Naimul

The year 2007 heralds the return of Jesus Christ. That’s what a considerable portion of the messiah turnaround adherent population of America believes. Its thought that 2007 will be a bleak enough year to warrant at least one delightful turn of events. I guess the combined problems with the economy, war, famine, disease, genocide, and propensity for Sino-Japanese takeover bode ill for the the world.

I wonder what Jesus will think of the world. It’s a little overactive to imagine a world with a messiah or bringer of war (the Mars figure we see in so many literatures and AP Examinations) because the world will get worse a lot faster if the Jesus walks. I suppose 2007 would be the worst year ever if we had an escalation of religious war (to prophesize a fallout of Jesus' return), except this time a collective of monotheists versus the collective avengers of anti-christendom let by Richard Dawkins. Only Professor Dawkins line of argumentation would fall flat when the ascended prophets of old traverse our bereaved earth once more. Read his book for more understanding--it allows for what if's. A flimsy foundation for a world war, worse than eugenics even; more people would die and less discriminately. Maybe Dawkins isn’t the anti Christ. But maybe our 'delusion' is faith based and cannot be scientifically proven either.

But what would Jesus think of our world? Would he enjoy hip hop? Jeff and I are both convinced of the beat culture we are rapt in. The pelvic rhythms of rap are so appealing because they are basal and revert us to a more naturalistic, ancient tapping of feet. It feeds viral: advertisement, sports, fashion, music, humor, work, sex, love, perception in general, art, nature—but overall and most importantly health, wealth, and relationships. These last bullets are things that need no roadmaps because they are innate. So we as humans are drawn to acting a certain, I won’t say socially because it’s bigger than that, defined way. Maybe Jesus could appreciate it for that. Its more likely however, that all standards of behavior will be discarded in favor of religious fervor, for proof of a Lord. There will be praying in opposition to the end of days. Culture as we know it may cease to exist. It could be replaced by revolutionarily militarist but informational religious campaign or ‘new-sade’ and culminate in thousands of years of harmony. Or it really could mean the end of life forever. I expect some years of peace but really I can’t expect too much. Before I extend this sinful conjecture any longer, let me posit one more ponderence. Will Trey Parker and Matt Stone be stoned? In the literal sense? If not for justice’s sake then at least for irony’s? Will irony exist under a new religious order? I suppose only heavenly dissensions will tell.

Pardon my blasphemes but I seek predictive credit where credit is due. Always. Lets hope I and millions of other Americans are wrong, and that we see a second coming of Louie Anderson instead.

There has been a lot of great stuff on this site the last few days. Creative juices are mixing with vodka. I'm an epiphany away from contributing in the same way but before all that I want you to be entertained. A lot of people like to hear stories; I have a few to tell. This first one is a twister so don't scroll down. Friends have called it a favorite. Enjoy.

The Office of Dr. Nichols

“Her habit of smoking was the only thing that ever got to me. She was perfect in so many ways. Looks, she had them all. Beautiful eyes, lustrous brown hair, perfect, smooth skin, white teeth, and the cutest expressions ever to grace this earth. She was smart, she could quote Coleridge and speak French, she indulged in literature and wax philosophized over steaming cups of coffee late into the night. Her laugh, it was like shimmering bells and falling snow, if snow was warm and fruitful, powdery like cotton. Ahh and when she smiled she captured the world in the joyful reflection of her eyes. I could almost forget that she smoked when she was near; not so near that I could smell her natural alluring pheromones, but close enough that I could lean in and whisper, joke into her ears, and be treated with that laugh. If I got too close, if our lips touched, it was there, no matter how she tried to mask it, under a guise of mint the taste would taint, under the shadow of fruit the smell would sustain. Like a caffeinated buzz, exhausting, the smell lingered. It was so derogatory, so contradictory, here was beauty in its most perfect expression, here was wit, and sarcasm, and blustery humor personified…all wasted.”

I looked up from the sofa and found Dr. Nichols staring pensively. He sighed, took off his glasses, folded them, and placed the tortoise shell spectacles in his shirt pocket. He was a lanky man with messy tufts of hair framing his shiny bald crown. His face was creased and he had small brown eyes that hid under a heavy brow. A furrowed brow.

“It seems you were deeply in love with this girl. I assume something happened that made you…lose faith?” The doctor cocked his eyebrow and patiently indicated it was my turn to respond.

“I still love her. I always will…that’s not the reason I came here. I don’t need counseling on relationships,”

“Nor would you have come to the right place if you did,” the doctor interrupted.

“…I came to learn to trust. Again…” I finished. What a quack, he has no idea what he’s doing. What was John thinking when he recommended this guy?

“Listen,” the doctor began, “I’m sorry if that came off as rude. But understand that I am here to help. I want you to feel comfortable. If I am talking, feel free to interject at any point. You came here to learn trust. Start by trusting me. Your input is the most important thing in these sessions. Please…continue your story.”

When he finished speaking I stared for a while, gathering my thoughts and wondering if the old man had read them before they fully formed in my mind. I took a deep breath and started over.
“We met without fanfare. We were both grad students at the time, chipping away hours of the day in the library, studying frantically for tests and writing countless papers. I was in medical school; she was pursing a Ph.D in international studies. We were worlds apart. I had a friend who used to like her, but stopped when he realized how eccentric she was. He didn’t like her twitchy fingers or spastic comments.

“We were introduced once, but I didn’t really know anything about her. Then luck tossed the dice and we found each other fighting the same cause. We both joined a coalition of non-profits on campus, grad students united to fight the evils of the world. That wasn’t the name, it was our rallying call. The organization was PUPS, People United for Peaceful Solutions. We were an amorphous organization with many intersecting branches. I was working to increase availability of TB treatments in South Central Asia and she was fighting poverty in Sub-Saharan Africa. Somehow, through a bureaucratic snafu, our funding committees were merged and we found ourselves at the same budget meetings.”
Dr. Nichols scratched his nose and nodded for me to go on.

“It was a strange situation for me, but I didn’t realize it at first. See, I liked this other girl on the funding panel. But her best friend liked me. For two months I flirted with the wrong girl and it blew up in my face. It wasn’t till the after-shocks of rejection dissipated that my buddy told me who I should have been talking to all along. A girl I didn’t think I had a chance with. She was fun, pretty, and obviously interested in the same things I was.

“My problem has always been that I fall in love with the first girl who shows me the slightest bit of attention. I can fantasize meeting to marriage to divorce in the blink of an eye if a girl smiles at me on the street. So when my buddy tells me this other girl likes me, I’m intrigued, naturally.”

The psychiatrist frowned. “So who did what? How did it fall into place?” Dr. Nichols asked, shaking his head.

“Well…I debated for a long time. I cross examined myself on everything. There were still muddied feelings for the other girl. I was confused, but it was perfect, because in that storm of conflicting ideas and conjecture our relationship unexpectedly fell into place. She invited me over for coffee one night and after a short mental dispute, I decided to go, to determine once and for all who the right girl was. That night changed everything and ultimately I ended up with Kate.”

“Please, no names, it’s harder to remain objective.”

“Sorry about that.”

Dr. Nichols flexed his hands and made a note on the pad of paper resting in his lap. As he scribbled I surveyed my surroundings. It was a posh upstate office, accented with mahogany woodwork, leather furniture, the heavy scent of pipe tobacco, and a roaring fireplace, despite the spring weather. Finally he looked up and asked, “What happened that night?”

“We talked…”

The doctor raised his eyebrows again.

“Seriously, we talked the entire night. There wasn’t a second of dead silence. If there was any silence it was agreed silence, active silence, catch your breath and organize your thoughts, not because you ran out of things to say but because you want words to be meaningful silence. But for the most part we talked the whole night, on a couch, in each others arms. Just…talking.”

“And then you knew?” Dr. Nichols asked.

“I knew…yeah, I knew. I knew that there was no justifying the other girl now. I had a decision to make and it didn’t take me long to realize I made a choice the moment I left home the night we had coffee. I was set.”

“So at this point, your trust in this girl, the girl you ultimately ended up with, the girl who smoked, was absolute.”

“Yes,” I replied delicately, “sure…definitely.”

“Where did everything go wrong?”

I went silent for a minute before answering. “She betrayed me. I was ruined. I mean, I might have handled things better. Maybe I gave up on her, maybe I didn’t give her enough of a chance. I don’t know what to say…all that comes later.”

“Please then, continue.”

I reclined in the chair and massaged my eyelids, once again gathering my thoughts and bracing myself for a reminder of lost days.

“Everything was perfect. We were made for each other. I remember the first time we ate lunch, I asked her, “When is a spoon not a spoon?” holding the utensil aloft. She responded in seconds. “When it’s an action.” Brilliant. And sexy.
“She had a taste for all things robust. Coffee, Italian opera, symphonies, art, fine pastries—all rich, life-fulfilling decadences. Her parents were crazy cultured literati; one was an English professor, the other a successful writer. I never really met them but I loved them because they had educated and molded her to academic perfection. If that wasn’t enough she was humble, caring, and passionate. I was in love with this girl. I couldn’t find anything wrong with her, she was flawless. Except for one thing…one thing that hit me like a kick in the chest.”

I slid to the edge of my chair and locked eyes with the doctor.

“We watched a movie one night, a long one about a composer somewhere in Europe. When it was over she offered me a ride home—it was cold outside and she didn’t want me wandering around. We left her house and strapped ourselves into her forest green sedan, an older model, but warm. I wrapped my arms around my torso and shivered against the night chill as she struggled to fit the keys into the ignition, up the heat, start the car, and adjust her seatbelt all at once. When the heater blasted gusts of stale air into my face I nearly gagged. The environment in the car came to life and within lurked the dusty, thick smell of cigarette smoke. I scrunched my nose and tried to conceal a wave after wave of dismay the whole ride home. The smell wafted from the leather, it was infused in the vinyl. I longed to crack a window but it was the dead of winter. I had to sit there and take it and the whole time this girl was oblivious to my discomfort. Goodbye that night was a peck and sprint to the door.”

“Why do you have this aversion to smoking?” Dr. Nichols asked. “Is it the smell that bothers you or is it the fact that she smoked?” The doctor hunched his shoulders and spread his hands in curiosity. “She didn’t light up in the car, why did you have such a gut wrenching reaction?”

I answered with thoughts that chilled my memory. I’d built my opinion with hours of restive mental deliberation.

“It was the fact that she smoked. I was studying to be a doctor. The year we met I split my time between doing pulmonology lab research and interning in a Cancer Intensive Care Unit. Lungs doc, I was studying lungs, and all the pipes that lead in and out of them. My research dealt with smoking and I took care of smokers. I watched smokers die, watched their families weep for their dearly departed, watched children suffering disease from second hand smoke. Imagine how I felt to see the same…beast…slowly destroying the thing I cherished most.”

The doctor stood and walked to the window.

“You have a good memory for details. I can feel...” he paused. “Something similar, not the same, but equally difficult happened to me a while back. I lost a child to cancer.”

I stared at the back of his messy crown and searched for words.

“I’m sorry to hear that…” I didn’t really know what to say, I wasn’t the psychiatrist. How could he say we were hurt on a similar level? I hadn’t even finished my story. Once again the doctor seemed to read my thoughts.

“Let’s get back to what your story,” he said as he turned away from the window and sat down. Scribbling a final note, he put the pen down and crossed his legs. After a minute he pressed the tips of his fingers together and for the second time asked the most important question of the session.

“Where did everything go wrong?”

I searched my fingernails and the ceiling tiles for the right words. “It was really just one instance built from a stream of hints. She was a frequent smoker, but hid it well. In fact, I never saw her take a single drag. But it was always there and at awkward moments the topic would tumble forward. She would put on a coat, disappear for a few moments, and reappear shrouded in the devil’s nimbus. I think she was ashamed. She used to be quite an athlete. But the smoke gave her a terrible, guttural cough; she couldn’t run anymore and I was afraid to get close. This went on for months—over time we grew distant, slowly losing our wonderful grip on love.

“I figured we needed a revival and since we both treasured the arts, I proposed a trip to Vienna. Far away from everything, across an entire ocean, straight to the land of the fancies we cherished. She immediately latched on to the idea. That spring break we hopped a Trans-Atlantic flight and spent a lovely week in one of the greatest cities on earth. We visited the Volkstheater, the Sisi Museum, admired the Classicist buildings, and enjoyed the opera of Salieri. And the parks, they have amazing parks; it’s one of the greenest cities in the world…”

The doctor nodded and gestured for me to continue.

“We were having a wonderful time. Everything was perfect; I hadn’t heard her cough for days! Then, the night before our return, we went back to the hotel to shower and change before attending a production of Mozart’s Figaro, our favorite opera. I decided to take the first shower and was so excited about the show I was out and dressed in a matter of minutes. But when I reentered the room I found it empty. It was a few seconds before I noticed a gust of cool air coming from the small balcony attached to the room. I assumed she was standing outside, enjoying the starlight. A second gust wafted in, laced with smoke. She was coughing again. I ripped away the curtain and found her leaning against the railing, cigarette in one hand, the other covering her mouth as a fresh spasm of coughs attacked her. When she felt my eyes on her back she spun around and threw the cigarette over the banister into the street below.
“I gave her an ultimatum. I told her she had to make a choice because I wasn’t going to stand by and watch and not be able to do anything while she ruined her life. I begged. I yelled. I whispered. She had two words for me. “I can’t.””

For a few minutes I was overcome with emotion. The doctor handed me a tissue and sat patiently with a fist against his lips.

“I was crushed. I felt my soul shatter into a million pieces. I had put so much trust into our relationship, so much effort and it was all gone, decimated by two lousy words! I packed my bags, went to the airport, paid the four hundred dollar ticket change fee and caught the first flight to America. I suppose it wasn’t her fault that I can’t trust any longer. But for a while I lost hope. A friend told me she went home the next day and disappeared for a few weeks. Then, out of nowhere, she submitted papers to withdraw from school and moved back to her family home. I never heard from Kate Templer again.”

Dr. Nichols started at the mention of the name but said nothing. He was silent for some time, then nodded and looked up.

“I’m glad you came here today. It’s a very complex story....make sure you thank John, on my behalf, for his recommendation. I’m not sure what I can say to ease your mistrust. Trust is something that comes naturally; you can only give it to those who deserve. When you meet a new person, they will do and say things to create an impression. Don’t always base your trust on this impression, give people chances, and learn from your mistakes.” The doctor paused, tracing a pattern in his arm chair, and then stood. “I’ll walk you out.”

I was incredulous. “You didn’t do a thing for me! What, am I supposed to pay for this?”
“Don’t worry, there’s no charge. You…did me a great service. I needed to know your story, and now I can start moving on. But please, you must leave now.” With that he crossed the room and resolutely opened the door.

I was in shock but I knew I wasn’t getting any answers out of him. I was going to kill John; I wasted the whole day with this fraud. With a grimace I left the sofa and walked to the door, turning to face Dr. Nichols once I was out in the hallway. As I looked at his sad brown eyes the thing that had bothered me most about the end of the interview dawned.

“How did you know John gave me this recommendation? I don’t think I ever mentioned his name…”

Dr. Nichols smiled at me. It was obvious he wasn’t going to answer my question, but had one more thing to say.

“It was nice to finally meet you. Thank you for your story.”

With that, he closed the door.

I stood rooted to the spot, noticing the tiny placard I hadn’t seen when the secretary rushed me in. In the middle of the intricately worked door was a small golden sign:

Dr. Nichols Templer, Ph.D
Professor of British Literature

Templer. Her father was an English professor. My eyes started to dampen and my vision blurred as the ponderous weight of the world descended on my conscience. I balled my hand into a fist, bit my lip, hesitated, and knocked on the door for the second time that day.

When Mozart was three he wrote a tune that has been seared into the brains of every western child. The music was a Mozart original and the lyrics came many years later, but their combined forces made ‘twinkle twinkle little star’ an international smash hit wonder. It is the perfect nursery rhyme, simplistic, catchy, and altogether unique.

If you’ve ever watched the Daft Punk movie, Intastella 5555 (or if you haven’t you maybe never will so I’ll reveal this anyways) you’ll know that Mozart and ever other ‘all time classic’ artist were just musicians from other planets kidnapped and forced to earn gold records on earth for the purpose of world domination. Yes, it’s a horrendous thing to do. But, despite the gut wrenching motif, Intastella 5555 remains my favorite movie of all time ever and cannot be argued otherwise. I honestly believe watching that movie saved my life—it certainly changed me forever. This post is not a review of this movie, but I feel compelled, for bringing it up, to describe a little bit. It’s an animated film set to Daft Punk’s Discovery album. There is no talking, only beautiful pictures and wonderful sound that tells a story of intergalactic cooperation framed by the foundations of ‘moral humanity’ that exist in all non-evil creatures. I don’t know what it is about this movie but for a long time I thought I was the only person in the world to feel this way about it. Until I started reading reviews online from places like Amazon. A lot of people have seen it as a marked improvement point in their lives. I’ll probably never watch it with someone else, and I’ll only watch it if a sadness has gripped me in icy, breathless vice. It is my quintessential rebound.

So Mozart and the Beatles were from the outer reaches, which means they long ago learned about the diamonds that litter our sky. Astronomers have recently discovered the biggest diamond in the known universe. Its about 10 billion trillion trillion carats. When a white dwarf (a dead star like Gary Coleman) puffs out, a lot of the carbon in the star compresses under tremendous pressure and crystallizes, lattice framework style. Basically, these stars become huge, everlasting diamonds, 4,000 km across. I want to talk about how sense-less conflict diamond problems are in the a universe with such floating wealth. The value of diamonds is completely fabricated. But that wasn't my point. The point I’m trying to make is that the greatest song writers of all time recognized this long ago. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds, Twinkle Twinkle, and Diamonds from Sierra Leone (Kanye Version). All great artists with science before its time. So maybe the reason this movie was so important to me is because it predicts truths long before they are stumbled on by science or fashion. If that isn’t powerful, I don’t know what is.

Bottom line, space rocks, becuase of space rocks. Savy?

bling.

Jeff told me to keep blogging. That’s like a flaming sage bush telling you to keep troubadour-ing up the path to Nirvana. In internet terms. Let me tell you about Geoff.

This is the man. He is a race car driver. Every day he hops in his gharri (Bengali Car) and zips around town using more hands and feet than most normal people do. When he is confronted with stop lights and signs, he takes their advice with knowing disdain, but rumbles in stick shift knowledge complacence. Then he eases the clutch and gives it gas, just like he showed me, and zips to final uncertainty. He is indecisive, but hopes a lot. Hopes for free soda machines and perfect flavors, even if they are sassafras. Hopes for rhythmic tantra, endless loops of gradual crescendo to knee jerk possibility and pleasuring, apical tonal closure. He is a tartar chef but an animal activist, and even though meat is murder, tasty tasty murder, loves to retouch his noble savage and like the real life Fred Savage, savage unsuspecting damsels, beardedly. If I had to apply for a job listing and pick two words to outline him, I’d steal and say cultural quark, quantum astro, then argue that at a sub-atomic level the rules of word counts cease to impose. He hopes for a parallel universe, just so he can laugh at a paradox, then go sailing off either one of them. He isn’t boastful, just enticed by the dangers of the wergild. Read The Gerimania by Tacitus or my next installment on Joel, the Germaic Hero/Knave to find out what that means.

Jeffery started jazzing in fifth grade and never stopped. Listen to his work, he is the multimedia master, at a few syllables, something rasta. If I wrote a book about Jeff it would start like this:

The tangerine shoes slapped rude tattoos against frigid pavement. Attached to the tired sneakers was an identity. Five and three quarters feet of hairy, nubile identity. The ID was breathing hard, pushing hard, straining each muscle to ease the shoes up their final hill. His shoes started to cry beads of salty- sweaty tears as the hobbit knobs inside them forged heat. He was a man more than just man, he had character. And that gave him the identity that defined him. His name was Jeff. He was a race car diver.

It was thousands of years ago when a pious young papal bull landed on the island of Anglii. His palms were slick with sweat; his people huddled near, shivering. Each carried a relic of the older world, but the young man in front bore the greatest. Set high above his head by wavering, sliding arms: a symbol of pain and death. Large posts of wood fitted at fulcrum and lashed, nailed and hardened, then shaped and notched. The Catholics came to England to master the barbarians blamed for the fall of the Roman Empire, but they had not a hope to convert their proud adversaries. They’d die waiting for the strong Germanic people to bend.

Augustine, that’s Saint Augustine to you, but not the City of God Augustine, a different one, knew it was a bad idea to approach a tribe of warriors carrying an offering of limitations expressed through an icon of punishment, but he had no choice. The pope was craaayz. He was adamant too. So Augustine set about rebuilding the religion to cater the virile battlers. Jesus was a Germanic Hero too. He had nails put in his hands and he didn’t even care. He was put on a cross and he didn’t suffer, no way, the wood is what suffered because it is weak compared to real hero, forests and groves don’t even deserve to be worshiped. Read Dream of the Rood, for Chirst’s sake, literally. Forget nature, what has ever done for you?

When the Germans saw the crazy priests, “Hwæt!” they cried and captured them all away.

Augustine shook in his scurvy robes and peered through the legs of his mammoth guards at the endless German twilight. There were no lights here, no city or roads. Raw tribal order, communal commitatus principle. The mead hall was enormous. Every ten feet a post, as thick as a tree, snaked up the walls to musty thatch roofing. The clerics were kept in a corner by the large wooden table soaked in fermented barley, on a floor stained with lamb juices and littered with the bones of small beasts. It stank. Loudly a crowed began to file in, led by a tousle haired, un-dirigible man. Following this leader, whose hands were scarred with the blood of men he had crushed to arrive, shuffled a creeping sycophant, pawing at his masters robe and dry washing his hands. When he saw the priests in the corner, the small man began to narrate:

þa gyt hie him asetton segen geldenne

High o'er his head they hoist the standard,

leof leodcyning, heah Healfdene,

Beloved leader, haugty Half-Dane,

sint wilcuman word inne abead

Welcome guests, his word declares

Joel Fulton is min nama

I am Joel Fulton named

The priests cowered in his presence, and muttered dark oaths, and knew that their time would draw close. Joel is an explorer, of worlds and of minds, and like’s nothing more than to dominate weakness. Beat the losers, and destroy the tiresome, he is a real Germanic Hero, because he can lead his men to great victory amidst rampant debauchery. And so, the great king Fulton reached over, and lifted the cross, hefting it curiously in his hands.

He frowned and anger ran through his blood. He would not be made a fool. With a roar and a swing he lifted the object and crashed it onto the heads of his victims. He was the king, there would be no wergild for him.

The obsequious toady fell the floor, dry washing his hands in rigid mortis. His troupe of men gasped and Joel turned, smiled, and said, “Augustine tell me about your lord!” The saintly man breathed a sigh of relief and started to talk of the wonders of faith.

Slowly the remnants of rites both pagan and war-like started to fade as the French filtered inward. With Normans to learn from the Germans were calmed and the Anglii gave English a spin of the top. From “Hwæt we gardena,” to “Whan that Aprill” in a matter of decades, the reason we sound like we sound like today.

This is the story of how English mattered. It was a story of Joel the Germanic.

The cracked bricks spun in nauseating circles above Rob’s head. He blinked at the smiling sunshine and brushed a mushroom crumb from his face.

“What the fuck,” he groaned to himself, “how did I get down here?”

Touching a pale hand to the top of his head he felt damp warmth and chips of bone. Grabbing the air for stability, he threw up on his shirt. Bits of green and red slid to the floor. It was a fetid Christmas glob. Rob felt delirious from lack of fluids and struggled to keep his eyes open. It was too much. He balked and they slid shut. A roving inferno rolled along and set fire to his toes.

***

Sunlight broke the messy clouds and filled Rob’s room with blinding sleeplessness. He rolled off his bed and cursed as his knees bit the floor. Blinking, he looked around, trying to remember where he was. His hand flew to his head to check for blood, but instead he found a dry patch of hair, mussed from a night of restless squirming.

Looking around, he saw two of his friends passed out on the floor. They looked dead.

“Yo, Jeff, Joel, wake up!”

His friends didn’t stir. Maybe they were dead. Rob scuttled over to the first listless body. His friend’s brown hair swung low, covering his eyes. Rob could see Joel had an unconditional smile frozen on his face. Brushing the hair away, Rob found two lifeless eyes, twinkling at the ceiling. Joel was dead, locked in a state of pure ecstasy. Rob moved over to Jeff, to find the same. Smiling face, twinkling eyes, dead.

“Shit.”

He grabbed a chair and pulled himself off the floor. Once he was steady, he swallowed and blinked his eyes for a while before taking a step. He tested the floor for earthquakes and found none. Another step, and then another, and then one more, and he was at the door. Rob turned the knob and went downstairs, feeling for earthquakes the whole way down. In his kitchen he found more dead bodies.

His mom, dad, sister, brother, cats, and a puppy that had wandered into the house were all on the floor smiling with shiny eyes. The puppy had its tongue out, but you could tell it was smiling. Rob ran to each person, then to each animal, and poked each of them. Yes, they were all dead too. Scratching the back of his head, he turned and walked into the living room. Standing there was a giant Sphinx.

“Sing me a song,” the Sphinx ordered.

Rob scratched his neck and started to rap.

“From his video game world to his video game mind Rob is a play maker and video game blind All of the video games fill him with joy From his N64 to his shiny game boy

Rob plays the side scrolls, the up scrolls, the downs
He can make smiles with upside-down frowns
All of his systems are sorted and set
For easy whim accesses or settling a bet

In Tekken in Tetris and Custer’s Revenge
In Mario and Zelda he tries to avenge
Street Fighting, Pokemon, Animal Crossing
If it isn’t gaming, then you’re salad tossing”

The Sphinx sat still, staring at the Rob. Rob stood still, staring back. The Sphinx yawned, showing big cat fangs and ejaculated its claws. One claw caught Rob in the chest, sending him flying back. He was pinned to the wall with a claw in his chest.

“I said sing, not rap, bitch.” The Sphinx said.

***

Rob fell out of bed as the sun hit the room. He heaved and grabbed his chest, trying to pull the big claw out, but instead, managed to tear a hole in his tee shirt. There was no claw. Standing, he saw Jeff walking back and forth from the middle of the room to the desk. Joel was in the corner, jumping up and down with little while apostrophes dancing over his head. Rob walked up to Jeff and tried to talk to him. Nothing came out of his mouth, and Jeff ran into Rob but just kept trying to walk. The two stuttered against each other for a while. Then god pressed B.

“I have a new job at the store, isn’t it great?! Would you like to hear about it? Yes/No” Jeff said.

“No,” said Rob.

“What’s your name, I don’t think I’ve seen you around here!” Jeff said.

“My name is…”

A large matrix of letters popped up over Rob’s head. The default letters spelled out “Rob.” Rob tried to say his name was Rob, but the letters started to disappear as an invisible cursor picked out new ones.

“My name is CockFaaayce,” said CockFaaayce.

“Nice to meet you CockFaaayce, I’m Jeff,” said Jeff. “I like to party, let’s party together.”

Jeff has joined your Party CockFaaayce.

I think I know what’s going on here, CockFaaayce thought. Looking in his item’s list he found poison. He picked it and his hand threw it into the air over his head. He slowly died.

***

Rob fell out of bed grabbing his abdomen in anticipated pain. Of course, there was none. Instead of a stomach Rob had a metal box. He was clutching it with a laser cannon. He saw this through his robot eyes. Smiling, he stood up in robot boots. He was stuck in the most unlikely place. Over and over again, unanticipate-ably so. Forever. So he decided to play.

“I love this game!” he yelled.

A ladder showed up next to him and he climbed down, blasting like mad.

He lived happily ever after.

The Supple Towel Cuddle slid his cozy tentacle around a girl. It softly creeped up her back and inched its way down her neck line. She closed dark eyes and smiled.

“You monster…” she said, opening her eyes slightly to look at the beast.

STC grinned and made pucker faces with two of its mouths. The other fed her steaming bullshit.

“I’m a tri-athelete,” he slithered, “we can have a three ways all by ourselves.”

“What about me?” she asked.

“I’m no mathematician,” he said, “but I am,” he said, “I am too,” he said.

“Well so, two of you are mathematicians, and one of you isn’t?”

“We’re one and only, baby, take it or leave it.”

She looked taken aback for a moment. STC slid another tentacle around her waist. She smiled again. “Tell me more…”

Every two feet, from STC down the bar, beautiful princess faces craned to look at the lucky STC target. Rob, Joel, and Jeff frowned from across the room.

“Look at that…thing,” Joel spat, “its not even human but it’s about to get more play than any other guy in this room.”

“Are you sure it’s a guy?” Jeff asked.

“Are you sure it’s a thing?” Rob asked.

“Well what the fuck would you call it? It’s a thing. Its…a cuddly, supple, towel…thing.” Joel said.

“I’d say it’s more of a supple, cuddly, piece of shit!” Rob said.

Jeff rolled his eyes and started to teach Rob about creative witticisms. At the bar the STC worked on two girls at once. Its blue head, held high over tough furry shoulders, had attention twisted around two gamine beauties. Rapt around, tentacles coiling down Head and Shoulders, a stark, Selsen Blue, spreading big Tegrins on their faces, and sprouting perkey, Pert nipples. Plus, their Pantenes were getting Pro-V’d under the bar, making them Nizoral the bar stools. The author felt excessive.

“We’ve got to do something about this,” Joel said, “I think we should fight metaphor with metaphor, or equivalent allusion.”

“What do you mean?” Jeff asked.

“I know just the guy to blow these…adjective/noun/verbs out of the water.”

Rob and Jeff stared after Joel as he exited the bar. They took big sips of their frothy cream sodas.

“What do you think he has in mind?” Rob asked.

“I don’t know man, but I doubt it’s good,” answered Jeff.

The STC slid off the bench with five girls in train, stumbling towards the garish exit sign. It left a trail of frost and tulip bulbs in its wake. Engaging the women with two thirds, the STC pushed on the exit, and stopped.

“What is it?” he asked, “Yeah, why did we stop?” he asked.

“The door is blocked!” he said.

“Let’s go baby, I want to see your digs…” they mewed.

“Hold on bitch, I can’t get the door open,” he growled, “He doesn’t mean that,” he said, “Yeah, he’s just working himself up for later.”

The ladies smiled in hypnotic adjustment. “SHIT!” he yelled. Backing away from the door, they crossed squirmy tentacles and roared for the Barkeep. Before he got there, the door opened wide.

Joel stepped in, followed by a hulking, ethereal, smoky wonder. “Ladies,” it shouted, “leaving so soon?” “Yeah baby the party’s just starting,” he said, “let me till you about the time I robbed a bank,” he quipped. It was the ultimate Draggeur and Raconteur. A kiss and teller, story filled pimp machine. Joel smiled and said nothing. He crossed the room and slid into the booth with Jeff and Rob. The wispy wonder followed.

“Guys, meet my friend Nubile Washcloth Spooner.”

Jeff and Rob gave a nod and salut, and let the player play his game. The NWS breezed over ladies and whispered wondrous tales of strength and sexuality, weaving their subconscious with thready, lighthearted fables. The STC was crushed and oozed a sigh of defeat. “Damn it, I hate this dude,” he said, “lets burn one,” he offered, “hells yes,” he said. It slid out the door with optimism.

Rob, Jeff, and Joel high-fived and watch the NWS.

“So what exactly is this guy?” Jeff asked.

“He’s the New Wonder Scrotum.” Rob said in awe.

“It doesn’t matter guys, he blew out that STC thing,” Joel said.

“Now what?” asked Jeff.

The Nubile Washcloth Spooner huffed out the door with five girls and three disbelievers behind.

“Fuck,” said Joel.

The Supple Towel Cuddle has never been photographed. The following is an artist’s rendition.