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)