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)
Sunday, May 25, 2008
Saturday, May 24, 2008
Teetering Bluffs: A Story Of Note: Chapter 2 (Two) - Jeffy Coitus Is Quiet
Chapter 2 (TWO) - Jeffy Coitus Is Quiet
People aren't afraid to lie, they're afraid to eat food from foreign countries. This is the simple truth behind most people's actions. While the foolish reader will fail to understand this, I know that you (astute reader) understand me perfectly. The idea of a real Chinese dish drives most American people mad. They can't stand the thought of something not being done their way.
This is why ethnicity is ignored for the sake of not-so-fast food, such as China Dragon restaurants. Cultural insults are not a heavy price to pay for comfort. Besides, we can lie and say we never knew it was an insult, and that we never knew the food was fake Chinese anyhow.
People aren't afraid to lie. That's noteworthy. Like this story.
Janine Pottery was not afraid of foreigners. Only she hated the food they ate. Daily she would grunt disapprovingly as her culturally different workmates ate food that smelled as though it were killed with a harpoon of sharpened stone tied to an oak stick.
She pondered gravely whether they even had oak sticks in China.
Janine is noteworthy.
Sixteen miles away, Jeffy Coitus was fast asleep in a car seat heading towards a new home. I know, that's not very interesting. I just thought I should tell you. I wish you wouldn't get so angry about these things. Your temper is just off the wall lately...
So anyways. Taylor Tungsten was a Mormon. That really plays no part in the story. The year 2005 hadn't been very good to him, and he was feeling a bit like a man suffering from chronic indigestion. The problem was his wife. Lately they'd taken to fueding about everything, including their daughter.
Notable.
Lydia Tungsten was a Victorian in every sense of the word. By that I mean her maiden name was Victoria. Not anymore, though, as she had been married nearly 26 years. She, like most women, was not attractive. Her jaw was quite square, her ass chunk-tastic, yet her ribs showed through a fitted top much like unattractive anorexics.
Someone please tell anorexic girls that we don't even think they're remotely attractive. As a matter of fact, they're quite hideous. Girls, listen, a man wants a girl of average weight. The only kind of man who wants a remarkably thin person isn't actually interested in women. That, or they haven't admitted their homosexuality yet. You are heading towards a slippery slope of rejection that you will never recover from. I promise.
Just thought you might find it noteworthy.
Anyways, the Ex-Victorian Lydia Tungsten was known around her neighborhood for delicious Hot Clam Bread. It should be noted that the bread didn't actually have any clam in it. Rather, she shaped them as close to a shell as is possible with bread and fed them to her easily impressed middle class housewife friends. They weren't very bright. To get to the reason that the bread was called Clam Bread was due to the fact that at every party each woman got two "Clams." Within one of the "Clams" was a large, solid white shooter marble that had been baked into it. Predictably, they called this "The Pearl."
Whoever got "The Pearl" was obligated to host the next Home Exteriors party.
Espantosoville, it's worth noting, was ranked fourth in the nation in terms of Home Exteriors product sales and in-home parties. This, of course, is a measure of the stupidity of any neighborhood (for the interested: a Cleveland suburb was ranked first- I'm certain there is no surprise in the audience).
Another mark of their stupidity might've been that none of them ever realized that Ex-Victorian's Clam Bread was actually from a box bought in their local Wal-Mort. They could've been producing their own Powerful Bread the entire time.
But, they were, of course, idiots.
Taylor had grown irritated with Lydia when he found that she'd been stealing his credit card and using it to purchase copious amounts of Home Exteriors trash. Most women don't realize how much of a waste of money this cheap garbage is, but that's not really notable. Taylor, never one to abide a woman acting outside of his imperial will, confronted her.
Of course, like most men raised before the Millennial Generation, he was pointlessly violent whenever the opportunity arose. His idea of a peaceful resolution to the whole issue was unsavory at best.
Naturally, I will relate that moment in time here.
"Bitch!" he yelled across the house, tossing his credit card bill to the floor where his dog, Toenail, slobbered on it. Toenail was stupid.
"What now honey?" Lydia asked, unsure of whether her husband was yelling at her or not. It isn't to be assumed that her stupidity was the cause of this confusion. Truly, Taylor Tungsten was in the habit of shouting expletives purely for the joy of his own voice. He really, really enjoyed his own voice in the most pure way possible.
"Bitch why did you spend all my money on this shit? Huh?!" he grabbed her by her jaw and pushed her against the nearest wall, knocking over some Home Exteriors candle holder.
It's worth noting that it broke after a fall of only around six feet. Seriously, that shit is cheap, why do you buy it? You're the worst reader ever.
"Honey, I just thought it might make our house look better!" she said frantically, cringing. She feared.
"Bitch, didn't I tell you no more of this shit?! It looks like ass on the walls! Ass!" he shouted into her face, his putrid breath hurting her nose and his spit getting on her wrinkly tan cheeks. She really was a homely woman.
"I'm sorry! I won't buy any more!"
Bending over, Taylor Tungsten picked up the broken pieces of cheap plasti-metal Home Exteriors that had fallen to its breaking death from the wall moments before. "Bitch, look how cheap this shit is!" losing control, as always, Taylor somehow thought it just to sink the sharpened edge of the Candle Holder into the Ex-Victorian's arm.
Blood dripped onto the floor. Toenail licked it up.
"You fuck! You fuck!" she screamed, angrily, pulling the plasti-metal from her arm.
"Bitch, whatever! Quit wasting my money on your worthless housewife fantasies! When our ugly daughter is done with college, I'm divorcing your ass!" Taylor shouted back. But he wasn't really paying much attention to the world around him. Rather his head was elsewhere on baseball, or perhaps professional wrestling.
It should be noted, obviously, that this family was about as close to scum as possible. Honestly.
Thanks to his lack of attention, Taylor Tungsten fell over Toenail the Golden Retriever as he turned to leave the situation. Unfortunately, in his left hand was the other half of the cheap Candle Holder, which pierced his right shoulder upon impact.
Pain washed over him, and he could not even shout for the pain.
Meanwhile, Lydia had been weeping on the floor where she had sank after the stabbing.
The doorbell rang. Toenail drooled on Mr. Tungsten's open wound as he moaned in agony. He was not a doctor, so he diagnosed himself. In this diagnosis he had decided that the Plasti-Metal piece had pierced a tendon. Contemplating excuses, he decided that he would tell his stock market investor Poker buddies that he'd gotten in a knife fight with a home intruder. Maybe a Bible Salesman. Ah yes, that would work.
Lydia walked to the front door and opened it slightly. A remarkably ugly UPS boy was carrying boxes from his truck. Four already lay on the porch, and he had Four more in his hands. The smell of the summer afternoon was incredible, and the lawn was a lush green.
It oughta be. The Tungsten Household paid over $6,000 dollars in the last Four years to have professional lawn care on their lovingly tended 1/4 achre of land.
That's notable.
So anyways, it was about this time that the Ex-Victorian Lydia Tungsten noticed the packing labels. With Eight boxes on her porch and the UPS boy who appeared to be the victim of a half-hearted third trimester abortion about to bring more, she panicked.
And for good reason. Taylor Tungsten had just arrived at the door, Plasti-Metal still in his shoulder (he diagnosed himself and determined that removing it would only cause more bleeding. It should be noted that the piece was thinner than a pencil). His shirt was not the only thing growing more red by the minute.
Rushing over to his desk in the next room, Taylor retrieved his handgun. Like most bored Americans he'd purchased it in anticipation of the next big knife fight. Most men with ego issues dream of bringing a gun to a knife fight.
The delivery boy's teeth were crooked. Very crooked. More crooked than any teeth on anyone in Extropicoville. Lydia was sad to know that the last person she would ever talk to in the world would be the ugliest person she'd ever seen.
But then, life and everything in it is so unspeakably ugly, that it's a wonder God claims it. Though after Family Guy was brought back to the airwaves, I suppose just about anything is beautiful.
Chimmy's crooked teeth were in a shocked frown as the brain matter of Lydia Tungsten, Ex-Victorian, stained his new UPS uniform. The crack of the handgun had surprised him into dropping the last Eight small boxes of Home Exteriors to the sidewalk.
"Fuck," he thought, "I'm gonna die before I even get a paycheck? Before I fuck that gorgeous bitch Jenny Bixler down At The Drive-In? Fuck this!" And with that, Chimmy Rizzy ran towards the road as quickly as he could.
Realizing he was now committed to more murder (to be committed), Taylor gave chase. Shooting Chimmy wouldn't be necessary as he'd dashed out in front of a car that hit him.
Landing on the hood, Chimmy tried to scramble to the road. But before he could, a bullet entered his head from just below his right ear. And that was the end of him.
Seeing the shocked woman in the driver's seat, Taylor grew more furious. Flexing his Plasti-Metaled Shoulder with something as close to a roar of anger that he could muster (Roar!), Taylor Tungsten blasted the woman in the face with his Pistol. Her blood watered the face of a baby no longer sleeping in the back seat.
This shocked Taylor truly. For a moment, he couldn't think very clearly. Then he realized what a mistake he'd made in his rage. A poor child with Black hair now stained with skull material and blood would forever be traumatized.
He lay the fault squarely at the feet of the Home Exteriors corporation. As it should be.
Walking back into his home and closing the door, he picked up his wife's body and carried it softly to the living room. For the first time in years, he attempted to cry. It didn't work, so he thought to light a match and see if the smoke could do the trick. That worked pretty well.
Thoughtlessly, he tossed the match aside onto the couch. Still lit, it now made his home part of the flame.
"Ah... maybe just as well..." he thought in his best attempt at somber-ness.
So, cuddling his freshly murdered, homely wife (Lydia Tungsten Ex-Victorian), Taylor Tungsten felt his body warm to a new kind of fire. Namely the one on his couch.
By the time "The Frizz" got home to discover her father's afternoon of crime, the house had already burnt a great deal. No one had dared approach the house after the apparent string of shootings. The Firemen said it was a safety issue.
Looking into the car, Jori saw Jeffy. He was squirming in the blood, but was not crying.
She felt a strange tingling in her breast as the smoke from the housefire made her eyes begin to itch.
That last bit? It was notable.
END CHAPTER 2 (TWO)
People aren't afraid to lie, they're afraid to eat food from foreign countries. This is the simple truth behind most people's actions. While the foolish reader will fail to understand this, I know that you (astute reader) understand me perfectly. The idea of a real Chinese dish drives most American people mad. They can't stand the thought of something not being done their way.
This is why ethnicity is ignored for the sake of not-so-fast food, such as China Dragon restaurants. Cultural insults are not a heavy price to pay for comfort. Besides, we can lie and say we never knew it was an insult, and that we never knew the food was fake Chinese anyhow.
People aren't afraid to lie. That's noteworthy. Like this story.
Janine Pottery was not afraid of foreigners. Only she hated the food they ate. Daily she would grunt disapprovingly as her culturally different workmates ate food that smelled as though it were killed with a harpoon of sharpened stone tied to an oak stick.
She pondered gravely whether they even had oak sticks in China.
Janine is noteworthy.
Sixteen miles away, Jeffy Coitus was fast asleep in a car seat heading towards a new home. I know, that's not very interesting. I just thought I should tell you. I wish you wouldn't get so angry about these things. Your temper is just off the wall lately...
So anyways. Taylor Tungsten was a Mormon. That really plays no part in the story. The year 2005 hadn't been very good to him, and he was feeling a bit like a man suffering from chronic indigestion. The problem was his wife. Lately they'd taken to fueding about everything, including their daughter.
Notable.
Lydia Tungsten was a Victorian in every sense of the word. By that I mean her maiden name was Victoria. Not anymore, though, as she had been married nearly 26 years. She, like most women, was not attractive. Her jaw was quite square, her ass chunk-tastic, yet her ribs showed through a fitted top much like unattractive anorexics.
Someone please tell anorexic girls that we don't even think they're remotely attractive. As a matter of fact, they're quite hideous. Girls, listen, a man wants a girl of average weight. The only kind of man who wants a remarkably thin person isn't actually interested in women. That, or they haven't admitted their homosexuality yet. You are heading towards a slippery slope of rejection that you will never recover from. I promise.
Just thought you might find it noteworthy.
Anyways, the Ex-Victorian Lydia Tungsten was known around her neighborhood for delicious Hot Clam Bread. It should be noted that the bread didn't actually have any clam in it. Rather, she shaped them as close to a shell as is possible with bread and fed them to her easily impressed middle class housewife friends. They weren't very bright. To get to the reason that the bread was called Clam Bread was due to the fact that at every party each woman got two "Clams." Within one of the "Clams" was a large, solid white shooter marble that had been baked into it. Predictably, they called this "The Pearl."
Whoever got "The Pearl" was obligated to host the next Home Exteriors party.
Espantosoville, it's worth noting, was ranked fourth in the nation in terms of Home Exteriors product sales and in-home parties. This, of course, is a measure of the stupidity of any neighborhood (for the interested: a Cleveland suburb was ranked first- I'm certain there is no surprise in the audience).
Another mark of their stupidity might've been that none of them ever realized that Ex-Victorian's Clam Bread was actually from a box bought in their local Wal-Mort. They could've been producing their own Powerful Bread the entire time.
But, they were, of course, idiots.
Taylor had grown irritated with Lydia when he found that she'd been stealing his credit card and using it to purchase copious amounts of Home Exteriors trash. Most women don't realize how much of a waste of money this cheap garbage is, but that's not really notable. Taylor, never one to abide a woman acting outside of his imperial will, confronted her.
Of course, like most men raised before the Millennial Generation, he was pointlessly violent whenever the opportunity arose. His idea of a peaceful resolution to the whole issue was unsavory at best.
Naturally, I will relate that moment in time here.
"Bitch!" he yelled across the house, tossing his credit card bill to the floor where his dog, Toenail, slobbered on it. Toenail was stupid.
"What now honey?" Lydia asked, unsure of whether her husband was yelling at her or not. It isn't to be assumed that her stupidity was the cause of this confusion. Truly, Taylor Tungsten was in the habit of shouting expletives purely for the joy of his own voice. He really, really enjoyed his own voice in the most pure way possible.
"Bitch why did you spend all my money on this shit? Huh?!" he grabbed her by her jaw and pushed her against the nearest wall, knocking over some Home Exteriors candle holder.
It's worth noting that it broke after a fall of only around six feet. Seriously, that shit is cheap, why do you buy it? You're the worst reader ever.
"Honey, I just thought it might make our house look better!" she said frantically, cringing. She feared.
"Bitch, didn't I tell you no more of this shit?! It looks like ass on the walls! Ass!" he shouted into her face, his putrid breath hurting her nose and his spit getting on her wrinkly tan cheeks. She really was a homely woman.
"I'm sorry! I won't buy any more!"
Bending over, Taylor Tungsten picked up the broken pieces of cheap plasti-metal Home Exteriors that had fallen to its breaking death from the wall moments before. "Bitch, look how cheap this shit is!" losing control, as always, Taylor somehow thought it just to sink the sharpened edge of the Candle Holder into the Ex-Victorian's arm.
Blood dripped onto the floor. Toenail licked it up.
"You fuck! You fuck!" she screamed, angrily, pulling the plasti-metal from her arm.
"Bitch, whatever! Quit wasting my money on your worthless housewife fantasies! When our ugly daughter is done with college, I'm divorcing your ass!" Taylor shouted back. But he wasn't really paying much attention to the world around him. Rather his head was elsewhere on baseball, or perhaps professional wrestling.
It should be noted, obviously, that this family was about as close to scum as possible. Honestly.
Thanks to his lack of attention, Taylor Tungsten fell over Toenail the Golden Retriever as he turned to leave the situation. Unfortunately, in his left hand was the other half of the cheap Candle Holder, which pierced his right shoulder upon impact.
Pain washed over him, and he could not even shout for the pain.
Meanwhile, Lydia had been weeping on the floor where she had sank after the stabbing.
The doorbell rang. Toenail drooled on Mr. Tungsten's open wound as he moaned in agony. He was not a doctor, so he diagnosed himself. In this diagnosis he had decided that the Plasti-Metal piece had pierced a tendon. Contemplating excuses, he decided that he would tell his stock market investor Poker buddies that he'd gotten in a knife fight with a home intruder. Maybe a Bible Salesman. Ah yes, that would work.
Lydia walked to the front door and opened it slightly. A remarkably ugly UPS boy was carrying boxes from his truck. Four already lay on the porch, and he had Four more in his hands. The smell of the summer afternoon was incredible, and the lawn was a lush green.
It oughta be. The Tungsten Household paid over $6,000 dollars in the last Four years to have professional lawn care on their lovingly tended 1/4 achre of land.
That's notable.
So anyways, it was about this time that the Ex-Victorian Lydia Tungsten noticed the packing labels. With Eight boxes on her porch and the UPS boy who appeared to be the victim of a half-hearted third trimester abortion about to bring more, she panicked.
And for good reason. Taylor Tungsten had just arrived at the door, Plasti-Metal still in his shoulder (he diagnosed himself and determined that removing it would only cause more bleeding. It should be noted that the piece was thinner than a pencil). His shirt was not the only thing growing more red by the minute.
Rushing over to his desk in the next room, Taylor retrieved his handgun. Like most bored Americans he'd purchased it in anticipation of the next big knife fight. Most men with ego issues dream of bringing a gun to a knife fight.
The delivery boy's teeth were crooked. Very crooked. More crooked than any teeth on anyone in Extropicoville. Lydia was sad to know that the last person she would ever talk to in the world would be the ugliest person she'd ever seen.
But then, life and everything in it is so unspeakably ugly, that it's a wonder God claims it. Though after Family Guy was brought back to the airwaves, I suppose just about anything is beautiful.
Chimmy's crooked teeth were in a shocked frown as the brain matter of Lydia Tungsten, Ex-Victorian, stained his new UPS uniform. The crack of the handgun had surprised him into dropping the last Eight small boxes of Home Exteriors to the sidewalk.
"Fuck," he thought, "I'm gonna die before I even get a paycheck? Before I fuck that gorgeous bitch Jenny Bixler down At The Drive-In? Fuck this!" And with that, Chimmy Rizzy ran towards the road as quickly as he could.
Realizing he was now committed to more murder (to be committed), Taylor gave chase. Shooting Chimmy wouldn't be necessary as he'd dashed out in front of a car that hit him.
Landing on the hood, Chimmy tried to scramble to the road. But before he could, a bullet entered his head from just below his right ear. And that was the end of him.
Seeing the shocked woman in the driver's seat, Taylor grew more furious. Flexing his Plasti-Metaled Shoulder with something as close to a roar of anger that he could muster (Roar!), Taylor Tungsten blasted the woman in the face with his Pistol. Her blood watered the face of a baby no longer sleeping in the back seat.
This shocked Taylor truly. For a moment, he couldn't think very clearly. Then he realized what a mistake he'd made in his rage. A poor child with Black hair now stained with skull material and blood would forever be traumatized.
He lay the fault squarely at the feet of the Home Exteriors corporation. As it should be.
Walking back into his home and closing the door, he picked up his wife's body and carried it softly to the living room. For the first time in years, he attempted to cry. It didn't work, so he thought to light a match and see if the smoke could do the trick. That worked pretty well.
Thoughtlessly, he tossed the match aside onto the couch. Still lit, it now made his home part of the flame.
"Ah... maybe just as well..." he thought in his best attempt at somber-ness.
So, cuddling his freshly murdered, homely wife (Lydia Tungsten Ex-Victorian), Taylor Tungsten felt his body warm to a new kind of fire. Namely the one on his couch.
By the time "The Frizz" got home to discover her father's afternoon of crime, the house had already burnt a great deal. No one had dared approach the house after the apparent string of shootings. The Firemen said it was a safety issue.
Looking into the car, Jori saw Jeffy. He was squirming in the blood, but was not crying.
She felt a strange tingling in her breast as the smoke from the housefire made her eyes begin to itch.
That last bit? It was notable.
END CHAPTER 2 (TWO)
Teetering Bluffs: A Story Of Addiction: Chapter 1 (One) - Jeffy Coitus Begins To Grow
CHAPTER 1 (ONE) - Jeffy Coitus Begins To Grow
This is a story, addicting.
As in, addiction is what the story will cause, center on, and allow to be its focus. For you see, the story is an entity unhappy with the present course. Entreaties have been made that I ask you to sail your ship of comprehension towards the bay of this new city (named Espantosoville). But who gives a shit, anyways.
Addiction is the biggest problem of the 21st century. Censure could be made for many, but what's the use. Romanticism and Addiction: This is the deadly combination. How many 90's wannabe grunge rockers addicted themselves to God knows what just because of Kurt Cobain? I wish none, but we all know better.
It's not a crime, it's just an addiction made romantic.
Ah, this story is addicting.
Today, Cocaine enters the realm of Coitus in Extrentosoville (his hometown). In a dank Crack Den, hazy, with dark brown wood showing through the ripped up carpet up the floor, a man named Torrence Clamwater drank a milkshake from one of those generic gas station paper cups. You know the kind- made usually by the Dixie corporation, bearing some odd ring of fragmented pattern around the middle of the cup, and usually orange or yellow. Sure you do. You're smart.
Torrence, or Rinse as his Crack Den pals knew him, was a policeman for the Escartinaville municipal court. Much to his chagrin, he was not a real cop, only a courtroom cop hired on an hourly wage of $16.45 and a brown paper bag with two stale donuts (Glazed). It was OK, and paid his bachelor bills. Which consisted of Water, Electricity, Apartment, Pepsi, Pornographic Website Subscriptions (his fetish for BBWs was well known), and Meth Amphetamines. Recently, as the astute reader will note, he had taken to chasing his Meth with Cocaine.
Still, most people weren't really sure why his nickname was Rinse. It didn't make sense at all. It was his big non-sequitur.
Rinse.
Rinse.
Rinse.
After showering off the fume of drogues and drogue addict friends, he headed naked to the front door of his apartment, and down the stairs to the lobby. He then walked to his sidewalk naked. Not, as many cliche-fed readers will assume, for his newspaper. Nor for his mail. No. Rinse was just an exhibitionist showing the world that he had more meat than potato in every sense of the word.
He weighed 190 pounds, and was 5' 2". Once he had been told by a large Italian defendant entering court that he was the perfect size for a love slave- no kneeling would be required. That day he decided to go to the gym more often.
At the gym, he discovered that walking around the locker room naked made men look away from him quickly. This he mistakenly took as a sign that they feared him and his penis (which he nicknamed "Mannschaft", mistaking it- as many do- for Penis. It's really German for "Team"), so he began to do it as often has he could.
Yet his apartment was in a rather seedy district, so naked men was not unusual, and recently he'd started getting amorous looks from Mindy, his landlord. Mindy Mashtatoor was a man of 5' 2" who had been physically castrated by his father at age 7 for masturbating to a picture of Brooke Shields. Believing this to be a sign of his son's impending homosexuality, his father got drunk and used a butane torch to heat up his K-BAR military knife which he then used to de-ball his son.
This served as enough of an arousal for Mindy that he became a homosexual, and would forever-after have feelings of lust for his father (who two years later died due to Mafia debts).
But the story has digressed. It's just that once you learn the backstories you get... well, who knows.
Addicting.
After re-entering his apartment Eight minutes later, Torrence "Rinse" Clamwater walked over to his closet which was laden with pictures of his first girlfriend, Corrine Tubdolor. She was 15 in all the pictures, because she left him at that age, and he still hadn't found a new girl. Kissing her picture "Goodbye, until tonight!" for the 724th time since moving into the apartment nearly two years prior, he dressed in his well-kept uniform, pinned on his plastic "Temporary Policeman" badge, and headed out the door again.
While walking the Four blocks to work, he found a note in his pants pocket from Mindy.
"Have a good day Baby. The dry cleaning, as always, is free!"
The note smelled like ball sweat, and Rinse didn't really wish to know why. He wondered for a moment whether letting Mindy, a proprietor of many things around town including a Dry Cleaners, clean his uniform once a week was truly the best call he could make. But then, it allowed him to have 15 more hits of Meth every paycheck due to savings, so he supposed he could ignore the vague hint of white stains that always mysteriously appeared inside the ass of his pants weekly.
He was fairly certain that Mindy had an addiction too.
Walking into the courthouse, he saluted the homely redhead at the front desk. Her named was Jori "The Frizz" Tungsten. Her hair was never frizzy, but he heard that it used to be. Instantly, Rinse felt silly for saluting her. She was only 23, and he was 24. This was a big difference to Rinse who had never really figured out the appropriate age range in high school. His only girlfriend had dated him for a week on a bet, and in that time they had fucked 16 times.
You see, Corrine Tubdolor had an addiction.
For the first time in a while, his boss Jeffrey Tilling was standing next to the time clock. Torrence was around Four minutes early, and this pleased Jeffrey who smiled at him.
"Hello Mr. Clamwater. How are ya today?" his jovial voice slid across the room the Rinse like slimy cottage milk. No one knew why Tilling adopted a fake country accent when speaking with Rinse. Rinse was from Las Vegas, and they were currently in Estrogeniraville, California.
"I'm doing OK, Mr. Tilling. How many cases am I assigned to guard the door for today, sir?" for a moment, he wished that he had saluted Tilling instead of The Frizz.
"None, none. Today yer gettin' promoted!" he practically shouted, before beginning to show signs of imminent laughter. These signs are well-known, so I won't take the time to list them here.
Surprise and excitement swept over Rinse, who was oblivious to the signs of laughter. "Sir, I wasn't aware promotion was possible! What will I be doing?"
Stepping aside in a fit of giggles that reminded rinse of how Corrine would giggle every time he asked if she was enjoying herself, Tilling revealed a small baby laid on a kitchen towel on the table where his lunch of two donuts (Glazed) would usually be.
"What's that baby doing here? And why's it naked?"Rinse asked, confused.
"Hell if I know. It's sure cute though!" Tilling said, laying on the accent heavily. "You look lonely, little guy!" he screamed at the baby's face, as though it were deaf. Picking it up, Tilling shook it, its tiny baby head flying around like... well, a tiny baby head flying around as its shaken violently by a 50-something guy using Just For Men and an online dating site in order to coerce young women into having sex with him. I mean shit, what the hell else do you want me to say? That's what it looked like.
"Cute little fellow," he said, finally, as he set it down on the table. It wasn't moving very much.
"I agree," Rinse replied. "So sir, what's this promotion you mentioned?"
Suddenly cracking up again, Tilling looked at Rinse practically crying from the laughter. "Oh yeah! You've been promoted to the unemployment line! You're fired!"
A cold swept down Torrence Clamwater's spine. "Sir, are you serious?"
"Nah, son, nah, I'm just fucking with you. Clock in and let's get down to courtroom Four." With that, Tilling left the room. He smelled vaguely of women's shampoo.
Relieved, Rinse sat down next to the time clock and the baby. He realized that he was late by nearly 3 minutes thanks to Mr. Tilling. It was in that moment that he vowed to burn down his house.
Feeling down in his pocket for his time card, he found a strange tablet at the bottom. Turning it over, he found a note on the back that read:
"Hey Baby! Try this! It's Mescaline!!!!!!!
-Mindy"
It was going to be a long day. He unwrapped the tab. But, thinking twice, he turned to the baby and put the pill in its mouth. "I hope this helps your headache little guy."
With that, he clocked in and left the room. In his head, he made a resolution to break his addiction to secretly cutting his thighs at night. Nine Inch Nails had badly influenced him. Part of his soul felt better, and his thighs were absolutely joyous that their fatty exteriors would finally not sting in the stuffy, cummy pantlegs.
A new day in the life of Torrence Clamwater had begun.
Moments later, a harried looking young man rushed into the Clock-In room. This man was addicted to Apple Schnapps, as many young men are.
"There you are Jeffy!" he shouted. "Come on now little guy, the Judge is gonna take you away from your mom and I if you don't quit running off!"
Jeffy did not understand what his father, Eric, was saying. He was quite drugged up.
END OF CHAPTER 1 (ONE)
This is a story, addicting.
As in, addiction is what the story will cause, center on, and allow to be its focus. For you see, the story is an entity unhappy with the present course. Entreaties have been made that I ask you to sail your ship of comprehension towards the bay of this new city (named Espantosoville). But who gives a shit, anyways.
Addiction is the biggest problem of the 21st century. Censure could be made for many, but what's the use. Romanticism and Addiction: This is the deadly combination. How many 90's wannabe grunge rockers addicted themselves to God knows what just because of Kurt Cobain? I wish none, but we all know better.
It's not a crime, it's just an addiction made romantic.
Ah, this story is addicting.
Today, Cocaine enters the realm of Coitus in Extrentosoville (his hometown). In a dank Crack Den, hazy, with dark brown wood showing through the ripped up carpet up the floor, a man named Torrence Clamwater drank a milkshake from one of those generic gas station paper cups. You know the kind- made usually by the Dixie corporation, bearing some odd ring of fragmented pattern around the middle of the cup, and usually orange or yellow. Sure you do. You're smart.
Torrence, or Rinse as his Crack Den pals knew him, was a policeman for the Escartinaville municipal court. Much to his chagrin, he was not a real cop, only a courtroom cop hired on an hourly wage of $16.45 and a brown paper bag with two stale donuts (Glazed). It was OK, and paid his bachelor bills. Which consisted of Water, Electricity, Apartment, Pepsi, Pornographic Website Subscriptions (his fetish for BBWs was well known), and Meth Amphetamines. Recently, as the astute reader will note, he had taken to chasing his Meth with Cocaine.
Still, most people weren't really sure why his nickname was Rinse. It didn't make sense at all. It was his big non-sequitur.
Rinse.
Rinse.
Rinse.
After showering off the fume of drogues and drogue addict friends, he headed naked to the front door of his apartment, and down the stairs to the lobby. He then walked to his sidewalk naked. Not, as many cliche-fed readers will assume, for his newspaper. Nor for his mail. No. Rinse was just an exhibitionist showing the world that he had more meat than potato in every sense of the word.
He weighed 190 pounds, and was 5' 2". Once he had been told by a large Italian defendant entering court that he was the perfect size for a love slave- no kneeling would be required. That day he decided to go to the gym more often.
At the gym, he discovered that walking around the locker room naked made men look away from him quickly. This he mistakenly took as a sign that they feared him and his penis (which he nicknamed "Mannschaft", mistaking it- as many do- for Penis. It's really German for "Team"), so he began to do it as often has he could.
Yet his apartment was in a rather seedy district, so naked men was not unusual, and recently he'd started getting amorous looks from Mindy, his landlord. Mindy Mashtatoor was a man of 5' 2" who had been physically castrated by his father at age 7 for masturbating to a picture of Brooke Shields. Believing this to be a sign of his son's impending homosexuality, his father got drunk and used a butane torch to heat up his K-BAR military knife which he then used to de-ball his son.
This served as enough of an arousal for Mindy that he became a homosexual, and would forever-after have feelings of lust for his father (who two years later died due to Mafia debts).
But the story has digressed. It's just that once you learn the backstories you get... well, who knows.
Addicting.
After re-entering his apartment Eight minutes later, Torrence "Rinse" Clamwater walked over to his closet which was laden with pictures of his first girlfriend, Corrine Tubdolor. She was 15 in all the pictures, because she left him at that age, and he still hadn't found a new girl. Kissing her picture "Goodbye, until tonight!" for the 724th time since moving into the apartment nearly two years prior, he dressed in his well-kept uniform, pinned on his plastic "Temporary Policeman" badge, and headed out the door again.
While walking the Four blocks to work, he found a note in his pants pocket from Mindy.
"Have a good day Baby. The dry cleaning, as always, is free!"
The note smelled like ball sweat, and Rinse didn't really wish to know why. He wondered for a moment whether letting Mindy, a proprietor of many things around town including a Dry Cleaners, clean his uniform once a week was truly the best call he could make. But then, it allowed him to have 15 more hits of Meth every paycheck due to savings, so he supposed he could ignore the vague hint of white stains that always mysteriously appeared inside the ass of his pants weekly.
He was fairly certain that Mindy had an addiction too.
Walking into the courthouse, he saluted the homely redhead at the front desk. Her named was Jori "The Frizz" Tungsten. Her hair was never frizzy, but he heard that it used to be. Instantly, Rinse felt silly for saluting her. She was only 23, and he was 24. This was a big difference to Rinse who had never really figured out the appropriate age range in high school. His only girlfriend had dated him for a week on a bet, and in that time they had fucked 16 times.
You see, Corrine Tubdolor had an addiction.
For the first time in a while, his boss Jeffrey Tilling was standing next to the time clock. Torrence was around Four minutes early, and this pleased Jeffrey who smiled at him.
"Hello Mr. Clamwater. How are ya today?" his jovial voice slid across the room the Rinse like slimy cottage milk. No one knew why Tilling adopted a fake country accent when speaking with Rinse. Rinse was from Las Vegas, and they were currently in Estrogeniraville, California.
"I'm doing OK, Mr. Tilling. How many cases am I assigned to guard the door for today, sir?" for a moment, he wished that he had saluted Tilling instead of The Frizz.
"None, none. Today yer gettin' promoted!" he practically shouted, before beginning to show signs of imminent laughter. These signs are well-known, so I won't take the time to list them here.
Surprise and excitement swept over Rinse, who was oblivious to the signs of laughter. "Sir, I wasn't aware promotion was possible! What will I be doing?"
Stepping aside in a fit of giggles that reminded rinse of how Corrine would giggle every time he asked if she was enjoying herself, Tilling revealed a small baby laid on a kitchen towel on the table where his lunch of two donuts (Glazed) would usually be.
"What's that baby doing here? And why's it naked?"Rinse asked, confused.
"Hell if I know. It's sure cute though!" Tilling said, laying on the accent heavily. "You look lonely, little guy!" he screamed at the baby's face, as though it were deaf. Picking it up, Tilling shook it, its tiny baby head flying around like... well, a tiny baby head flying around as its shaken violently by a 50-something guy using Just For Men and an online dating site in order to coerce young women into having sex with him. I mean shit, what the hell else do you want me to say? That's what it looked like.
"Cute little fellow," he said, finally, as he set it down on the table. It wasn't moving very much.
"I agree," Rinse replied. "So sir, what's this promotion you mentioned?"
Suddenly cracking up again, Tilling looked at Rinse practically crying from the laughter. "Oh yeah! You've been promoted to the unemployment line! You're fired!"
A cold swept down Torrence Clamwater's spine. "Sir, are you serious?"
"Nah, son, nah, I'm just fucking with you. Clock in and let's get down to courtroom Four." With that, Tilling left the room. He smelled vaguely of women's shampoo.
Relieved, Rinse sat down next to the time clock and the baby. He realized that he was late by nearly 3 minutes thanks to Mr. Tilling. It was in that moment that he vowed to burn down his house.
Feeling down in his pocket for his time card, he found a strange tablet at the bottom. Turning it over, he found a note on the back that read:
"Hey Baby! Try this! It's Mescaline!!!!!!!
-Mindy"
It was going to be a long day. He unwrapped the tab. But, thinking twice, he turned to the baby and put the pill in its mouth. "I hope this helps your headache little guy."
With that, he clocked in and left the room. In his head, he made a resolution to break his addiction to secretly cutting his thighs at night. Nine Inch Nails had badly influenced him. Part of his soul felt better, and his thighs were absolutely joyous that their fatty exteriors would finally not sting in the stuffy, cummy pantlegs.
A new day in the life of Torrence Clamwater had begun.
Moments later, a harried looking young man rushed into the Clock-In room. This man was addicted to Apple Schnapps, as many young men are.
"There you are Jeffy!" he shouted. "Come on now little guy, the Judge is gonna take you away from your mom and I if you don't quit running off!"
Jeffy did not understand what his father, Eric, was saying. He was quite drugged up.
END OF CHAPTER 1 (ONE)
Friday, May 23, 2008
Teetering Bluffs: A Story Of Intrigue: Chapter 0- The Beginning Of The Life Of Jeffy Coitus
CHAPTER 0 (ZERO) - The Beginning Of The Life Of Jeffy Coitus
This is a story, intriguing.
Your father will get drunk first. That's the first thing that will happen, denoted by a 1. First. As in...
The first number in any sequence will naturally lead to a second. You would be surprised how many theorists and philosophers have devoted their life to this simple truth. And by simple, I mean mind-numbingly, off the wall easily, your third grade daughter who will one day give head in the men's bathroom at Wendy's has already figured it out.
But that's the great thing about being a genius. You take the time others spend on figuring out the hard things to figure out the simple things. Every single genius savant has turned from the difficult things, already mastered, and laughing at all the proletariat morons still investigating them, begins to re-examine the obvious. Why do we breathe?
You breathe because God told you to.
Why is there a God though? Naturally, this is the simplest question to answer. But a lot of people have wasted a lot of time trying to figure it out.
And this isn't a story of God, politics, or figuring out the big questions. This is a story, intriguing.
So what then will be the point? A lot of people have dedicated a lot of time to trying to figure out that answer. It isn't an easy answer to find though. Because in truth people have an easier time being pointless than they do being pointed.
Like a pencil. Only a pencil could better serve them by piercing their temples, or breastplates (the one on the left). Only when you're doing the stabbing, be careful to avoid the bling. There's nothing worse in this world than tainted bling. Or bling on your taint.
Nod if you understand thus far. Only bite your tongue, I don't care.
Now, let me provide the question. As Hitchiker's Guide has taught us, the question is always the problem- not the answer. The question is as follows:
How will we contain all the intrigue presented by this story?
The main character's name is Sola. SOUL UHH. It's like a joke that isn't sure of itself told by a man who rocks 5 and a half inches and $120,000.42 a year. Sola just died.
WHY?!
That's intriguing. This story is really, really intriguing. And I don't have to tell you that. You can tell from the title of this chapter.
Sola was a gorgeous brunette with slightly curly hair from H TOWN. But which H TOWN doesn't matter. For God's sake, we could call it Jehovaville and make it filled with Mormons who will one day die (and they have devoted a lot of time to the question of what happens after that).
Sola was challenged to a duel, but declined, because it was 2005 and who the fuck has a duel in 2005? Besides you, of course. You're intriguing. You should write a story about yourself.
But this isn't about you. It's about Sola, a so-so, somewhat ho-hum looking blonde from M TOWN. She breathed in steel mill gases all her life and eventually put a grenade under the door of a Bible Salesman. She walked around to the side of his house and waited. Then it occurred to her that something didn't make a lot of sense about putting something as big as a grenade under something like a solid oak door. It must've been the mail slot.
After she decided that it was the mail slot, however, she wasn't really sure of that detail either. So she walked back to the front door to find that she'd left the grenade on the porch and that nobody in the 21st century even has a mail slot. Or maybe they do, she was intrigued to find out (and isn't that the point?).
But unfortunately, Greely's son (Greely was a rather poor Accountant from the valley of J TOWN, six slums over from Brixton Oregon. He lived in Arizona) who was three had just taken his first steps and wandered to the front porch of the house. He was slow. His name was Aaron. And of course, like all good babies named Aaron, he found the grenade and threw himself on top of it. I'm lying, he fell. It exploded and suddenly he was baby Aaron all over the porch.
Whoa, that was really intriguing!
Anyways, Sola who was a somewhat sexually appealing redhead from Germany that lacked a rack but had an ass found herself horrified at the sin she had just committed. She pulled out her other grenade that she stored on the other side of her bra. There was room there, because she was not racked. Only she cut her nipple while pulling the grenade out, which was unfortunate because they were big and sausage-link-esque. Think Bai Ling.
Blood poured freely out of her top as she crawled, legless, to the porch. She regrew her legs in a moment's notice, because she wasn't sure how she ever lost them anyways. Running through Greely's front door she found him pointing a .45 at her face. She was not afraid, however. Most sexually unappealing fat girls with bad acne and Hermione Granger-like hair from the Silicon Valley area are unafraid all the time. Slowly, Greely pulled back the hammer.
"Step away from the couch Sola, you're finished," he said calmly, eyeing the grenade in her hand.
"I have murdered your son. I am sorry," she said, almost mechanically. Sola could not quite piece together what was going on.
Sighing, Greely lowered the gun. "Why've you been released, Sola? You just barely started your treatment..." he said, rubbing his exhausted eyes.
"Only the doctor said the infection in my mouth was gone. In the future I am to be discriminating in my sexual acts, he said. But I don't know if I should follow his advice. I was always told not to discriminate," she said innocently, her straight white teeth shining like silver chiclets in her mouth that always reeked slightly of Garlic Butter.
"There's a reason we call you The Onion," he said, grimly looking at her stomach flab that was showing through her far-too-tight tank top.
"I always thought that was because I was witty. Am I witty?"
"No."
"Oh. Anyways, I'm sorry I killed your son. I meant to kill you," she grinned, holding up the grenade.
Greely raised his .45 to her once more. "Why've you come to kill me? I'm the one who pays for your apartment!"
"To create a scenario of intrigue!" she shouted, jumping up and down, causing her many rolls of fat and chunk-tit to fly about like bouncing children head's in the home of a serial abuser.
Greely vomited at the sight. "Goddamn!" he yelled back at her. His mind could take it no longer. Without flinching, he pulled the trigger and dropped her. The bullet traveled through seven inches of cellulite before puncturing her gall blader. Though her Jabba The Hutt body had cracked the wood flooring upon hitting it, Greely could see that Sola was not critically injured.
Approaching her to finish the job, he slipped on his pile of vomit. It was pinkish, with flecks of green from were he'd spent the afternoon munching on a Fun Noodle. His other children would be sad to find that out later. They probably wouldn't care all that much about the one that blew up though. These things just happen. But the death of a Fun Noodle is a real tragedy.
Spotting her chance to flee while Greely's jaw shattered against a stone-lined table nearby, Sola fought through her Gall Bladder Bullet Wound Pain and rose to her chunky feet attached to her disgusting Cankles. Don't you think Cankles are really disgusting? If not, I think you're really intriguing... for the wrong reasons.
Pain was blinding Greely. And he felt bile rising into his broken mouth as he gazed over and saw Sola: Queen Chunktastic bouncing about the room like a cellulite electron. Vomiting again, he heard his teeth fragments hitting the floor. He thanked God, for the first time since he spent 11 years of his life deciding there must not be one, that his teeth were fake. Unfortunately, his jaw was not, and that hurt a little bit. Thinking of getting it wired shut again made him a little unhappy.
Suddenly, Sola ran out the front door. Greely was in too much pain to follow, because the rest of the Fun Noodle he hadn't thrown up was now scraping the inner walls of his colon. The feeling was actually sort of intriguing.
But Sola's luck was not any better than Greely's. Tripping over the still-intact leg of Greely's recently-dead son, she toppled down the steps of his front porch. All 450 pounds of her bulk came to rest on the front lawn. She knew it was time to die. Unpinning the grenade and putting it in her mouth, she blew up. An old woman passing by on the street was killed by the boiling cellulite. Her name was Agnes, as all old women are named.
Sixteen miles away, in a small ER, Jeffy Coitus was born. This story is about him.
End Of Chapter 0 (Zero)
This is a story, intriguing.
Your father will get drunk first. That's the first thing that will happen, denoted by a 1. First. As in...
The first number in any sequence will naturally lead to a second. You would be surprised how many theorists and philosophers have devoted their life to this simple truth. And by simple, I mean mind-numbingly, off the wall easily, your third grade daughter who will one day give head in the men's bathroom at Wendy's has already figured it out.
But that's the great thing about being a genius. You take the time others spend on figuring out the hard things to figure out the simple things. Every single genius savant has turned from the difficult things, already mastered, and laughing at all the proletariat morons still investigating them, begins to re-examine the obvious. Why do we breathe?
You breathe because God told you to.
Why is there a God though? Naturally, this is the simplest question to answer. But a lot of people have wasted a lot of time trying to figure it out.
And this isn't a story of God, politics, or figuring out the big questions. This is a story, intriguing.
So what then will be the point? A lot of people have dedicated a lot of time to trying to figure out that answer. It isn't an easy answer to find though. Because in truth people have an easier time being pointless than they do being pointed.
Like a pencil. Only a pencil could better serve them by piercing their temples, or breastplates (the one on the left). Only when you're doing the stabbing, be careful to avoid the bling. There's nothing worse in this world than tainted bling. Or bling on your taint.
Nod if you understand thus far. Only bite your tongue, I don't care.
Now, let me provide the question. As Hitchiker's Guide has taught us, the question is always the problem- not the answer. The question is as follows:
How will we contain all the intrigue presented by this story?
The main character's name is Sola. SOUL UHH. It's like a joke that isn't sure of itself told by a man who rocks 5 and a half inches and $120,000.42 a year. Sola just died.
WHY?!
That's intriguing. This story is really, really intriguing. And I don't have to tell you that. You can tell from the title of this chapter.
Sola was a gorgeous brunette with slightly curly hair from H TOWN. But which H TOWN doesn't matter. For God's sake, we could call it Jehovaville and make it filled with Mormons who will one day die (and they have devoted a lot of time to the question of what happens after that).
Sola was challenged to a duel, but declined, because it was 2005 and who the fuck has a duel in 2005? Besides you, of course. You're intriguing. You should write a story about yourself.
But this isn't about you. It's about Sola, a so-so, somewhat ho-hum looking blonde from M TOWN. She breathed in steel mill gases all her life and eventually put a grenade under the door of a Bible Salesman. She walked around to the side of his house and waited. Then it occurred to her that something didn't make a lot of sense about putting something as big as a grenade under something like a solid oak door. It must've been the mail slot.
After she decided that it was the mail slot, however, she wasn't really sure of that detail either. So she walked back to the front door to find that she'd left the grenade on the porch and that nobody in the 21st century even has a mail slot. Or maybe they do, she was intrigued to find out (and isn't that the point?).
But unfortunately, Greely's son (Greely was a rather poor Accountant from the valley of J TOWN, six slums over from Brixton Oregon. He lived in Arizona) who was three had just taken his first steps and wandered to the front porch of the house. He was slow. His name was Aaron. And of course, like all good babies named Aaron, he found the grenade and threw himself on top of it. I'm lying, he fell. It exploded and suddenly he was baby Aaron all over the porch.
Whoa, that was really intriguing!
Anyways, Sola who was a somewhat sexually appealing redhead from Germany that lacked a rack but had an ass found herself horrified at the sin she had just committed. She pulled out her other grenade that she stored on the other side of her bra. There was room there, because she was not racked. Only she cut her nipple while pulling the grenade out, which was unfortunate because they were big and sausage-link-esque. Think Bai Ling.
Blood poured freely out of her top as she crawled, legless, to the porch. She regrew her legs in a moment's notice, because she wasn't sure how she ever lost them anyways. Running through Greely's front door she found him pointing a .45 at her face. She was not afraid, however. Most sexually unappealing fat girls with bad acne and Hermione Granger-like hair from the Silicon Valley area are unafraid all the time. Slowly, Greely pulled back the hammer.
"Step away from the couch Sola, you're finished," he said calmly, eyeing the grenade in her hand.
"I have murdered your son. I am sorry," she said, almost mechanically. Sola could not quite piece together what was going on.
Sighing, Greely lowered the gun. "Why've you been released, Sola? You just barely started your treatment..." he said, rubbing his exhausted eyes.
"Only the doctor said the infection in my mouth was gone. In the future I am to be discriminating in my sexual acts, he said. But I don't know if I should follow his advice. I was always told not to discriminate," she said innocently, her straight white teeth shining like silver chiclets in her mouth that always reeked slightly of Garlic Butter.
"There's a reason we call you The Onion," he said, grimly looking at her stomach flab that was showing through her far-too-tight tank top.
"I always thought that was because I was witty. Am I witty?"
"No."
"Oh. Anyways, I'm sorry I killed your son. I meant to kill you," she grinned, holding up the grenade.
Greely raised his .45 to her once more. "Why've you come to kill me? I'm the one who pays for your apartment!"
"To create a scenario of intrigue!" she shouted, jumping up and down, causing her many rolls of fat and chunk-tit to fly about like bouncing children head's in the home of a serial abuser.
Greely vomited at the sight. "Goddamn!" he yelled back at her. His mind could take it no longer. Without flinching, he pulled the trigger and dropped her. The bullet traveled through seven inches of cellulite before puncturing her gall blader. Though her Jabba The Hutt body had cracked the wood flooring upon hitting it, Greely could see that Sola was not critically injured.
Approaching her to finish the job, he slipped on his pile of vomit. It was pinkish, with flecks of green from were he'd spent the afternoon munching on a Fun Noodle. His other children would be sad to find that out later. They probably wouldn't care all that much about the one that blew up though. These things just happen. But the death of a Fun Noodle is a real tragedy.
Spotting her chance to flee while Greely's jaw shattered against a stone-lined table nearby, Sola fought through her Gall Bladder Bullet Wound Pain and rose to her chunky feet attached to her disgusting Cankles. Don't you think Cankles are really disgusting? If not, I think you're really intriguing... for the wrong reasons.
Pain was blinding Greely. And he felt bile rising into his broken mouth as he gazed over and saw Sola: Queen Chunktastic bouncing about the room like a cellulite electron. Vomiting again, he heard his teeth fragments hitting the floor. He thanked God, for the first time since he spent 11 years of his life deciding there must not be one, that his teeth were fake. Unfortunately, his jaw was not, and that hurt a little bit. Thinking of getting it wired shut again made him a little unhappy.
Suddenly, Sola ran out the front door. Greely was in too much pain to follow, because the rest of the Fun Noodle he hadn't thrown up was now scraping the inner walls of his colon. The feeling was actually sort of intriguing.
But Sola's luck was not any better than Greely's. Tripping over the still-intact leg of Greely's recently-dead son, she toppled down the steps of his front porch. All 450 pounds of her bulk came to rest on the front lawn. She knew it was time to die. Unpinning the grenade and putting it in her mouth, she blew up. An old woman passing by on the street was killed by the boiling cellulite. Her name was Agnes, as all old women are named.
Sixteen miles away, in a small ER, Jeffy Coitus was born. This story is about him.
End Of Chapter 0 (Zero)
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