and was only 25.
Tony thought that was a damned shame.
"You look a bit tense tonight, something the matter?" the crewman, Dave, asked.
"Just worried about some things going down with my brother across town. He's stuck in jail for something until I get over there and bail him out. Not a good thought, eh?" he laughed, eyes fixed on the head of hair that appeared even more wispy and thin as Dave walked up to him. He felt a strange urge to laugh.
"Yeah? You mean Kelvin?" he asked, his hair glinting under the bright lights as if it were a tiny set of filaments.
Shaking his head, Tony replied "If you know about some other brother I have I guess now's the time to mention it."
"Well sheesh man, sorry, sorry" he said, adjusting some cable on the floor. OK, so I don't know if he really did that or not. I mean, it's a convincing detail isn't it? Forgive me for not asking about every tiny little thing that Tony More-Salt-Than-Pepper did! I know almost everything else but that tiny detail and-
OK fine! I'll stop!
...
...
...
Apology accepted.
"So what happened? He get in trouble for being a creepass?" he asked, adjusting some cable on the floor.
"Yeah, sorta. Apparently he tried to kidnap a baby. Or something," Tony said, reading over his notes for the next set of stories.
Shaking his head, Dave ducked behind the cameras again. "Why would that silly fucker do that? I mean, he's weird, but I always thought he was pretty level."
(The countdown behind the camera began)
"You'd think. He's always been a bit of a rapist candidate, you ask me," Tony said. Unfortunately, the last seven (7) words were aired to the entire Espantosoville / Currantboraboratown broadcast area.
Dave looked sick for a moment, then had to walk away as he began to crack up. He couldn't think of a nicer asshole for this misfortune to strike.
"Sorry about that folks! To begin our 5 (Five) PM broadcast here on 15 (Fifteen), we go to our weatherman Denny Spuzz who heads up our weather technology center which, as you know, is still #1 in the Espantosoville and Currantboraboraville... err, town, sorry, viewing area. Denny, how's that smog looking?" Underneath the desk, Tony was stabbing himself in the leg with a capped pen.
Straight face.
Grinning like all half-braindead weathermen are wont to do, Denny replied "So glad you asked, Tony! The smog is..."
And the audience falls asleep.
"Back to you at the newsdesk, Tony!"
"Thanks a lot Denny. Here's the top stories for the 5 o'clock hour folks. Police are investigating new developments in the local triple homicide/maiming and suicide/housefire that ravaged a small Espantosoville neighborhood a week and a half ago. Documents found in the rubble indicate to Police and Homeland Security that the murderer and suicide victim, Taylor Tungsten, was a member of several prominent terrorist groups online including "Chat 4 Free Singles" which has been a known front for Osama Bin Ladle and his terrorist band.
"Other evidence on site includes a stockpile of Home Exteriors products that might have been used in the production of a dirty bomb, or perhaps a full blown WMD. Police are continuing to investigate the items that didn't burn up in the housefire set by the murderer, presumably to hide his terrorist leanings.
"Friends and family of Lydia Tungsten plan to have another Home Exteriors party in a week and a half. It will be the second "In Memory of Lydia Tungsten" Home Exteriors sales party since Taylor Tungsten brutally disemembered a delivery boy, flayed open his wife and hung her intestines from a nearby tree, beheaded an innocent driver on the street in front of a baby, then went back into his home where he set a large fire with a military grade flamethrower before blowing his own body up with a brick of C4."
Not entirely sure why, Tony nearly giggled as he read the last bit.
"Last night during our broadcast, across town from the Tungsten slayings, another housefire, claiming three (3) lives was reported in the 2200 block of Floxy Street. That report is being complicated today by what police discovered after arriving at the fire."
Tony continued stabbing himself in the side of his leg with the pen to hold back the giggling. Perhaps, he thought, he should take some sick leave...
"As reported late last night exclusively on 15, the home of local court officer Jeffrey Tilling was burned nearly to the ground, claiming his life and the life of two other young women. Upon further investigation, police say the deadly fire was set by an arsonist.
"Local fire volunteers arrived at the blaze as quickly as possible, and managed to contain the fire quickly. Unfortunately, they arrived too late to save the three people inside the house. They were impeded by some confusion at the front gate of "Tricky Dick's Gated Community."
"Police say that the death toll could've been far more, because Mr. Tilling was hosting a retirement party at the time. Here's what some of them had to say about this tragic crime:"
Cut to a shady looking college dropout standing next to three other college dropouts-
"Yeah, we were just finishing up a song, and I thought I smelled a barbecue, but really I was smelling a housefire! Totally ruined our set. Nobody was even listening after that."
Cut to a man whose moustache vaguely made one think of bikers, or some breed of animal, or something-
"Oh dear. Oh dear. This signals terrible things for my retirement. I'm considering calling the whole retirement thing off!"
Cut to a disheveled looking man in a Sade shirt-
"Umm, it seems like, uhh, this was a really tragic happening... like, really bad."
Cut to a young lawyer with a distinctive giggle-
"And I was quite enjoying the snacks too. Only I don't know who'd do this to Fine Mr. Tilling! Hehehehehehehehehe."
Tony back on camera, the lights beginning to make him sweat. In fact, the whole studio was warm. Swamp ass approached, slowly and upleasantly.
"Police are still looking for suspects to charge with the crime. Funeral services have yet to be announced for either Nicky East or Jeffrey Tilling. There is no word yet on the identity of the third victim. An investigation is ongoing."
Shuffling his notes quickly, Tony began the next story about a gas station holdup on the edge of Espantosoville. Laughing fits shook his ribcage as he muffled them. Panic.
Panic.
Pain in the leg.
"Espantosoville police have a suspect in custody. The owner of the Jimmy Dong's station, surprisingly, has expressed no interest in pressing charges.
"When we return from the break, we go to our sports expert Danny Rampling and see just how well the Espantosoville Emigrants were able to swing against the pitching power of Porfy Lutz and the Groverfield Gaspers. Also, is your car able to run on water alone? Our special investigator Paul Oakenfold works with reporter Nicky Holloway to find out. Only on Channel 15 (Fifteen!) news. Stick around folks."
Monitors and televisions and screens of all sorts switched to commercial. Ted's Trucks, in Currantboraboratown.
Meanwhile, dropping his pen, Tony Kinter began to laugh. Laying his head on the newsdesk, nosegrease smearing the cheap glass top, his whole body convulsed with quiet, inexplicable laughter.
Eyes narrowed in confusion, the men behind the cameras turned to one another. Of course, no one understood.
"Hey, Tony? You OK man?" Dave laid his hand on the shaking back of TK. It was only when he heard the light squish under his foot that he realized he'd stepped in something wet.
Beneath his shoe, blood soaked the cheap newsroom floor. Uncapped pen, and a stained pantleg of an extravagantly expensive suit.
Frightened, Dave looked back at Tony whose laughter had grown only a small amount more audible.
Dave met Tony's eyes, and they stared intently into his own. Bloodshot, tearing up, and maniac. Dave had never felt so chilled.
It wouldn't be the biggest chill of his life, however. That would come some three (3) years later when he realized that he was bald at 28, and still without a wife. Still, close second (2nd) right?
And for one of those grand, strange, uknowable moments, two (2) brothers wept witout any idea why.
Everywhere across town, things were at peace. Jeffy Coitus slept soundly in the soft, hairy arms of Nastasya Norina.
END CHAPTER 7 (SEVEN)
Extravagance.
As a concept, hardly one to make mention of.
Extravagance is decadence that hasn't grown customary. Yet.
Nothing is more extravagant than a local news station feud. Nothing.
Stop arguing with me, you asshole. And you were so quiet the past couple chapters...
So, as I was saying.
Maria Tunderro was an extravagant lady. She gave birth to a son named Kevin who would remain a closeted homosexual until he went to the university. Then, like all niche group members who go to college, he chose to become an extremist.
On campus, he formed a group of gay rights activists who took to near-terrorist actions to get attention. Unfortunately this group's cry for equal rights (to be clear, they already had them) was overshadowed by their typically whiny, never productive rally's that ended with damage totals in the low 1000s (Thousands) on a good day.
After that he decided to petition for equal rights in forums like the student government. Unfortunately, as Kevin would fail to realize, student governments never accomplish anything. So he would leave college with a bachelor's in Mass Media and a healthy lack of appreciation for his rights.
You see, it's the niche group mentality that makes members believe they are not special enough to be normal. I know, you don't have to tell me they're wrong, I just indicated it with the entire tone of the previous passage!
Goddamn! Shutup! You are really annoying me.
Kevin wouldn't be hired directly out of college. As a matter of fact, he would have a very hard time finding a job, because of his ties to extremist groups in college (Patriot Act).
His friend Tony, however, had no trouble. Tony was a member of the peaceful gay rights group that Kevin would eventually join. With a blemish free record (Patriot Act) he found getting work quite easy.
Hired by Channel 15 news, Espantosoville and Currantboraboratown broadcast, Tony landed (ironically) in the middle of a war. The two major Espantosoville/Currantboraboratown networks with local news were 15 and 16. And both spent massive amounts of cash to try to convince gullible housewives everywhere that they were the best.
Idiots who buy into local news I-Team reports ate the battle up, and took sides.
Channel 15 was the clear winner on the weather side of things.
It's worth noting that stupid people/rednecks judge a news station based on their weather reports.
They had dumped more than 55% (Extravagant) of their budget into pointless sattellites and scanners that gave them different colored readouts to display to people of the same weather systems. So, for example, anonymous Sea Storm D could be either pink red green, or blue, dark blue, teal.
Enthralling.
Then, as if this wasn't a cheap enough ploy, they labeled their weather reporting as High Definition because they had a computer program that showed the actual textures of clouds.
No, I'm not kidding.
"Coming up as we begin our newscast is our Alpha Omega Supreme Quad-Doppler XTREME Weather Report, so be sure to join us! Channel 15 news at 5 (Five) is up next." Cheesy newscaster smile.
"OK Tony, take a breather. You're good for a minute," a crewman next to him, behind a camera said. He had thinning hair, and was only 25.
Tony thought that was a damned shame.
"You look a bit tense tonight, something the matter?" the crewman, Dave, asked.
"Just worried about some things going down with my brother across town. He's stuck in jail for something until I get over there and bail him out. Not a good thought, eh?" he laughed, eyes fixed on the head of hair that appeared even more wispy and thin as Dave walked up to him. He felt a strange urge to laugh.
"Yeah? You mean Kelvin?" he asked, his hair glinting under the bright lights as if it were a tiny set of filaments.
Shaking his head, Tony replied "If you know about some other brother I have I guess now's the time to mention it."
"Well sheesh man, sorry, sorry" he said, adjusting some cable on the floor. OK, so I don't know if he really did that or not. I mean, it's a convincing detail isn't it? Forgive me for not asking about every tiny little thing that Tony More-Salt-Than-Pepper did! I know almost everything else but that tiny detail and-
OK fine! I'll stop!
...
...
...
Apology accepted.
"So what happened? He get in trouble for being a creepass?" he asked, adjusting some cable on the floor.
"Yeah, sorta. Apparently he tried to kidnap a baby. Or something," Tony said, reading over his notes for the next set of stories.
Shaking his head, Dave ducked behind the cameras again. "Why would that silly fucker do that? I mean, he's weird, but I always thought he was pretty level."
(The countdown behind the camera began)
"You'd think. He's always been a bit of a rapist candidate, you ask me," Tony said. Unfortunately, the last seven (7) words were aired to the entire Espantosoville / Currantboraboratown broadcast area.
Dave looked sick for a moment, then had to walk away as he began to crack up. He couldn't think of a nicer asshole for this misfortune to strike.
"Sorry about that folks! To begin our 5 (Five) PM broadcast here on 15 (Fifteen), we go to our weatherman Denny Spuzz who heads up our weather technology center which, as you know, is still #1 in the Espantosoville and Currantboraboraville... err, town, sorry, viewing area. Denny, how's that smog looking?" Underneath the desk, Tony was stabbing himself in the leg with a capped pen.
Straight face.
Grinning like all half-braindead weathermen are wont to do, Denny replied "So glad you asked, Tony! The smog is..."
And the audience falls asleep.
"Back to you at the newsdesk, Tony!"
"Thanks a lot Denny. Here's the top stories for the 5 o'clock hour folks. Police are investigating new developments in the local triple homicide/maiming and suicide/housefire that ravaged a small Espantosoville neighborhood a week and a half ago. Documents found in the rubble indicate to Police and Homeland Security that the murderer and suicide victim, Taylor Tungsten, was a member of several prominent terrorist groups online including "Chat 4 Free Singles" which has been a known front for Osama Bin Ladle and his terrorist band.
"Other evidence on site includes a stockpile of Home Exteriors products that might have been used in the production of a dirty bomb, or perhaps a full blown WMD. Police are continuing to investigate the items that didn't burn up in the housefire set by the murderer, presumably to hide his terrorist leanings.
"Friends and family of Lydia Tungsten plan to have another Home Exteriors party in a week and a half. It will be the second "In Memory of Lydia Tungsten" Home Exteriors sales party since Taylor Tungsten brutally disemembered a delivery boy, flayed open his wife and hung her intestines from a nearby tree, beheaded an innocent driver on the street in front of a baby, then went back into his home where he set a large fire with a military grade flamethrower before blowing his own body up with a brick of C4."
Not entirely sure why, Tony nearly giggled as he read the last bit.
"Last night during our broadcast, across town from the Tungsten slayings, another housefire, claiming three (3) lives was reported in the 2200 block of Floxy Street. That report is being complicated today by what police discovered after arriving at the fire."
Tony continued stabbing himself in the side of his leg with the pen to hold back the giggling. Perhaps, he thought, he should take some sick leave...
"As reported late last night exclusively on 15, the home of local court officer Jeffrey Tilling was burned nearly to the ground, claiming his life and the life of two other young women. Upon further investigation, police say the deadly fire was set by an arsonist.
"Local fire volunteers arrived at the blaze as quickly as possible, and managed to contain the fire quickly. Unfortunately, they arrived too late to save the three people inside the house. They were impeded by some confusion at the front gate of "Tricky Dick's Gated Community."
"Police say that the death toll could've been far more, because Mr. Tilling was hosting a retirement party at the time. Here's what some of them had to say about this tragic crime:"
Cut to a shady looking college dropout standing next to three other college dropouts-
"Yeah, we were just finishing up a song, and I thought I smelled a barbecue, but really I was smelling a housefire! Totally ruined our set. Nobody was even listening after that."
Cut to a man whose moustache vaguely made one think of bikers, or some breed of animal, or something-
"Oh dear. Oh dear. This signals terrible things for my retirement. I'm considering calling the whole retirement thing off!"
Cut to a disheveled looking man in a Sade shirt-
"Umm, it seems like, uhh, this was a really tragic happening... like, really bad."
Cut to a young lawyer with a distinctive giggle-
"And I was quite enjoying the snacks too. Only I don't know who'd do this to Fine Mr. Tilling! Hehehehehehehehehe."
Tony back on camera, the lights beginning to make him sweat. In fact, the whole studio was warm. Swamp ass approached, slowly and upleasantly.
"Police are still looking for suspects to charge with the crime. Funeral services have yet to be announced for either Nicky East or Jeffrey Tilling. There is no word yet on the identity of the third victim. An investigation is ongoing."
Shuffling his notes quickly, Tony began the next story about a gas station holdup on the edge of Espantosoville. Laughing fits shook his ribcage as he muffled them. Panic.
Panic.
Pain in the leg.
"Espantosoville police have a suspect in custody. The owner of the Jimmy Dong's station, surprisingly, has expressed no interest in pressing charges.
"When we return from the break, we go to our sports expert Danny Rampling and see just how well the Espantosoville Emigrants were able to swing against the pitching power of Porfy Lutz and the Groverfield Gaspers. Also, is your car able to run on water alone? Our special investigator Paul Oakenfold works with reporter Nicky Holloway to find out. Only on Channel 15 (Fifteen!) news. Stick around folks."
Monitors and televisions and screens of all sorts switched to commercial. Ted's Trucks, in Currantboraboratown.
Meanwhile, dropping his pen, Tony Kinter began to laugh. Laying his head on the newsdesk, nosegrease smearing the cheap glass top, his whole body convulsed with quiet, inexplicable laughter.
Eyes narrowed in confusion, the men behind the cameras turned to one another. Of course, no one understood.
"Hey, Tony? You OK man?" Dave laid his hand on the shaking back of TK. It was only when he heard the light squish under his foot that he realized he'd stepped in something wet.
Beneath his shoe, blood soaked the cheap newsroom floor. Uncapped pen, and a stained pantleg of an extravagantly expensive suit.
Frightened, Dave looked back at Tony whose laughter had grown only a small amount more audible.
Dave met Tony's eyes, and they stared intently into his own. Bloodshot, tearing up, and maniac. Dave had never felt so chilled.
It wouldn't be the biggest chill of his life, however. That would come some three (3) years later when he realized that he was bald at 28, and still without a wife. Still, close second (2nd) right?
And for one of those grand, strange, uknowable moments, two (2) brothers wept witout any idea why.
Everywhere across town, things were at peace. Jeffy Coitus slept soundly in the soft, hairy arms of Nastasya Norina.
END CHAPTER 7 (SEVEN)
Sunday, June 15, 2008
Teetering Bluffs: A Story Of Mediocrity: Chapter 6 (Six) - Jeffy Coitus Propels Into The Future... Slowly
Chapter 6 (SIX) - Jeffy Coitus Propels Into The Future... Slowly
If the blogosphere were a person, it would be a boring one.
Some professions beg for mediocrity. They throw themselves at the feet of Greatness and say "Oh please, dear masters, let us live in thy shadow! Only let us lick the dirt from thy steel-toed boots!" and Greatness, being obliging to all those below it, extends its foot for the wet, soon to be muddy, tongues.
Greatness steps in a lot of shit along the way. The ladder to the top is covered with the excrement of those thousands (1000s) who reached the top before, and took a celebratory shit down the very rungs that led them there.
Not realizing, of course, that soon enough, they'd be climbing it all over again, after landing on all the mediocre wishful-thinkers below. TB (as some have come to know this disease) is not a story of greatness.
Not today at least.
Maybe tomorrow.
Indeed, some people are so mediocre, and so happy with their state, that they would lick the shit of ages from the rungs of Greatness's ladder.
Crashing Titanics was a band that fit this description.
Also, The Killers, and The Strokes. Only today isn't about them, nor do I feel they warrant more than the sentence they just shared. Minus their names, the sentence had only 2 (TWO) other words. I apologize for wasting so much language in that sentence on bands that already waste quite a few CDs and quite a lot of plastic.
And time.
Headed up by Chessie "Fingerbum" Holloway, and backed by people so obviously destined for mediocrity their mothers didn't even name them (just kidding), Crashing Titanics had traveled the Espantosoville circuit of Bat Mitzvahs and graduation (high school) parties for 8 (eight) years.
College dropouts.
Currently, they were playing their standard lineup of cover songs at a retirement party. Fortunately for them, things were pretty cool in Espantosoville that day. 83 (Eighty Three) in the shade, humidity 90%, and not a cloud to be found in the whole world.
Seriously.
This strangely overheating weather was the result of a natural weather disaster called "Global Cooling" that scientists had been watching for years. Many had even begun wearing shirts that said "We Told You So."
In the early 90's, scientists (who are all quite intelligent) noticed that the ozone was depleting. Humans were, of course, blamed. But thankfully, being a responsible species, they cleaned up their act.
Emissions that destroyed the ozone were taken down to as little as was feasible, and economical, and ergonomical, so that scientists had nothing to bitch about anymore.
Unfortunately, this sudden change in human activity caused the ozone to become replete too quickly, meaning that by some freak action of humanity, the world was suffering from "Global Cooling." Icebergs would freeze up too much, the world would dry up, and everyone was bound to burn to death in the glaring sun refracted and made more powerful by a too-thick ozone and a hell of a lot of ice.
Makes sense, right?
But this was not the topic at hand during the show, taking place behind Jeffrey Tilling's home in a gated community called "Tricky Dick's Gated Community."
"I'm telling you, Devon, Super El Nino is gonna kill us all! Scientists are saying it!" Tilling said, half-drunk. It was his own party, leave him alone you judgmental fuck.
"No way, man. No way. You're just buying into all that fear marketing, and shit," replied Devon, tuning his bass. For the record, he was quite mediocre at playing it.
"FEAR MARKETING!" spluttered Tilling through his expensive Belgian beer, Grey Moon. "What are you, a LIBERTARIAN?!"
Everyone around laughed. No, I'm not sure why either.
Frank Moishe wandered over to the band, still gearing up for their second set. "That was quite a show you four put on earlier!" he smiled through a large moustache that made one think of Walruses.
"Ah! Moishey! How're you liking the retirement party? Pretty nice huh?" Tilling said, beaming at the old man as Grey Moon spilled down his Espantosoville Emigrant Baseball shirt.
"It's good, Jeffrey, it's good," he laughed. "Only, who invited that one?" Frank said, indicating Torrence "Rinse" Clamwater who had just walked through the back door of Tilling's house into the rather lively party, clearly shaking.
With a slosh that stained Moishe's rather cheap suit, Tilling pushed the Grey Moon into the retiree's hand as he began a half-stumble charge across the grass to Rinse. "What're ya doin' here, Mr. Clamwater?!" he exclaimed in fake cheer.
"I, uhh, heard from Mindy, uhh, that you, umm, had invited me, Mr. Tilling," Rinse tapped his index finger nervously against his thigh inside his pocket. Looking around, he realized the party was quite casual, but he still felt under-dressed in cut-off sweatpants and a faded Sade shirt.
How do I write this shit down? I really should start lying about stuff, because the truth is kind of embarassing.
"Mindy..." muttered Tilling. The last person he wanted to see at Moishe's retirement party. Unconsciously, he eyed the young, busty front desk girl who was seated in shade on a green plastic chair near his wife, out by his backyard pool deck. She had been filling in for "The Frizz" whose dad had decapitated a lady in a car and then fed the blood to a baby who'd just left his courtroom.
This, of course, after he had finished killing his wife with a hacksaw, and running over a delivery boy 16 times with his riding lawnmower, and directly before kill himself. It was natural that "The Frizz" should need a few days off to recover from this kind of thing. He only wondered why Fox News had revealed all these gory details.
Logging it in his mind to try to seduce the Fill In (whose name from here on out will be Fill In, a play on words in reference to her once B Now D silicones) later- 16 years old- Tilling looked back up at Rinse.
"Well, yer sure invited! Grab yerself a dogie from that there grill and chow down, partner!" boomed Tilling.
"Thanks, sir," replied Rinse, nervously. His head pounded from withdrawal symptoms, fingers twitching in his pockets. An acrid taste coated his tongue, like bitterness from the words he uttered that were complete lies. Hate was very real.
"Hey, we're Crashing Titanics! Whatsup guys!"
As the band began to play, only three (3) out of 60 (sixty) people really paying attention to them, Tilling wound his way over to his wife, whom he had not fucked in 4 (FOUR) years.
"Enjoying the band, honey?" he asked, kissing her on the forehead, and obviously turning his eyes to look down Fill In's shirt. She pulled her top down further.
"Oh, you know what..." Mrs. Tillings face was red, like her hair used to be before she'd had it dyed one (1) too many times in a vain attempt to get him to stop fucking young girls. He, of course, missed all the obvious signs that she knew. Like the small mentions of it. The notes saying "I know you're sleeping with young girls." The intervention she staged with his family, and hers, where he ignored them for a handheld Yahtzee game.
Tilling laughed on the inside, knowing his wife too proper to cause a public scene. "Go get more snacks for the table. Cheez-It. And bring out those little weiners too. I like those."
A young man next to him giggled a bit, and it was quite a distinctive giggle too, "Oh yes, we've heard Mr. Tilling." He continued to laugh as he walked off.
Fucking lawyers, thought Tilling. In Tilling's defense, this lawyer was quite mediocre.
But even small weiners would not bring JT any solace. He knew, looking over at Rinse, shaking his styrofoam plate in a drug-less stupor, that Mindy would arrive soon.
Mindy was his employer. Espantosoville had two private security firms, before Mindy bought them both and used some sort of leverage to get his corps installed in the courthouses as official security. But the blackmail deal had a stipulation.
Since only the best of rent-a-cops got to work in the courthouse, most of Tilling's friends had been shipped off to work in the mall Mindy owned. Others, less fortunate, were now working at the Steak and Smack or one of his other businesses. Mindy only hired young hispanic men to work at his dry cleaners, however.
Not really sure why. No, I don't know. Stop asking.
Nobody knew how Rinse, the man who was so awkward in public he almost shit himself constantly, got a job as a rent-a-cop in the courthouse.
Nobody liked him.
Knowing this visit was impending made Tilling's hands shake too, ironically.
And Crashing Titanics played over and over again in the background, terrible covers that had been done 1,000s (Thousands) of times.
"Alright, so whatsup Espantosoville? I'm Fingerbum, and this is my crew... nah, who cares! This next song is called 'More Than Words'!"
Immediately, all the women at the party turned to one another.
"Oh, we played this at our wedding!" squealed one.
"Oh, my, we played this at our wedding!" squealed another.
"Oh dear, I haven't heard this song since my wedding!" giggled yet another.
I'll just save you the trouble. Every married woman said something to this effect, except for Fill In who turned to Mrs. Tilling (back with small weiners) and said "I had sex to this song last night" before giggling uncontrollably with her fake rack that just wouldn't bounce, no matter how hard she tried.
Seconds passed.
Moishe trundled over to Tilling, who had begun to eat a plate of small pen... uhh, weiners his wfie had given him. Yes, it is poisoned. No, he doesn't know.
"Hey, pal, thanks for the party. It was mighty white of you, old friend!" he said, his great Racist Walrus Moustache wet with barbecue sauce.
For the record, the Walrus is racist, not the moustache.
Smiling, but beginning to feel a bit unsettled in his stomach, JT replied "Anything for you, Moishe! You've been good to me over the years, even through that whole" he mouthed the words Minor Fucking "incident. You've been great to me!"
They both laughed. "Well, it's OK to take a dip in the shallow end, so long as you don't leave your booties, am I right?!"
Have you ever seen anyone guffaw?
Moishe slapped Tilling on the arm before walking over to a recently empty chair next to Mrs. Tilling, who was glaring into her husband's back, waiting for the expensive poison she'd bought illegally to drop him.
Looking over, JT saw Mindy Mashtatoor at the snack table.
He also saw Fill In walk into the house, skirt riding up, low cut top hanging down.
Being a man who had never faced his problems head on (not even once (1-nce... sorry)) he followed her in.
When they arrived at the bathroom, she fiddled with the doorhandle before turning to him, tugging on her skirt. "Mr. Tile, I can't get this door to close, can you help me?" Her face was quite obviously a fake innocent, but Tilling didn't notice. Nor did he notice that she got his name wrong. Or register the Myanmar Earthquake level tackiness she had just unleashed.
Stepping into the bathroom, he closed the door for her.
Slowly, the closet door next to the bathroom slid aside, and a 17 (SEVENTEEN) year old girl stepped out, holding a gun. Breathing heavily with nervousness, eyes puffed from tears, she waited.
Jeffrey Tilling would not leave the bathroom alive. Nor would Fill In (see why I didn't bother telling your her name was Nicky East?).
But it wasn't the poison that would kill JT. Or the gun that would kill either of them.
You see, the slight, crying brunette with messy, tangled brown hair that had been somewhere between coarse and poorly-cared-for, would also die.
No. All three would be the victims of a secret vow.
"You guys smell that barbecue?! Mmmm! Here's a tune called 'I Love Rock & Roll'! YEAH!"
Fingerbum, mediocre vocalist that he was, would be the last to notice the housefire.
END CHAPTER 6 (SIX)
If the blogosphere were a person, it would be a boring one.
Some professions beg for mediocrity. They throw themselves at the feet of Greatness and say "Oh please, dear masters, let us live in thy shadow! Only let us lick the dirt from thy steel-toed boots!" and Greatness, being obliging to all those below it, extends its foot for the wet, soon to be muddy, tongues.
Greatness steps in a lot of shit along the way. The ladder to the top is covered with the excrement of those thousands (1000s) who reached the top before, and took a celebratory shit down the very rungs that led them there.
Not realizing, of course, that soon enough, they'd be climbing it all over again, after landing on all the mediocre wishful-thinkers below. TB (as some have come to know this disease) is not a story of greatness.
Not today at least.
Maybe tomorrow.
Indeed, some people are so mediocre, and so happy with their state, that they would lick the shit of ages from the rungs of Greatness's ladder.
Crashing Titanics was a band that fit this description.
Also, The Killers, and The Strokes. Only today isn't about them, nor do I feel they warrant more than the sentence they just shared. Minus their names, the sentence had only 2 (TWO) other words. I apologize for wasting so much language in that sentence on bands that already waste quite a few CDs and quite a lot of plastic.
And time.
Headed up by Chessie "Fingerbum" Holloway, and backed by people so obviously destined for mediocrity their mothers didn't even name them (just kidding), Crashing Titanics had traveled the Espantosoville circuit of Bat Mitzvahs and graduation (high school) parties for 8 (eight) years.
College dropouts.
Currently, they were playing their standard lineup of cover songs at a retirement party. Fortunately for them, things were pretty cool in Espantosoville that day. 83 (Eighty Three) in the shade, humidity 90%, and not a cloud to be found in the whole world.
Seriously.
This strangely overheating weather was the result of a natural weather disaster called "Global Cooling" that scientists had been watching for years. Many had even begun wearing shirts that said "We Told You So."
In the early 90's, scientists (who are all quite intelligent) noticed that the ozone was depleting. Humans were, of course, blamed. But thankfully, being a responsible species, they cleaned up their act.
Emissions that destroyed the ozone were taken down to as little as was feasible, and economical, and ergonomical, so that scientists had nothing to bitch about anymore.
Unfortunately, this sudden change in human activity caused the ozone to become replete too quickly, meaning that by some freak action of humanity, the world was suffering from "Global Cooling." Icebergs would freeze up too much, the world would dry up, and everyone was bound to burn to death in the glaring sun refracted and made more powerful by a too-thick ozone and a hell of a lot of ice.
Makes sense, right?
But this was not the topic at hand during the show, taking place behind Jeffrey Tilling's home in a gated community called "Tricky Dick's Gated Community."
"I'm telling you, Devon, Super El Nino is gonna kill us all! Scientists are saying it!" Tilling said, half-drunk. It was his own party, leave him alone you judgmental fuck.
"No way, man. No way. You're just buying into all that fear marketing, and shit," replied Devon, tuning his bass. For the record, he was quite mediocre at playing it.
"FEAR MARKETING!" spluttered Tilling through his expensive Belgian beer, Grey Moon. "What are you, a LIBERTARIAN?!"
Everyone around laughed. No, I'm not sure why either.
Frank Moishe wandered over to the band, still gearing up for their second set. "That was quite a show you four put on earlier!" he smiled through a large moustache that made one think of Walruses.
"Ah! Moishey! How're you liking the retirement party? Pretty nice huh?" Tilling said, beaming at the old man as Grey Moon spilled down his Espantosoville Emigrant Baseball shirt.
"It's good, Jeffrey, it's good," he laughed. "Only, who invited that one?" Frank said, indicating Torrence "Rinse" Clamwater who had just walked through the back door of Tilling's house into the rather lively party, clearly shaking.
With a slosh that stained Moishe's rather cheap suit, Tilling pushed the Grey Moon into the retiree's hand as he began a half-stumble charge across the grass to Rinse. "What're ya doin' here, Mr. Clamwater?!" he exclaimed in fake cheer.
"I, uhh, heard from Mindy, uhh, that you, umm, had invited me, Mr. Tilling," Rinse tapped his index finger nervously against his thigh inside his pocket. Looking around, he realized the party was quite casual, but he still felt under-dressed in cut-off sweatpants and a faded Sade shirt.
How do I write this shit down? I really should start lying about stuff, because the truth is kind of embarassing.
"Mindy..." muttered Tilling. The last person he wanted to see at Moishe's retirement party. Unconsciously, he eyed the young, busty front desk girl who was seated in shade on a green plastic chair near his wife, out by his backyard pool deck. She had been filling in for "The Frizz" whose dad had decapitated a lady in a car and then fed the blood to a baby who'd just left his courtroom.
This, of course, after he had finished killing his wife with a hacksaw, and running over a delivery boy 16 times with his riding lawnmower, and directly before kill himself. It was natural that "The Frizz" should need a few days off to recover from this kind of thing. He only wondered why Fox News had revealed all these gory details.
Logging it in his mind to try to seduce the Fill In (whose name from here on out will be Fill In, a play on words in reference to her once B Now D silicones) later- 16 years old- Tilling looked back up at Rinse.
"Well, yer sure invited! Grab yerself a dogie from that there grill and chow down, partner!" boomed Tilling.
"Thanks, sir," replied Rinse, nervously. His head pounded from withdrawal symptoms, fingers twitching in his pockets. An acrid taste coated his tongue, like bitterness from the words he uttered that were complete lies. Hate was very real.
"Hey, we're Crashing Titanics! Whatsup guys!"
As the band began to play, only three (3) out of 60 (sixty) people really paying attention to them, Tilling wound his way over to his wife, whom he had not fucked in 4 (FOUR) years.
"Enjoying the band, honey?" he asked, kissing her on the forehead, and obviously turning his eyes to look down Fill In's shirt. She pulled her top down further.
"Oh, you know what..." Mrs. Tillings face was red, like her hair used to be before she'd had it dyed one (1) too many times in a vain attempt to get him to stop fucking young girls. He, of course, missed all the obvious signs that she knew. Like the small mentions of it. The notes saying "I know you're sleeping with young girls." The intervention she staged with his family, and hers, where he ignored them for a handheld Yahtzee game.
Tilling laughed on the inside, knowing his wife too proper to cause a public scene. "Go get more snacks for the table. Cheez-It. And bring out those little weiners too. I like those."
A young man next to him giggled a bit, and it was quite a distinctive giggle too, "Oh yes, we've heard Mr. Tilling." He continued to laugh as he walked off.
Fucking lawyers, thought Tilling. In Tilling's defense, this lawyer was quite mediocre.
But even small weiners would not bring JT any solace. He knew, looking over at Rinse, shaking his styrofoam plate in a drug-less stupor, that Mindy would arrive soon.
Mindy was his employer. Espantosoville had two private security firms, before Mindy bought them both and used some sort of leverage to get his corps installed in the courthouses as official security. But the blackmail deal had a stipulation.
Since only the best of rent-a-cops got to work in the courthouse, most of Tilling's friends had been shipped off to work in the mall Mindy owned. Others, less fortunate, were now working at the Steak and Smack or one of his other businesses. Mindy only hired young hispanic men to work at his dry cleaners, however.
Not really sure why. No, I don't know. Stop asking.
Nobody knew how Rinse, the man who was so awkward in public he almost shit himself constantly, got a job as a rent-a-cop in the courthouse.
Nobody liked him.
Knowing this visit was impending made Tilling's hands shake too, ironically.
And Crashing Titanics played over and over again in the background, terrible covers that had been done 1,000s (Thousands) of times.
"Alright, so whatsup Espantosoville? I'm Fingerbum, and this is my crew... nah, who cares! This next song is called 'More Than Words'!"
Immediately, all the women at the party turned to one another.
"Oh, we played this at our wedding!" squealed one.
"Oh, my, we played this at our wedding!" squealed another.
"Oh dear, I haven't heard this song since my wedding!" giggled yet another.
I'll just save you the trouble. Every married woman said something to this effect, except for Fill In who turned to Mrs. Tilling (back with small weiners) and said "I had sex to this song last night" before giggling uncontrollably with her fake rack that just wouldn't bounce, no matter how hard she tried.
Seconds passed.
Moishe trundled over to Tilling, who had begun to eat a plate of small pen... uhh, weiners his wfie had given him. Yes, it is poisoned. No, he doesn't know.
"Hey, pal, thanks for the party. It was mighty white of you, old friend!" he said, his great Racist Walrus Moustache wet with barbecue sauce.
For the record, the Walrus is racist, not the moustache.
Smiling, but beginning to feel a bit unsettled in his stomach, JT replied "Anything for you, Moishe! You've been good to me over the years, even through that whole" he mouthed the words Minor Fucking "incident. You've been great to me!"
They both laughed. "Well, it's OK to take a dip in the shallow end, so long as you don't leave your booties, am I right?!"
Have you ever seen anyone guffaw?
Moishe slapped Tilling on the arm before walking over to a recently empty chair next to Mrs. Tilling, who was glaring into her husband's back, waiting for the expensive poison she'd bought illegally to drop him.
Looking over, JT saw Mindy Mashtatoor at the snack table.
He also saw Fill In walk into the house, skirt riding up, low cut top hanging down.
Being a man who had never faced his problems head on (not even once (1-nce... sorry)) he followed her in.
When they arrived at the bathroom, she fiddled with the doorhandle before turning to him, tugging on her skirt. "Mr. Tile, I can't get this door to close, can you help me?" Her face was quite obviously a fake innocent, but Tilling didn't notice. Nor did he notice that she got his name wrong. Or register the Myanmar Earthquake level tackiness she had just unleashed.
Stepping into the bathroom, he closed the door for her.
Slowly, the closet door next to the bathroom slid aside, and a 17 (SEVENTEEN) year old girl stepped out, holding a gun. Breathing heavily with nervousness, eyes puffed from tears, she waited.
Jeffrey Tilling would not leave the bathroom alive. Nor would Fill In (see why I didn't bother telling your her name was Nicky East?).
But it wasn't the poison that would kill JT. Or the gun that would kill either of them.
You see, the slight, crying brunette with messy, tangled brown hair that had been somewhere between coarse and poorly-cared-for, would also die.
No. All three would be the victims of a secret vow.
"You guys smell that barbecue?! Mmmm! Here's a tune called 'I Love Rock & Roll'! YEAH!"
Fingerbum, mediocre vocalist that he was, would be the last to notice the housefire.
END CHAPTER 6 (SIX)
Friday, June 13, 2008
Teetering Bluffs: A Story Of Frustration: Chapter 5 (Five) - Progenitors And Jeffy Coitus
Chapter 5 (FIVE) - Progenitors And Jeffy Coitus
A story
F
R
U
S
T
R
A
T
I
N
G.
Like Post-Modernism.
Only this is frustrating because it makes too much sense, whereas Post-Modernism is just dog shit dressed up as a cat that is actually a mouse in disguise as a wolf.
Doesn't make a whole lot of sense why you'd wanna dress up dog shit as a cat that is actually a mouse in disguise as a wolf.
What does that have to do with this story, intriguing, you might ask?
Not a whole lot.
But neither does anything else we've talked about.
Now the original Grushevsky plan was thought out by a young man named Lionel Joseph, who was shot in the head in the early 80's for talking too loud during a screening of the Eddie Murphy/Dan Akroyd classic "Trading Places" which spawned 10,000 terrible Rich White Guy Meets Street Savvy Black Guy movies. That aside, it's a pretty fantastic film.
Anyways, Lionel Joseph was frustrating a young German named Derek Jetarro who had recently changed his name from Hans Mannschaft after viewing several movies at the predecessor to the Cannes Film Festival, The Camel Newsreel Theater, about Japanese strike breakers. He also was a great fan of Vaudeville, so he...
Anyways.
After being frustrated with Lionel's pointless blatherings for more than half the movie, including missing Jamie Lee Curtis's somewhat-overrated but still enjoyable breasts due to Lionel standing up and performing a rather dramatic "yawn" for attention (he farted during this), Derek pulled out his Glock and put one through Lionel's head.
This, ironically, after he had resolved to stop talking, realizing that nobody had listened to him anyways.
Unfortunately, this turn of events frustrated the Grushevsky plan.
To be plain, it was shot with a single round from a Glock .17. For Lionel Joseph was a careful man, and shared his plans with no one.
There's a lesson to be learned, in this, I'm sure. I'm just not entirely certain what it is.
Directly in front of Lionel was a young girl named Gorina Hollon. She was a gorgeous young girl, even if she was a bit loose from excessive self-insertion. After all, it was the 80's and there wasn't much else to do.
Blonde
Hair
With
Slight
Streaks
Of
Brownish
Tannish
Dirty
Blonde.
Sorry, typing like that must be frustrating for you to read.
Her rack was decent, her stomach flat, and her legs quite thin. As follows, she had no ass. Tragically.
Blood sprayed out of Lionel's head onto the the young 20 year old girl. This immediately sent her into labor, due to shock.
"Oh snap!" a young urbanite next to her shouted, attempting to be hip.
"Oh shizzy!" a young urbanite next to her shouted, attempting to be cool.
"Oh shazam!" a young urbanite next to her shouted, attempting to be jive.
"I'm going into labor, ya'll!" Gorina shouted, attempting to sound panicked.
No, I lied, she was basically panicked.
The first urbanite, named Charles, rushed to Gorina's side and laid her onto the floor of the theater. Her hair stuck to the stickiness of concrete that had seen more handjobs than it had films.
"Fa sho bitch, just lay back whilst I fetch a medic!" Charles said calmly before fleeing towards the exit.
It seems worth noting that everyone else had fled, screaming, except for the handful of characters mentioned, these being:
-Derek Jetarro, psychotic German killer and appreciator of Japanese films about strike breakers.
-Lionel Joseph, recently deceased Russian whose alcohol level upon death was suprisingly 0 (ZERO).
-Gorina Hollon, single mother impregnated by a hoodlum during a rape, also sprayed with Lionel's brain matter which shocked her into labor. Her daughter's name is going to be Shannon, if you cared to know. Personally, I find myself partial to that name.
-Carl Jung, no relation, a young hoodie from Espantosoville mall. And by that I mean he was homeless and was taking up residence behind a mall dust bin.
-Charles Whig, a young richman dressed as a hoodie from Espantosoville mall. Recently left the theater in search of a medic.
-Devin "Horehound" Homeeker, no lines.
In the background, the movie played. Jame Lee Curtis's tits bounced out of her bra, only to be quickly covered up by her hands. "You sleep on the couch!"
"I don't sleep on the couch!" shouted Jetarro at the screen. He was quite furious. Raising his glock, he emptied the whole clip into the speechless Dan Akroyd. This did little to stop the film, however.
Feeling tortured by good cinema (much like most modern German's do by good music- see their Rammstein obsession for further proof) and frustrated by life, he pulled out a six inch blade and sunk it into his heart.
That's the end of that.
"Bitch, jes hold on to ya azz!" shouted Carl as he spread Gorina's legs.
"What?" she asked, pain creeping into her broken-water vaginal orifice.
"Umm, sorry, I meant to say..."
But you don't care about the rest of this story do you. Why should you care about Shannon Hollon?
Shannon was to grow up to be a beautiful young woman, that's why.
She'd have solid Double D's, I'm not even shitting you.
And in 2005, she'd give birth to a... well, you already know that part of the story don't you.
What you don't know is what happened next. After the birth of Jeffy Coitus.
If I had to tabulate your big questions, the big things that are frustrating you right now, it would be easy to summarize it as follows:
1. What the fuck is going on with this story?
2. Is this a soap opera?
3. What's with the silly story breaking up?
4. Do you own a television, or a crab?
5. What the fuck is going on with this story?
6. Just why is this story about Jeffy Coitus?
7. Does it have a happy ending?
8. Does this story have as much boring sex description as Harlequin Romance Novels, which stop working after a woman has had an honest-to-God sexual experience since they're so patently dull and decidedly fake?
9. Can every July 28th be free Ice Cream day?
10. Why should we care about Shannon Hollon?
I shall answer these questions now:
1. Don't ask me.
2. Don't ask me.
3. To keep you interested and confused.
4. No.
5. Cubans.
6. Because he's the main character, you fucking moron. You're really frustrating me.
7. Yes, Unfortunately.
8. Only if you send naked pictures, you inexperienced, ugly, bitch.
9. Vote Barack for free Ice Cream, McCain for free Ice Cream Sandwiches. How can you go wrong? Get out and vote! Republicans, Democrats, it doesn't matter! Show the world how not stupid you fucking Americans are! VOTE GODDAMNIT.
10. Well, one, because she's got a beautiful name. And two, because she... well, lemme just tell you.
Creaking on a chain that swung due to wind from a nearby basement window, the light above her head shown through long pillars of dust. It reminded her of when she was a child and would wake up from naps in her room, the light from the window reminding her that she was trapped inside a home with a neurotic mother who constantly babbled about nature VS nurture.
"You finally up, whore?" a gruff, but somewhat high voice from her left said.
"What the... what the fuck?" she asked, leaning up slowly. Her head felt quite heavy. Drugs.
"If you have anybody terribly important to say goodbye to, you'd better do it soon. Your kidneys will make a great selling item... goodbye, Shannon."
Marcus, she thought angrily, leaning up as much as she could through the pain in her abdomen. She knew something was missing inside. It's impossible to not know that it's gone. It was as though a piece of padding always present under her shirt was suddenly no more.
Pain ran through her, and blood began to seep through the half-assed stiches, into her shirt.
Slowly, she closed the phone, realizing that its ringing had woken her up. Although, she didn't remember answering it.
She did remember being raped, vaguely.
Things were slowly piecing together in her head, and the more they did the worse her head hurt. She knew all of the pain was going to frustrate her efforts, but it was clear to her that she had to accomplish something before dying.
And she knew she would surely die.
"Jeffy..." she said quietly as she began to rise up. "I have to find my son..."
Tumbling over her own (rather sexy) feet, she fell to her knees and began to crawl to the basement stairs.
Her cat's shit, left on the floor where she fell, smeared across her knee.
Didn't matter.
All that mattered was getting to her son before she died.
Even whores have feelings of matriarchal loyalty in the end...
END CHAPTER 5 (FIVE)
A story
F
R
U
S
T
R
A
T
I
N
G.
Like Post-Modernism.
Only this is frustrating because it makes too much sense, whereas Post-Modernism is just dog shit dressed up as a cat that is actually a mouse in disguise as a wolf.
Doesn't make a whole lot of sense why you'd wanna dress up dog shit as a cat that is actually a mouse in disguise as a wolf.
What does that have to do with this story, intriguing, you might ask?
Not a whole lot.
But neither does anything else we've talked about.
Now the original Grushevsky plan was thought out by a young man named Lionel Joseph, who was shot in the head in the early 80's for talking too loud during a screening of the Eddie Murphy/Dan Akroyd classic "Trading Places" which spawned 10,000 terrible Rich White Guy Meets Street Savvy Black Guy movies. That aside, it's a pretty fantastic film.
Anyways, Lionel Joseph was frustrating a young German named Derek Jetarro who had recently changed his name from Hans Mannschaft after viewing several movies at the predecessor to the Cannes Film Festival, The Camel Newsreel Theater, about Japanese strike breakers. He also was a great fan of Vaudeville, so he...
Anyways.
After being frustrated with Lionel's pointless blatherings for more than half the movie, including missing Jamie Lee Curtis's somewhat-overrated but still enjoyable breasts due to Lionel standing up and performing a rather dramatic "yawn" for attention (he farted during this), Derek pulled out his Glock and put one through Lionel's head.
This, ironically, after he had resolved to stop talking, realizing that nobody had listened to him anyways.
Unfortunately, this turn of events frustrated the Grushevsky plan.
To be plain, it was shot with a single round from a Glock .17. For Lionel Joseph was a careful man, and shared his plans with no one.
There's a lesson to be learned, in this, I'm sure. I'm just not entirely certain what it is.
Directly in front of Lionel was a young girl named Gorina Hollon. She was a gorgeous young girl, even if she was a bit loose from excessive self-insertion. After all, it was the 80's and there wasn't much else to do.
Blonde
Hair
With
Slight
Streaks
Of
Brownish
Tannish
Dirty
Blonde.
Sorry, typing like that must be frustrating for you to read.
Her rack was decent, her stomach flat, and her legs quite thin. As follows, she had no ass. Tragically.
Blood sprayed out of Lionel's head onto the the young 20 year old girl. This immediately sent her into labor, due to shock.
"Oh snap!" a young urbanite next to her shouted, attempting to be hip.
"Oh shizzy!" a young urbanite next to her shouted, attempting to be cool.
"Oh shazam!" a young urbanite next to her shouted, attempting to be jive.
"I'm going into labor, ya'll!" Gorina shouted, attempting to sound panicked.
No, I lied, she was basically panicked.
The first urbanite, named Charles, rushed to Gorina's side and laid her onto the floor of the theater. Her hair stuck to the stickiness of concrete that had seen more handjobs than it had films.
"Fa sho bitch, just lay back whilst I fetch a medic!" Charles said calmly before fleeing towards the exit.
It seems worth noting that everyone else had fled, screaming, except for the handful of characters mentioned, these being:
-Derek Jetarro, psychotic German killer and appreciator of Japanese films about strike breakers.
-Lionel Joseph, recently deceased Russian whose alcohol level upon death was suprisingly 0 (ZERO).
-Gorina Hollon, single mother impregnated by a hoodlum during a rape, also sprayed with Lionel's brain matter which shocked her into labor. Her daughter's name is going to be Shannon, if you cared to know. Personally, I find myself partial to that name.
-Carl Jung, no relation, a young hoodie from Espantosoville mall. And by that I mean he was homeless and was taking up residence behind a mall dust bin.
-Charles Whig, a young richman dressed as a hoodie from Espantosoville mall. Recently left the theater in search of a medic.
-Devin "Horehound" Homeeker, no lines.
In the background, the movie played. Jame Lee Curtis's tits bounced out of her bra, only to be quickly covered up by her hands. "You sleep on the couch!"
"I don't sleep on the couch!" shouted Jetarro at the screen. He was quite furious. Raising his glock, he emptied the whole clip into the speechless Dan Akroyd. This did little to stop the film, however.
Feeling tortured by good cinema (much like most modern German's do by good music- see their Rammstein obsession for further proof) and frustrated by life, he pulled out a six inch blade and sunk it into his heart.
That's the end of that.
"Bitch, jes hold on to ya azz!" shouted Carl as he spread Gorina's legs.
"What?" she asked, pain creeping into her broken-water vaginal orifice.
"Umm, sorry, I meant to say..."
But you don't care about the rest of this story do you. Why should you care about Shannon Hollon?
Shannon was to grow up to be a beautiful young woman, that's why.
She'd have solid Double D's, I'm not even shitting you.
And in 2005, she'd give birth to a... well, you already know that part of the story don't you.
What you don't know is what happened next. After the birth of Jeffy Coitus.
If I had to tabulate your big questions, the big things that are frustrating you right now, it would be easy to summarize it as follows:
1. What the fuck is going on with this story?
2. Is this a soap opera?
3. What's with the silly story breaking up?
4. Do you own a television, or a crab?
5. What the fuck is going on with this story?
6. Just why is this story about Jeffy Coitus?
7. Does it have a happy ending?
8. Does this story have as much boring sex description as Harlequin Romance Novels, which stop working after a woman has had an honest-to-God sexual experience since they're so patently dull and decidedly fake?
9. Can every July 28th be free Ice Cream day?
10. Why should we care about Shannon Hollon?
I shall answer these questions now:
1. Don't ask me.
2. Don't ask me.
3. To keep you interested and confused.
4. No.
5. Cubans.
6. Because he's the main character, you fucking moron. You're really frustrating me.
7. Yes, Unfortunately.
8. Only if you send naked pictures, you inexperienced, ugly, bitch.
9. Vote Barack for free Ice Cream, McCain for free Ice Cream Sandwiches. How can you go wrong? Get out and vote! Republicans, Democrats, it doesn't matter! Show the world how not stupid you fucking Americans are! VOTE GODDAMNIT.
10. Well, one, because she's got a beautiful name. And two, because she... well, lemme just tell you.
Creaking on a chain that swung due to wind from a nearby basement window, the light above her head shown through long pillars of dust. It reminded her of when she was a child and would wake up from naps in her room, the light from the window reminding her that she was trapped inside a home with a neurotic mother who constantly babbled about nature VS nurture.
"You finally up, whore?" a gruff, but somewhat high voice from her left said.
"What the... what the fuck?" she asked, leaning up slowly. Her head felt quite heavy. Drugs.
"If you have anybody terribly important to say goodbye to, you'd better do it soon. Your kidneys will make a great selling item... goodbye, Shannon."
Marcus, she thought angrily, leaning up as much as she could through the pain in her abdomen. She knew something was missing inside. It's impossible to not know that it's gone. It was as though a piece of padding always present under her shirt was suddenly no more.
Pain ran through her, and blood began to seep through the half-assed stiches, into her shirt.
Slowly, she closed the phone, realizing that its ringing had woken her up. Although, she didn't remember answering it.
She did remember being raped, vaguely.
Things were slowly piecing together in her head, and the more they did the worse her head hurt. She knew all of the pain was going to frustrate her efforts, but it was clear to her that she had to accomplish something before dying.
And she knew she would surely die.
"Jeffy..." she said quietly as she began to rise up. "I have to find my son..."
Tumbling over her own (rather sexy) feet, she fell to her knees and began to crawl to the basement stairs.
Her cat's shit, left on the floor where she fell, smeared across her knee.
Didn't matter.
All that mattered was getting to her son before she died.
Even whores have feelings of matriarchal loyalty in the end...
END CHAPTER 5 (FIVE)
Monday, June 2, 2008
Teetering Bluffs: A Story Of Passion: Chapter 4 (Four) - Jeffy Coitus Has Nothing To Say
CHAPTER 4 (FOUR) - Jeffy Coitus Has Nothing To Say
Would you believe I finally found a comfortable place for us to talk about this, irreverent reader? I don't care.
Passion is something many couples can't attain. Mostly because 9/10 of America is hideous. Let's be honest with ourselves for a moment.
Only a moment.
If half of America was as fit as they wanted, then fit people would become as normal as the fat hag in front of you at MacDoormold's. You know the kind. With her unbrushed hair that she hasn't attempted to keep looking nice in years since she gained 60 (SIXTY) pounds after college. Her face still has acne even though she's
37
And she's in line at MacDoormold's bitching that her child got the same Happy Meal toy yesterday, and the day before, and even the day before that. She fails to realize that the fault lies in her bad parenting for taking her kid to MacDoormold's every single day and...
Well, where was I.
Children of these kinds of mothers always turn out to be self-entitled and worthless. There's no two ways about it.
Joy Frontero was not one of these children.
Yes, I know you're tired of me telling you about people who are not the things I've been describing. Today, you get your wish. Oh, sure, you're happy now, aren't you. Asshat.
Della "The Corn" Tonnik was one of these children. The Corn would do only one thing of note in her life regarding this story I'm telling you. If you want to hear more stories about self-entitled wastes of life, I suggest you head down to your local buffet, or TMZ.
"Permanently?!" The Corn shouted angrily into the speaker of the Steak & Smack drive-thru.
"No ma'am, not permanently. Just for tonight!" flustered, the young woman inside the store was beginning to hyperventilate in anger.
It's true, my gender is prone to overreaction. We're just passionate about everything.
So anyways.
"What the hell?! I wanted a damn milkshake!" And she wasn't lying. She was in desperate need of a milkshake, as she only had A Cups.
Pity.
"Miss I'm sorry, there's a Wandy's down the street, I'm sure a nice Frusty would work just as well..." Monica "Swamp Ass" Moreni was beginning to lose her patience, and silently put a Wiccan hex on her boss Chester for breaking the ice cream machine.
Don't worry, Chester was fine. Wiccans don't really have any power to curse.
Now, if she'd have been a Christian, they've got some real curse power. That, or a distinct lack of guilt for burning innocent people alive. Either way I think you still win.
The Corn was not in a good mood. "You do know that a Frusty is made with lard don't you? You want me to add fat to my figure, is that it?"
Swamp Ass sighed, then replied, "Ma'am, I don't think Frustys have lard in them. That's just an internet rumor."
"Oh!" a shitstorm of overreaction ensued. "So, so, so now you're calling me a liar! A liar! All the people behind me in line heard this! I'm gonna come in there and report you to your manager!"
This threat rang somehow hollow, as Chester was under Swamp Ass's sweaty thumb unless he wanted her to press sexual harassment charges.
Then an idea hit her. No, she didn't literally get hit by anything. Sorry to get your hopes up like that.
"Talking to the manager sounds like a great idea! Here he is!" she shouted into the mic headset before smacking it into Chester's... chest.
"What the hell is this, Moreni?" he asked, looking down her shirt.
"I'm going on break. Take care of this bitchy customer. She's only bitchy because you broke it," she said, pointing to the ice cream machine that had what appeared to be a large amount of shotgun damage to its front.
"Hey!..." Chester couldn't think of anything clever to say. To be honest, he wasn't a very good boss. And in his own, cowardly sort of way, he felt bad for breaking the ice cream machine.
The conversation between Chester and The Corn went as you would expect it to, culminating in Della leaving Steak & Smack permanently. Unlike the milkshakes, which would return the next day.
More interestingly, if I can inject my own opinion here, is what happened with Monica "Swamp Ass" Moreni.
Walking up to the restaurant's bar and taking a seat (squishy, sweaty, cotton) Monica lowered her head.
Below her, the floor was terribly dusty and dirty. The tiny white and black tiles were grouted with fries, burger remnants, ketchup, dried semen, and what appeared to be a smashed crayon. It was red, and confused her. Sunlight dripping in from the window to her left lit up her sweaty arms and made her feel even worse.
"It's almost as hot out here as it is in front of that damn grill..." she muttered to herself, quite grumpy.
"It's kind of warm, isn't it?" replied a man with a high, slightly obnoxious voice.
Surprised only marginally, because like most people Monica always behaved as if there was someone listening whenever she spoke, she looked over at the man who had taken the bar stool next to her. It was not in her, however, to tell him that he had sat in what appeared to be a wad of grisly, half-chewed beef.
"It's been a long day," she stated flatly, glad of someone to complain to. She had two passions in life. One was complaining. The other was sweating. Just kidding, she found that unpleasant, and it aided the strange forces of misfortunate that made her panties ride up her various southern orifices whenever she sat down.
"Oh I understand. I think everybody's having a tough one today. One of my tenants' sisters got murdered, and her mother's making her adopt the baby. Isn't that awful?" Mindy Mashtatoor grinned as a Lurch-like young man with a Green Day shirt on sat down a glass of sweaty ice water.
I'm glad you too think Green Day sucks ass.
Reaching for the water with a palm that was quite dry, the condensation felt somewhat good, if not a little obnoxious, on Mindy's hands.
"Wait, is what awful? The murder or that she's being forced to adopt the kid?"
"Huh?" Mindy replied, setting down the glass. "Oh, I forget what we're talking about..."
"Oh."
"Say, where's Chester, fella?" Mindy asked the young, braindead waiter.
"Who?" he replied.
"Chester."
"I don't know any fuckin' Chesters man. Are you fuckin' hittin' on me?" the waiter glared at Mindy, taking what appeared to be a defensive stance.
Looking over at Swampers, Mindy said, "Is everybody in Espantosoville insane? Or is it just Cousin Eddy here?"
Monica giggled, shaking her thin, sweaty frame. "I'm not sure he's cool enough to be Cousin Eddy."
"I'm not sure he's old enough to know who he is, either. Judging by the shirt, nope." Mindy's high voice trailed off as he watched a young biker in leather walk across the S&S dining room.
That was kind of cliche, but it seriously happened. At least, that's what I was told. Look, you've been really good about interruptions this time around (asshat reader) so could you please take it easy?
After his moment of passion had passed, Mindy looked back to the waiter, who will be known henceforth as "Frankenstein's Monster" for brevity's sake. I know that sort of moniker is slightly unnecessary since I told you he was wearing a Green Day shirt, but just bear with me.
"So, Franky, you don't know your own boss's name?" Mindy asked, slightly amused.
"Huh? I thought his name was Chet..." the slow-witted monster's mind seemed to be turning the gears in overdrive today. Secretly, Monica was ashamed to have sucked his dick.
"What the hell kind of a name is Chet?" Mashtatoor asked, calmly, as he picked up his glass to drink again.
In a fury, the monster shouted, "My dad's name is Chet!"
Giggling slightly with Moreni, he replied "That explains a thing or two then doesn't it. Go get your boss before I shitcan you."
"You can't fire me! I'm an employee, you're a customer!"
"That might've been an astute observation," Mindy said, his voice nearly cracking from the excitement of getting to put someone down, "unfortunately I'm not just a customer. I'm the owner of this place. Now go get your boss or else I will shitcan you." Mindy made a vague attempt to look gruff, and stern. It wasn't quite as good as he'd hoped, however, and he ended up looking as though he had some slight gas.
While the beast lumbered away, Monica rose to her sweaty feet.
If I haven't emphasized this enough, Monica was a really, really sweaty person. "I gotta get back to the drive-thru if you wanna talk to Chester. Thanks for the laugh, I needed one today."
"You mean you laughed at the kid getting adopted, or the murder?" Mindy replied in a rather simple attempt at a joke that left them both feeling a bit awkward.
"Uhh, my name's Monica by the way. Monica Moreni," she said, trying to seem relatable, or sweet. She was neither.
"Right then, Monica. I'm Mindy Mashtatoor."
Before she realized what she was doing, Monica let out a squeaky giggle. The person who had just sat down on the end of the bar farthest from where they had been sitting was frightened by it, and considered leaving.
"Something funny?" Mindy asked, not at all un-used to people reacting to his first name (or existence) like this.
Scrambling for something to say, Monica's hands especially sweaty (and the rest of her too- she could feel sweat running down the inside of her thighs as she stood up, and it was still rolling down her legs, into her sweaty socks) she finally found something after about 4 (FOUR) seconds of thought. "I just realized, Franky isn't wearing a uniform and he's been clocked in almost 4 (FOUR) hours."
This seemed almost genius to Monica. In this way she could kill two birds with one greasy gay man. Ever since the fellatio behind the stainless steel fridge, Swamp Ass had slowly been realizing how disgusting Franky was.
"Well how about that, he's not," Mindy said with a slight chuckle. "I'll let Chester know to fire him."
"Thats great!" Monica said, sweat dripping down her hairy arms. Then they both felt awkard again.
Quickly thereafter, she walked away and found Chester for Mindy (Franky, of course, could not remember what his boss looked like, so he'd wandered into the freezer and stood there to collect his thoughts).
"Mindy's here? Shit," Chester pushed the mic headset back into Swamp Ass's... chest. He was so distracted by his worry, that he did not even notice the pleasant bounce he'd caused.
It wouldn't be until much later that Chester would realize what a passion he'd had for Monica Moreni, sweat and all.
But she would be long gone by then, and it would be only a few days before he would be killed defending Jeffy Coitus.
END CHAPTER 4 (FOUR)
Would you believe I finally found a comfortable place for us to talk about this, irreverent reader? I don't care.
Passion is something many couples can't attain. Mostly because 9/10 of America is hideous. Let's be honest with ourselves for a moment.
Only a moment.
If half of America was as fit as they wanted, then fit people would become as normal as the fat hag in front of you at MacDoormold's. You know the kind. With her unbrushed hair that she hasn't attempted to keep looking nice in years since she gained 60 (SIXTY) pounds after college. Her face still has acne even though she's
37
And she's in line at MacDoormold's bitching that her child got the same Happy Meal toy yesterday, and the day before, and even the day before that. She fails to realize that the fault lies in her bad parenting for taking her kid to MacDoormold's every single day and...
Well, where was I.
Children of these kinds of mothers always turn out to be self-entitled and worthless. There's no two ways about it.
Joy Frontero was not one of these children.
Yes, I know you're tired of me telling you about people who are not the things I've been describing. Today, you get your wish. Oh, sure, you're happy now, aren't you. Asshat.
Della "The Corn" Tonnik was one of these children. The Corn would do only one thing of note in her life regarding this story I'm telling you. If you want to hear more stories about self-entitled wastes of life, I suggest you head down to your local buffet, or TMZ.
"Permanently?!" The Corn shouted angrily into the speaker of the Steak & Smack drive-thru.
"No ma'am, not permanently. Just for tonight!" flustered, the young woman inside the store was beginning to hyperventilate in anger.
It's true, my gender is prone to overreaction. We're just passionate about everything.
So anyways.
"What the hell?! I wanted a damn milkshake!" And she wasn't lying. She was in desperate need of a milkshake, as she only had A Cups.
Pity.
"Miss I'm sorry, there's a Wandy's down the street, I'm sure a nice Frusty would work just as well..." Monica "Swamp Ass" Moreni was beginning to lose her patience, and silently put a Wiccan hex on her boss Chester for breaking the ice cream machine.
Don't worry, Chester was fine. Wiccans don't really have any power to curse.
Now, if she'd have been a Christian, they've got some real curse power. That, or a distinct lack of guilt for burning innocent people alive. Either way I think you still win.
The Corn was not in a good mood. "You do know that a Frusty is made with lard don't you? You want me to add fat to my figure, is that it?"
Swamp Ass sighed, then replied, "Ma'am, I don't think Frustys have lard in them. That's just an internet rumor."
"Oh!" a shitstorm of overreaction ensued. "So, so, so now you're calling me a liar! A liar! All the people behind me in line heard this! I'm gonna come in there and report you to your manager!"
This threat rang somehow hollow, as Chester was under Swamp Ass's sweaty thumb unless he wanted her to press sexual harassment charges.
Then an idea hit her. No, she didn't literally get hit by anything. Sorry to get your hopes up like that.
"Talking to the manager sounds like a great idea! Here he is!" she shouted into the mic headset before smacking it into Chester's... chest.
"What the hell is this, Moreni?" he asked, looking down her shirt.
"I'm going on break. Take care of this bitchy customer. She's only bitchy because you broke it," she said, pointing to the ice cream machine that had what appeared to be a large amount of shotgun damage to its front.
"Hey!..." Chester couldn't think of anything clever to say. To be honest, he wasn't a very good boss. And in his own, cowardly sort of way, he felt bad for breaking the ice cream machine.
The conversation between Chester and The Corn went as you would expect it to, culminating in Della leaving Steak & Smack permanently. Unlike the milkshakes, which would return the next day.
More interestingly, if I can inject my own opinion here, is what happened with Monica "Swamp Ass" Moreni.
Walking up to the restaurant's bar and taking a seat (squishy, sweaty, cotton) Monica lowered her head.
Below her, the floor was terribly dusty and dirty. The tiny white and black tiles were grouted with fries, burger remnants, ketchup, dried semen, and what appeared to be a smashed crayon. It was red, and confused her. Sunlight dripping in from the window to her left lit up her sweaty arms and made her feel even worse.
"It's almost as hot out here as it is in front of that damn grill..." she muttered to herself, quite grumpy.
"It's kind of warm, isn't it?" replied a man with a high, slightly obnoxious voice.
Surprised only marginally, because like most people Monica always behaved as if there was someone listening whenever she spoke, she looked over at the man who had taken the bar stool next to her. It was not in her, however, to tell him that he had sat in what appeared to be a wad of grisly, half-chewed beef.
"It's been a long day," she stated flatly, glad of someone to complain to. She had two passions in life. One was complaining. The other was sweating. Just kidding, she found that unpleasant, and it aided the strange forces of misfortunate that made her panties ride up her various southern orifices whenever she sat down.
"Oh I understand. I think everybody's having a tough one today. One of my tenants' sisters got murdered, and her mother's making her adopt the baby. Isn't that awful?" Mindy Mashtatoor grinned as a Lurch-like young man with a Green Day shirt on sat down a glass of sweaty ice water.
I'm glad you too think Green Day sucks ass.
Reaching for the water with a palm that was quite dry, the condensation felt somewhat good, if not a little obnoxious, on Mindy's hands.
"Wait, is what awful? The murder or that she's being forced to adopt the kid?"
"Huh?" Mindy replied, setting down the glass. "Oh, I forget what we're talking about..."
"Oh."
"Say, where's Chester, fella?" Mindy asked the young, braindead waiter.
"Who?" he replied.
"Chester."
"I don't know any fuckin' Chesters man. Are you fuckin' hittin' on me?" the waiter glared at Mindy, taking what appeared to be a defensive stance.
Looking over at Swampers, Mindy said, "Is everybody in Espantosoville insane? Or is it just Cousin Eddy here?"
Monica giggled, shaking her thin, sweaty frame. "I'm not sure he's cool enough to be Cousin Eddy."
"I'm not sure he's old enough to know who he is, either. Judging by the shirt, nope." Mindy's high voice trailed off as he watched a young biker in leather walk across the S&S dining room.
That was kind of cliche, but it seriously happened. At least, that's what I was told. Look, you've been really good about interruptions this time around (asshat reader) so could you please take it easy?
After his moment of passion had passed, Mindy looked back to the waiter, who will be known henceforth as "Frankenstein's Monster" for brevity's sake. I know that sort of moniker is slightly unnecessary since I told you he was wearing a Green Day shirt, but just bear with me.
"So, Franky, you don't know your own boss's name?" Mindy asked, slightly amused.
"Huh? I thought his name was Chet..." the slow-witted monster's mind seemed to be turning the gears in overdrive today. Secretly, Monica was ashamed to have sucked his dick.
"What the hell kind of a name is Chet?" Mashtatoor asked, calmly, as he picked up his glass to drink again.
In a fury, the monster shouted, "My dad's name is Chet!"
Giggling slightly with Moreni, he replied "That explains a thing or two then doesn't it. Go get your boss before I shitcan you."
"You can't fire me! I'm an employee, you're a customer!"
"That might've been an astute observation," Mindy said, his voice nearly cracking from the excitement of getting to put someone down, "unfortunately I'm not just a customer. I'm the owner of this place. Now go get your boss or else I will shitcan you." Mindy made a vague attempt to look gruff, and stern. It wasn't quite as good as he'd hoped, however, and he ended up looking as though he had some slight gas.
While the beast lumbered away, Monica rose to her sweaty feet.
If I haven't emphasized this enough, Monica was a really, really sweaty person. "I gotta get back to the drive-thru if you wanna talk to Chester. Thanks for the laugh, I needed one today."
"You mean you laughed at the kid getting adopted, or the murder?" Mindy replied in a rather simple attempt at a joke that left them both feeling a bit awkward.
"Uhh, my name's Monica by the way. Monica Moreni," she said, trying to seem relatable, or sweet. She was neither.
"Right then, Monica. I'm Mindy Mashtatoor."
Before she realized what she was doing, Monica let out a squeaky giggle. The person who had just sat down on the end of the bar farthest from where they had been sitting was frightened by it, and considered leaving.
"Something funny?" Mindy asked, not at all un-used to people reacting to his first name (or existence) like this.
Scrambling for something to say, Monica's hands especially sweaty (and the rest of her too- she could feel sweat running down the inside of her thighs as she stood up, and it was still rolling down her legs, into her sweaty socks) she finally found something after about 4 (FOUR) seconds of thought. "I just realized, Franky isn't wearing a uniform and he's been clocked in almost 4 (FOUR) hours."
This seemed almost genius to Monica. In this way she could kill two birds with one greasy gay man. Ever since the fellatio behind the stainless steel fridge, Swamp Ass had slowly been realizing how disgusting Franky was.
"Well how about that, he's not," Mindy said with a slight chuckle. "I'll let Chester know to fire him."
"Thats great!" Monica said, sweat dripping down her hairy arms. Then they both felt awkard again.
Quickly thereafter, she walked away and found Chester for Mindy (Franky, of course, could not remember what his boss looked like, so he'd wandered into the freezer and stood there to collect his thoughts).
"Mindy's here? Shit," Chester pushed the mic headset back into Swamp Ass's... chest. He was so distracted by his worry, that he did not even notice the pleasant bounce he'd caused.
It wouldn't be until much later that Chester would realize what a passion he'd had for Monica Moreni, sweat and all.
But she would be long gone by then, and it would be only a few days before he would be killed defending Jeffy Coitus.
END CHAPTER 4 (FOUR)
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Teetering Bluffs: A Story Of Hope: Chapter 3 (Three) - The Young, Uneventful Days Of Jeffy Coitus
Chapter 3 (THREE) - The Young, Uneventful days Of Jeffy Coitus
I know what you're thinking- this is a story of Hope?
Fuck you. You don't even know what you're thinking. And you're ugly.
Nastasya Norina was not ugly.
She was, in fact, quite beautiful to a certain set of men. As some women are. It just so happens, as you know, that some women don't have a universal appeal. I don't feel compelled to explain further.
And I really wish you'd stop interrupting me (discerning reader) because frankly we aren't here to talk. We're here so I can relate to you a story. Like all unreliable narrators, I'm going to do it whether you're talking or not.
Goddamn, they broke the mold of assholes on you. I Hope there's no one else like you reading this right now. I just can't handle it.
Anyways!
Nastasya Norina had an admirer, as all women usually do. Unless they're Nastasya's best, bipolar, histrionic (and a myriad of other disorders) friend Sola "The Onion" Sorrinto. She took a trip to Germany, at some point (there's a Hopeful thought). I can't remember if I've told you about her before or not. We really should just sit down and talk about all this at once. Just, like, when you have time.
So there's a really funny thing about being a girl beautiful to some and not to others. It's ingrained deep in the minds of all girls of this type. A simple, funny little truth like a funky song that you can't get out of your head. The kind that makes you dance like a moron in post office lines. You are just so unfortunate that you won't know what that funny thing is, because this chapter isn't about Nastasya Norina so much as it's about Kelvin Korea Kinter.
Did you giggle? His initials are KKK.
Anyways.
Kelvin's parents, like every parent who birthed a child in the Millennial Generation, weren't very bright. Through some accident of family history, television influence, INXS Fandom, and generally poor choices, he was blessed with a moniker that would see him mercilessly teased throughout all of school.
Naturally, because of this, he turned out to be a relatively well-rounded individual with psychotic parents whom he secretly tried to have hits put on (to no avail, as they lived in Middle America, and he had moved to California). When K3 went to college, he was a boring young man who couldn't make anyone laugh. But he had an especial talent with math formulas.
For that reason, one night he ended up in the dorm room of Kiley Merona. Kiley was not a prom queen veteran, but she was a homecoming princess runner up. Since K3, who was built in a very ho-hum sort of way, with a slight paunch, and a high voice, wasn't exactly a girl's dream, he'd never had experience in that area.
Although he had been kissed before, thankfully. It was a 65 year old woman from down the block. He brought her some NyeKwill from his parent's medicine cabinet when she called their house and pleaded for it. To repay him, she let him make out with her catatonic granddaughter, July Carter.
They didn't have a lot of Hope that she'd ever wake up, so they thought maybe the feeling of a boy on her (even one as admittedly mediocre and not-quite-a-catch as K3) might make things a bit better.
Have I ever mentioned how popular drug use is? I Hope so.
So, in the dorm room of Kiley Merona, K3 was beginning to feel the strain in his pants as she got closer. In actuality she was not at all interested in K3, nor was she interested in his math solutions that she might've figured out herself after a little work. Kiley just didn't like being alone. Most women don't.
It's a weakness in character that afflicts even the most intelligent of women. And Kiley Merona was certainly that.
"Kelvin?" she said quietly, interrupting his explanation of some Eulerean boring.
"Yeah?" he said, trying to play it cool. He accomplished it, as you might've been Hoping.
"... Do you think my roommate is hot?" she asked with a slight giggle.
"Umm, do you mean Sola?" he was confused.
"Yes, Sola." she said, suddenly less giggly. Kiley was not a woman of any patience. Few are.
"Oh, I guess..." his non-committal answer fell out of his mouth like food from the mouth of a fat, blathering idiot who doesn't pay any goddamn attention when they're eating and gets my fucking carpet all dirty because they can't eat over a fucking plate.
Kiley Merona was one of the most spiteful women in existence. It was at this moment that all Hope for K3's future happiness was likely snuffed.
"Well then," she said, a grin blossoming on her admittedly pretty face. "How about I hook you two up?" she brushed back her red hair, still smiling in such a sinister fashion that it's a wonder that K3 didn't spy her plan sooner.
"Umm... uhh..." K3, while an intelligent young man, was thoroughly worthless in this area. I mean, really really just pure trash.
"Great!" Kiley shouted.
That was 4 (FOUR) years ago. The point at which K3 entered into Nastasya's life came by accident, as most things do.
In a rare moment of thoughtfulness for his dead ex-girlfriend, KKK went to Sola's grave. Some will cite God as the reason for this meeting, but knowing the story of what happens next as I do, I assure you that is more than Hopeful.
Nastasya Norina was not ugly.
She was, in fact, quite beautiful to a certain set of men. As some women are. It just so happens, as you know, that some women don't have a universal appeal. I don't feel compelled to explain further.
What I do feel compelled to explain further is the situation.
Lemme draw you a picture.
No fuck that, I'll just tell you.
The sky was not grey, but if that helps you set up the scene, go ahead and believe that it is. In fact it was that ugly sort of blue that comes when the sun is too bright and your eyes are in pain to even look near the clouds. There was a thin mist of these aforementioned clouds lingering about as well, like pubes just starting to grow back in after a shaving. The grass was not freshly mowed, but it wasn't that high yet.
Nastasya was not dressed in black, but actually was wearing tight jeans that revealed how tiny her legs were. She was wearing a fitted shirt as well. I only wear baggy t-shirts, so I don't really feel qualified to tell you more about it.
Nah I'm just kidding. I Hope you know that.
So when K3 walked up to Sola's grave and found Nastasya there, he was immediately taken. I mean, he's a boring guy, what do you expect. As a matter of fact, I hardly feel like telling you anything more about that.
"Hello," Nastasya greet Kelvin cooly. Not disinterested, just her style.
"Hey, who are you? Did you know Sola?" Kelvin responded. After dating Sola for quite some time, he hadn't met this girl before.
She nodded, her brown hair catching in the breeze. Yes, it was breezy. There's another detail for you. Add it to your damn painting. "I knew her back in high school. I always thought she was kind of crazy, but I never expected her to... well... die a violent, crazy death."
"Yeah she was basically crazy. I mean that with all respects of course..." K3 realized his rudeness almost too late.
"I take it you knew her well then," Nastasya smiled, her less-than-white teeth wet and dull behind her lips.
"Actually, I dated her until she got institutionalized. Crazy, yeah?"
Wow. This dialogue is really tacky. Let me do us both a favor and fast forward. I Hope you're still OK, you look a little sick.
So, basically, these two banter on really boringly for about 20 minutes until they both come to the conclusion that Sola is an annoying whore who was fat and had vaguely Garlicky breath all the time. Big surprise there.
Also of no surprise is that later that day they would go out together to get food under the pretense of sharing stories about Sola. As you, astute reader, have already figured out, they had no interest in Sola at all but rather in each other. K3 thought she had a hot rack of B Cups (he really didn't know any better) and Nastasya thought that he probably had at least an average cock.
Meetings of chance, blah blah blah, fucking, blah blah blah.
Waking up the next morning in her bed, K3 felt sick. He, like many idiots, always imagined his first time being romantic. Instead, he had fucked a sociopath who was now watching Fox News in the other room. No, I'm not kidding, she was really watching Fox News.
"Did you see this?" she asked, looking at the television set.
The question annoyed him. Of course he hadn't seen it. The last thing he'd seen were her rather so-so tits with odd shaped orangish-brown nipples.
"Some guy went nuts and shot his wife, a UPS guy, and then apparently he got into a car with a lady on the street and mutilated her," Nastasya said.
"Oh, why'd he do that?" K3 asked, not paying any attention to her words but rather staring through her rather sheer robe at the tits that were somehow looking more attractive now that he was up.
"I dunno. The guy on Fox News says he is suspected of having terrorist ties. They say they found a suspicious number of Home Exteriors boxes outside their house," she said, scratching her arm idly.
"Oh... wait, what?"
At that moment, the doorbell rang. K3 cringed at the chime; it was louder than it needed to be.
"Shit!" Nastasya threw the remote down and looked, panicked, at Kelvin. "Can you get that while I go put on something?"
"Umm, sure..." K3 walked towards the door.
Hoping to get whoever it was away quickly (he was horny), K3 opened the door.
It was a cop. Naturally!
"Uh, Hi, I'm looking for Ms. Norina..." the cop said, trying not too look at the fact that Kelvin was wearing only boxers, and that they were on backwards.
"Oh, yeah... she's uhh, just, powdering her nose is all..." Kelvin immediately wished he hadn't said that. I mean, have you ever heard a more stupid time to use that line? Have you ever heard a time when using that line would be appropriate?
"Well, when she's done, I'm here to escort her to Espantosoville hospital," the officer whose badge read "MORKIN" was clearly uncomfortable.
"Really? Why's that?" K3 was suddenly concerned that the first girl he'd ever slept with had some sort of disease.
"Yes, I'd like to know too," said Nastasya who had stuck her head around a corner. She still wasn't wearing pants, but had managed to dress otherwise.
"Ms. Norina, your sister Mollie was one of the victims in a string of murders yesterday... it appears that she was an incidental casualty... I'm very sorry." MORKIN was shuffling his feet uncomfortably now, and wringing his fingers together. For a moment, Kelvin wondered why he wasn't holding his hat in his hands like the do in the movies.
Nastasya was silent for a moment as she sank down onto the arm of a somewhat fluffy, mostly uncomfortable chair. She then looked up at the officer, and K3 noticed for the first time that her eyes were a very dark shade of green. Previously he had thought them brown. "So, what do you need me for then? I obviously dont' need to identify her body."
"Oh, that, yes," MORKIN was visibly made more uncomfortable. "Well, your sister had recently adopted a young baby. This child was in the car at the time of the murder, and your mother insists that you're willing to keep it for the time being so that it doesn't have to go back into state care..."
"What the hell!" Nastasya shouted angrily, launching herself off the arm of the chair. Tensing visibly, her tiny legs supported a body that looked more likely to strike Officer MORKIN than speak with him. "This is highly unusual, using the police to fetch a girl to take care of a child whose mother has just been murdered!"
Officer MORKIN looked at the floor. In his head he was laughing, because he'd just thought of a really funny joke. He'd look up, right into her angry little eyes, and say "Yeah, well so is getting shot in the face, am I right?" then they'd all laugh. That, or they would throw him off the balcony of her back porch.
So instead, he settled for the truth. "Well, Ms. Norina, your mother has a lot of connections... and... well... could you just come with me please?"
K3 stood up and turned to Nastasya, "Do you want me to leave?"
"Hell yes I do!" and with that, she stormed to the back of her apartment to dress.
Naturally, the scene had left both MORKIN and K3 all the more uncomfortable. As Kelvin dress, MORKIN felt as though he should say something, but he stayed silent as it was clear K3 was angry.
"Listen guy," K3 said as he pushed his way past the officer and into the hallway, "what room at the hospital is that baby in?"
MORKIN was surprised at the question, "216, why?" All too late, he realized his mistake.
With a devious grin, Kelvin nodded at the officer. "Thanks a lot!" He turned quickly, nearly bowling over Mindy Mashtatoor. "Oh, sorry about that..." he said as he continued towards the stairs.
"No problem," Mindy said as he watched Kelvin go. Turning to Officer Morkin, he said calmly "I Hope there's no problem here, sir."
END CHAPTER 3 (THREE)
I know what you're thinking- this is a story of Hope?
Fuck you. You don't even know what you're thinking. And you're ugly.
Nastasya Norina was not ugly.
She was, in fact, quite beautiful to a certain set of men. As some women are. It just so happens, as you know, that some women don't have a universal appeal. I don't feel compelled to explain further.
And I really wish you'd stop interrupting me (discerning reader) because frankly we aren't here to talk. We're here so I can relate to you a story. Like all unreliable narrators, I'm going to do it whether you're talking or not.
Goddamn, they broke the mold of assholes on you. I Hope there's no one else like you reading this right now. I just can't handle it.
Anyways!
Nastasya Norina had an admirer, as all women usually do. Unless they're Nastasya's best, bipolar, histrionic (and a myriad of other disorders) friend Sola "The Onion" Sorrinto. She took a trip to Germany, at some point (there's a Hopeful thought). I can't remember if I've told you about her before or not. We really should just sit down and talk about all this at once. Just, like, when you have time.
So there's a really funny thing about being a girl beautiful to some and not to others. It's ingrained deep in the minds of all girls of this type. A simple, funny little truth like a funky song that you can't get out of your head. The kind that makes you dance like a moron in post office lines. You are just so unfortunate that you won't know what that funny thing is, because this chapter isn't about Nastasya Norina so much as it's about Kelvin Korea Kinter.
Did you giggle? His initials are KKK.
Anyways.
Kelvin's parents, like every parent who birthed a child in the Millennial Generation, weren't very bright. Through some accident of family history, television influence, INXS Fandom, and generally poor choices, he was blessed with a moniker that would see him mercilessly teased throughout all of school.
Naturally, because of this, he turned out to be a relatively well-rounded individual with psychotic parents whom he secretly tried to have hits put on (to no avail, as they lived in Middle America, and he had moved to California). When K3 went to college, he was a boring young man who couldn't make anyone laugh. But he had an especial talent with math formulas.
For that reason, one night he ended up in the dorm room of Kiley Merona. Kiley was not a prom queen veteran, but she was a homecoming princess runner up. Since K3, who was built in a very ho-hum sort of way, with a slight paunch, and a high voice, wasn't exactly a girl's dream, he'd never had experience in that area.
Although he had been kissed before, thankfully. It was a 65 year old woman from down the block. He brought her some NyeKwill from his parent's medicine cabinet when she called their house and pleaded for it. To repay him, she let him make out with her catatonic granddaughter, July Carter.
They didn't have a lot of Hope that she'd ever wake up, so they thought maybe the feeling of a boy on her (even one as admittedly mediocre and not-quite-a-catch as K3) might make things a bit better.
Have I ever mentioned how popular drug use is? I Hope so.
So, in the dorm room of Kiley Merona, K3 was beginning to feel the strain in his pants as she got closer. In actuality she was not at all interested in K3, nor was she interested in his math solutions that she might've figured out herself after a little work. Kiley just didn't like being alone. Most women don't.
It's a weakness in character that afflicts even the most intelligent of women. And Kiley Merona was certainly that.
"Kelvin?" she said quietly, interrupting his explanation of some Eulerean boring.
"Yeah?" he said, trying to play it cool. He accomplished it, as you might've been Hoping.
"... Do you think my roommate is hot?" she asked with a slight giggle.
"Umm, do you mean Sola?" he was confused.
"Yes, Sola." she said, suddenly less giggly. Kiley was not a woman of any patience. Few are.
"Oh, I guess..." his non-committal answer fell out of his mouth like food from the mouth of a fat, blathering idiot who doesn't pay any goddamn attention when they're eating and gets my fucking carpet all dirty because they can't eat over a fucking plate.
Kiley Merona was one of the most spiteful women in existence. It was at this moment that all Hope for K3's future happiness was likely snuffed.
"Well then," she said, a grin blossoming on her admittedly pretty face. "How about I hook you two up?" she brushed back her red hair, still smiling in such a sinister fashion that it's a wonder that K3 didn't spy her plan sooner.
"Umm... uhh..." K3, while an intelligent young man, was thoroughly worthless in this area. I mean, really really just pure trash.
"Great!" Kiley shouted.
That was 4 (FOUR) years ago. The point at which K3 entered into Nastasya's life came by accident, as most things do.
In a rare moment of thoughtfulness for his dead ex-girlfriend, KKK went to Sola's grave. Some will cite God as the reason for this meeting, but knowing the story of what happens next as I do, I assure you that is more than Hopeful.
Nastasya Norina was not ugly.
She was, in fact, quite beautiful to a certain set of men. As some women are. It just so happens, as you know, that some women don't have a universal appeal. I don't feel compelled to explain further.
What I do feel compelled to explain further is the situation.
Lemme draw you a picture.
No fuck that, I'll just tell you.
The sky was not grey, but if that helps you set up the scene, go ahead and believe that it is. In fact it was that ugly sort of blue that comes when the sun is too bright and your eyes are in pain to even look near the clouds. There was a thin mist of these aforementioned clouds lingering about as well, like pubes just starting to grow back in after a shaving. The grass was not freshly mowed, but it wasn't that high yet.
Nastasya was not dressed in black, but actually was wearing tight jeans that revealed how tiny her legs were. She was wearing a fitted shirt as well. I only wear baggy t-shirts, so I don't really feel qualified to tell you more about it.
Nah I'm just kidding. I Hope you know that.
So when K3 walked up to Sola's grave and found Nastasya there, he was immediately taken. I mean, he's a boring guy, what do you expect. As a matter of fact, I hardly feel like telling you anything more about that.
"Hello," Nastasya greet Kelvin cooly. Not disinterested, just her style.
"Hey, who are you? Did you know Sola?" Kelvin responded. After dating Sola for quite some time, he hadn't met this girl before.
She nodded, her brown hair catching in the breeze. Yes, it was breezy. There's another detail for you. Add it to your damn painting. "I knew her back in high school. I always thought she was kind of crazy, but I never expected her to... well... die a violent, crazy death."
"Yeah she was basically crazy. I mean that with all respects of course..." K3 realized his rudeness almost too late.
"I take it you knew her well then," Nastasya smiled, her less-than-white teeth wet and dull behind her lips.
"Actually, I dated her until she got institutionalized. Crazy, yeah?"
Wow. This dialogue is really tacky. Let me do us both a favor and fast forward. I Hope you're still OK, you look a little sick.
So, basically, these two banter on really boringly for about 20 minutes until they both come to the conclusion that Sola is an annoying whore who was fat and had vaguely Garlicky breath all the time. Big surprise there.
Also of no surprise is that later that day they would go out together to get food under the pretense of sharing stories about Sola. As you, astute reader, have already figured out, they had no interest in Sola at all but rather in each other. K3 thought she had a hot rack of B Cups (he really didn't know any better) and Nastasya thought that he probably had at least an average cock.
Meetings of chance, blah blah blah, fucking, blah blah blah.
Waking up the next morning in her bed, K3 felt sick. He, like many idiots, always imagined his first time being romantic. Instead, he had fucked a sociopath who was now watching Fox News in the other room. No, I'm not kidding, she was really watching Fox News.
"Did you see this?" she asked, looking at the television set.
The question annoyed him. Of course he hadn't seen it. The last thing he'd seen were her rather so-so tits with odd shaped orangish-brown nipples.
"Some guy went nuts and shot his wife, a UPS guy, and then apparently he got into a car with a lady on the street and mutilated her," Nastasya said.
"Oh, why'd he do that?" K3 asked, not paying any attention to her words but rather staring through her rather sheer robe at the tits that were somehow looking more attractive now that he was up.
"I dunno. The guy on Fox News says he is suspected of having terrorist ties. They say they found a suspicious number of Home Exteriors boxes outside their house," she said, scratching her arm idly.
"Oh... wait, what?"
At that moment, the doorbell rang. K3 cringed at the chime; it was louder than it needed to be.
"Shit!" Nastasya threw the remote down and looked, panicked, at Kelvin. "Can you get that while I go put on something?"
"Umm, sure..." K3 walked towards the door.
Hoping to get whoever it was away quickly (he was horny), K3 opened the door.
It was a cop. Naturally!
"Uh, Hi, I'm looking for Ms. Norina..." the cop said, trying not too look at the fact that Kelvin was wearing only boxers, and that they were on backwards.
"Oh, yeah... she's uhh, just, powdering her nose is all..." Kelvin immediately wished he hadn't said that. I mean, have you ever heard a more stupid time to use that line? Have you ever heard a time when using that line would be appropriate?
"Well, when she's done, I'm here to escort her to Espantosoville hospital," the officer whose badge read "MORKIN" was clearly uncomfortable.
"Really? Why's that?" K3 was suddenly concerned that the first girl he'd ever slept with had some sort of disease.
"Yes, I'd like to know too," said Nastasya who had stuck her head around a corner. She still wasn't wearing pants, but had managed to dress otherwise.
"Ms. Norina, your sister Mollie was one of the victims in a string of murders yesterday... it appears that she was an incidental casualty... I'm very sorry." MORKIN was shuffling his feet uncomfortably now, and wringing his fingers together. For a moment, Kelvin wondered why he wasn't holding his hat in his hands like the do in the movies.
Nastasya was silent for a moment as she sank down onto the arm of a somewhat fluffy, mostly uncomfortable chair. She then looked up at the officer, and K3 noticed for the first time that her eyes were a very dark shade of green. Previously he had thought them brown. "So, what do you need me for then? I obviously dont' need to identify her body."
"Oh, that, yes," MORKIN was visibly made more uncomfortable. "Well, your sister had recently adopted a young baby. This child was in the car at the time of the murder, and your mother insists that you're willing to keep it for the time being so that it doesn't have to go back into state care..."
"What the hell!" Nastasya shouted angrily, launching herself off the arm of the chair. Tensing visibly, her tiny legs supported a body that looked more likely to strike Officer MORKIN than speak with him. "This is highly unusual, using the police to fetch a girl to take care of a child whose mother has just been murdered!"
Officer MORKIN looked at the floor. In his head he was laughing, because he'd just thought of a really funny joke. He'd look up, right into her angry little eyes, and say "Yeah, well so is getting shot in the face, am I right?" then they'd all laugh. That, or they would throw him off the balcony of her back porch.
So instead, he settled for the truth. "Well, Ms. Norina, your mother has a lot of connections... and... well... could you just come with me please?"
K3 stood up and turned to Nastasya, "Do you want me to leave?"
"Hell yes I do!" and with that, she stormed to the back of her apartment to dress.
Naturally, the scene had left both MORKIN and K3 all the more uncomfortable. As Kelvin dress, MORKIN felt as though he should say something, but he stayed silent as it was clear K3 was angry.
"Listen guy," K3 said as he pushed his way past the officer and into the hallway, "what room at the hospital is that baby in?"
MORKIN was surprised at the question, "216, why?" All too late, he realized his mistake.
With a devious grin, Kelvin nodded at the officer. "Thanks a lot!" He turned quickly, nearly bowling over Mindy Mashtatoor. "Oh, sorry about that..." he said as he continued towards the stairs.
"No problem," Mindy said as he watched Kelvin go. Turning to Officer Morkin, he said calmly "I Hope there's no problem here, sir."
END CHAPTER 3 (THREE)
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