The New Adventures of Momo Murphy: The Story So Far

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The New Adventures of Momo Murphy: The Story So Far

Post by Furburt on Wed May 30, 2012 11:51 pm

I shall attempt to render many tales at once, like a tale of onces twined. In this narrative will be contrasting dualisms of sight and sound that indeed nobody but a claustrodonkey would think to portray in their own head except me.

Chapter 1

Twiggy the nascent tree was a nascent tree that the children would visit when prolonged burning of jumpsuits was too harmful for the children who would gather around the nascent tree. The men in the German quarter would starch their eyes in order to suppress the paedo inside them and freeze their eyes in a state of constant knowing, who would watch all pederast intentions with a steely gaze, since usually they would dún an doras their eyes in order to preserve factual innocence at least.

Twiggy looked upon the younglongs with spent eyes and asked them wistfully; "Who is the parper?" said He.
"Why, the parper is our own invention!" said a particularly foolish child. "And the needles of its brow provide our slug bait!"
Glory Heron!" said the Twiggy. "I'll fuck up your nuptial agreement, your marriage will be in tatters!"

The threats poured upon the childrens like sausage off the back of an acid splashed pig, covering them in unrelenting hate and furious bile of hate. They hadn't expected this when they had pinned their t-shirts to each other and made themselves swear not to tell Sister Arnette about the blood stains on the satin the following morning.
At least Beasley had brought along his Soothy, they took turns plunging it and reminding themselves of the days when they could shit with ease while Twiggy prepared his ultimate coup.

Chapter 2

Enough was enough for the Bellini Brothers of North Crescent Happy House. They had used up all their good Krag and now the Dreaded Normans sent them reaching for each others nethers in order to boil it to make the life consuming Bwaggo Bwaggo which had been taught to them by Itchy Dealer, who was a crank nobody really wanted to believe.

Until now.

The sweat dripped from Caucaus Bellini's back as he spied the children ensconced by the Twiggy. The old of him poured down his legs and made him doubt his mastery of the leg melts he acquired fighting the Mau-Mau in Sainsburys.
Once he could cool and heat himself twice daily, and that was the extent of the fighting in the frozen gelatine section, so all blacks would be vanquished. But now, all like melanoma and hydro burns was his legs and hole.

"Bhfolach báid!" shouted Biupta Bellini, his guns raw from keeping false watch on Declans cat, whose knives were pounding municipal ground elsewhere. He unloaded twice for health reasons and made sure that all his thighs pointed to Omaha Beach, where dad had made his macaroni twice for health reasons.

Having confirmed himself as a Bellini, he then took out two kazoos and made a mess of himself right there and then. He called out for help and the return of his special sad spatula (Sad for the dump clean assistance) but found nothing but ionization around him. Caucaus had fled to be with the childs.

Biupta wept.

Chapter 3

Enough of this foul tale of regret and gooks! Take yourself out of your job, get down to Azawad on a near plane and I'll tell you how to do that then. When stoned, make sure your name is on the first stone, that way, Mercy Mistress will be able to hear your calls because they'll be perfectly in pitch with the nascent regret suffered by the Stonethrower. That's only a precaution though.

1. Make Sure To Accept Calls Through

This is imperative, make sure that when leaving employment with hopefully intact totally you cannot refuse any calls be they electronic, natural, innatural or simply felt. Press whatever buttons you have near to you in a frenzied attempt to stop time, but it won't work, you fuck, you're in a bike shop and all you're pressing is the nascent breasts of the owners 12 year old daughter. Go to prison, get raped, end story here.

2. Confirm Alignment With Passport

If you can stand within 20 feet of your passport and not feel like your kidneys are playing tricks on you, you might not be authorized to travel. To check this, replace your trachea with water. This is an easily solvable process that can easily be solved at home or at hotel. Check dis, nig, you pour 20 gallons of fresh Rorsemorn® Water down the closed part of a bath or wide hose. In this minerals, you should see 2 colours, black and other.

If this is correct, cover the water approximately 2/12ths through with indicant mining tape.
This will help you realize how much of the bath is divided into Hone Zones. Stay the fuck away.
When Wistys Mist has done its bit, take a walk, and you'll find your passport in your pocket and the new picture will be you with a new rib.

3. Create

Only begin old men if you know they'll be able to accomplish something before you die. If you arrive off the plane in Mali looking like a good boy and smelling even worse, all those Tuareg are gonna bang you like a torrent, and the only way to overcome this is a good dosing of what I like to call CIVIC PRIDE

For the purposes of this exercise, I need to imagine that I look like this.

Hi, I'm Jordon Crace, I cram corn, but that's not the only thing about me you should know. I'm dynamic, toboggan, hopeful, unkind, hireable. Master race jealousy is probably my only whore vice, but I'm working on it, don't you worry.

If you get me, you get all of me, not like those push-button faggot attendants who let their mind become attached to their shower curtain every time they get up because they're just NOT THERE MAN.

For 2 years I served under Captain Al Goony of the 42nd Mitch Griffin homecoming Horse-man Association Annual Banana Republic Showdown Dance, making trails in the mines with Happy Homo, and all my other friends who forgot me. They never forgave me for seeking work outside the Worm Zone.

Chapter 4

Did you ever dream that whole wheat baby puff would be available in your hometown? Did you ever walk through the men's hard-hat department, waiting for your own personal PE teacher to guide you through the alleys to the huffing paint section?
Upon your arrival, Gerald would hand you the stained canister and one determined pull would send you straight to Nuala land.

After that, it would be a straight setup from there. Run out in the international shopping area, pull out a switch and get cutting. Cut prices, ASDA shoppers, call-boys, puffers, dopers, draft-dodgers, security-men, anyone who stands in the way of your heavy addiction.

Unfortunately, at this point, you will realize that far too much of your life has consisted of going mental in shopping centres. This brief pause for thought will be more then enough for the dread threat of instant homosexuality to enter your soul. As you feel yourself being dragged to the dungeon, your lips will fray off and rot.

This is the price for consumerism.

Chapter 5

I was called Toad Toast because of my own special home that required dents in your eyes to view properly. Enough of my friends got together and told me that because the Bellini bros had left town after you know, they said they were tired of perpendicular housing and wanted a new house they could view on new terms. I pointed to the hammer in my closet and my own heaping dented eyes administered by the roommate Roger Beggins after I hope he would understand about my architectural misgivings but I imagine he did not.

They viewed me with callous noodle-eye reserved for special poisons and reconfigured my bones so that my house was not too ludicrous for a man of my stature anymore let me tell you! Apart from resulting lifelong difficulties, I really am Toad Toast, because I resemble both! I would laugh now.

Chapter 6

Twiggy immediately demanded whatever sweet, sweet despair the children was holding on to.
"Well..." An urchin chimed. "I watched my dad get hurt by bad men in a film"

Twiggy exclaimed demon caliber gestations until his own personal stock market grew and grew at the very sight of the child. Stocks went a bit mad, uppers were taken, too many German teens die from Iggy Pops behind, is basically what I'm getting at here. And it was full blown too, none of your pussy shite.

The child was basically malt and undigested wheat when Caucaus found him. The other children were long gone, whisked away by noticeably bad branches. He cradled the disgusting dead wheat child in his arms, and pausing briefly to enjoy a vomit at the lunacy of it all, cursed his own teeth for hating him so much that they forced him to eat stones in a ditch while imagining a boy suffer.

After the boy was ended terribly, things began to look up for the neighbourhood. Whicky Wack the pharmacist got a new terrible glint and his assistant Dennis became Dennis, Mad Rapist of Portadown. All in all, good stuff was happening to our local unaware gods.

Fairylea Gupta took it upon herself to gather these scarcely visible or useful confused odysseys (UNAWARE GODS) upon themselves and transform them via helpful household blender into a force to be reckoned with that she could feed her children with, because only her children would get to curl themselves into little snail boys and wait for evolution to whisk them to the stars. Two underground caverns were bookmarked, and that's where Fairylea's story ends.

Chapter 7

My unyielding apple crumble reduced every single instance of Alasdair Lawrence in every single dimension to a testifying combination of wheat and rye, using all my Twiggy strength. Sorry was not enough until the only one left was the one currently straddling his quayboard now. How dare he exist while I do?

Chapter 8

Stary Sobor is a small town in the Principality of Bovast, about 20 hours southwest of Cracow. Pissy springs is the motto of Mr Village, a hopeful sniper nestled in the nearby rope plantations. To journey to him, one must present oneself to the butcher, dressed in finest ceremonial wear, in the hope that he'll take you.

I hoped to myself that when I read the tourist guide brochure out loud, the mention of the long hot summer days where we would make patterns in the sky by careful application of a multi-setting hose head drowned out with great gusto the memories of stuffing our own foreskins with arsenic to escape the Serbian Sex Drill.

It was then when Pistachion heard the car pulling into the drive.

Drag it up, like a matchy ghose, plucky ribbons, hopefully.
He knows that when the car drags itself, it Mags Betchers boy who gonna pay for the ceilng replacement parade.

Pistachion was the alternate name for Porgun, a pig faced ex-engineer whose only occupation was trawling the streets of the city in the deadest of sleeps, and replacing rats intestines with metal pipes. The clanking of his street-children could be heard cities across on some nights, and he had to watch out, because the mayor himself had owned a herd of antelope once, and still knew how to coax a few rifles out of the molten styrofoam mire.

He made himself happy twice unorthodoxly, by promising himself toys he never had as a child. He had no intention of coming through, he just needed the extra energy to take on the next district.

Chapter 9

I sat down to play the game I loved. Once I had taken forever making chat with my friends they dissipated because they understood that once the bar reaches full, there's no stopping my instincts.
"Fruity Piss!" Exclaimed a denizen. "You'll be dead by the time the electricity snakes its way up the diodes in hope of a new flesh!"

I ignore his faint weens and carried on. Only 12 symbols had made themselves enemies so far, the lowest yet, and I beamed with unreserved pride at how unbelievably hard I was, and the man was ruining my peripheral vision, but that doesn't matter, because that's not where the fear is.

To obviate a too laborious scrutiny of 'dead' flies, emphasis is placed on destruction - a vast amount of paper in the Moody secret registry and classified archives could be burnt without loss, and I should be surprised if the same does not apply to the Moody obvious registry too.

Once I had found all the men required for my grand coup, I began to assemble them too directly. I should have stuck to sight calls and training them to raise an arsecheek suggestively should they sense the presence of a former butcher, such as myself, lunging at them with irrespective audacity and hoping that my gleans would become gloomy by the end of the second.

The smell of deadly chips untold me from my grasp and made me hope my legs would hold me up forever to let me taste the sweet crusts of shame.

Chapter 10

The next song is called "Slash Timmys Tyres before he leaves the venue'.

I feel myself succumbing to the Generals glare
I feel the need to make myself aware
of suffering in Darfur
glur blur durr

Why don't you forget how to shave, Ellison? That'll cure your middle age malaise! Every morning will either by a razor soaked ballet with death or a reconfirmation of endless beard! You'll never be normal again!

And you can be my Weenie, and we can own this Galaxy, if only you will be my Weenie, then we can rule the Galaxy, and then you can be my Weenie, and we can own this Galaxy

Galaxy hole is man time now, became a new opposition figure to the mighty rows of tanks.

After he had finished his act, Thumper became tired, and began to wist for the days when traveling across the ancient deserts of Gnom with the Bellini brothers, who feared events similar to those they had already experienced happening again. Every day they would have to piss in the engine to get the metre up and running, and then they would pause for a Saturday afternoon, but that was only 10 minutes out of the 1430 minutes they would have to toil to keep this show on the road.

Chapter 11

Redemption Chat was the name of the game, holy weasel was the only one to blame, it was taken from the Geeny of the Book of Davids that nobody knew exactly how many Redemption chats were supposed to be taken before a new ascendency could be voted in, so Twiggy never voted and as a result, motions never passed, just endless Redemption chats. Holy Weasels came and go, Redemption Chat remained.

So Twiggy slumped. His own child armada became absorbed a bit too fast, and he came down off the oxycontin long enough to realize his magic tree limbs were fading and his truck was crashing until his head became a balloon of blood and nothing else then pop, national tragedy. Stupid fucking school dad drivers.

Chapter 12

Being a salty old sea-wigger had its charms. The booty flowed easily on the slopes of Marina del Sol. Luxurious moustaches were the aim of the current exercise, and 40 men each with 80 pounds of Luxurio® Air Brand Moustache Semtex between them, it was hardened growth season for the greengrocers.

Decades of men would pour in each day, comparing their moustaches favourably to pineapple, mango, oranges, and trout. Oftentimes their langing would reach into the heavens on a day like today, and many would be drawn and spend money on discount beef to assuage their lack of eat.

It was a veritable miracle, and it was just what Caucaus Bellini needed. Wounded from crab returning fire on Tuesday, he took his .38 special and blew his own head through and through in order to ensure his skin was deflated enough to not feel anxiety. He still had 43 rounds left, 5 in the gun, 38 in his tonsils, and only the least grumpy would survive his unhappy clown massacre imminent.

It was only then when a small child begged for his bullets for his supper, and gorged himself yellow on cordite. Caucaus laughed himself blue with generosity but discovered he only had the 5 bullets let in his gun. Struggling to breath, he took aim at Careful Ted and put 4 holes in his stomach, letting in the juice of moltified air.
The final bullet he saved for the child and himself, the final picture being a gruesome parody of an action shot happy flick with child cry and double bullet face on old polaroid making a fun time for arresting officers Sanchez and Wuxx, let me tell you.

Chapter 13

The crux of the matter is that we cannot allow creamed funnels to seduce children into sewer drains, county storm drains, federal emergency storm drains, lime warehouses, quicklime warehouses, cordite warehouses, Krag Storage Facilities and any of the Hünderwunken series of facilities dotted around the area.

To subdue their use, we have equipped our men with rifles that fire the milk of human kindness. Our creamed funnels reveal themselves to be the curdled milk that is flushed down the bath after an erection during a supposedly chaste session of intergender milk wrestling underwater that has assembled itself into weaponized fom and threatens the countries most serious weapons facilities and civilian infrastructure.

Our strike team consists of 8 F18s from nearby Billingsly Air Force base, 3 Super Sea Hawk helicopters and a bad dude named Raul, who gots his own switch to gut fucks with.

Help us make it nearer to eradicating communist gold munchers such as the Curdled Milk Atrocities assembled in the Formica tunnels model 81 and 44. Bring firearms larger than your fist, or face refusal at the entrance. Only over 18 year olds can be licensed murder prospectors.

Chapter 14

I scream like an eight month old child because my rent is due but I have too much money. For the last 18 years I have lived like a saint because my income matched exactly my rent. I buy nothing. I pay for no electricity. I grow Salvia in pots and march endlessly around the room in a constant smokey nightmare.

But today, due to my steadily decreasing cognitive facilities, I was entitled for disabled benefit, and thus receive €344 extra on top of my social welfare. I immediately proceeded to hack my shins off with a stanley-knife because I'm not used to panic. I then considered my situation, pausing briefly to mop my tendons with a scrubbing brush, to keep them safe from infection.

As I flinchingly twirled my tendons hilariously to make my subconscious laugh, I prepared to lunge through the wall at 45 mph. and decapitate my landlord in one fell swoop. This succeeded, and I write to you now from heaven.

Chapter 15

Benn Walshee was a man who knew just how to take it roughy roughy in the bushes, by this I mean he knew how to roughly shake the bushes, to produce Buddhists, who refer to you only as the noise the can makes when you shake it.

Scene: A friendly residential park, dogs are playing nearby

You: Hello, Buddhist.

Buddhist: Hello *the noise the can makes when you shake it*

You: That's not my name.


The producer called Benn Walshee into his office and demanded to know why his scalp was being infested by Chinamen, mostly Han with some Hui involved too. Benn took his own personal magnifying glass that had been presented to him by a regretful Franz Ferdinand as he lay dying in Sarjevo, and examined the producers scalp. Indeed on it, he saw many small men, most definitely of Oriental influence though the magnification of the eyepiece was insufficient for him to fully ascertain their exact ethnicity.

However, he had no time for any practical solution to this horribly bizarre situation, as he was late for his roughy roughy in the bushes.

Feeling this knowledge deep inside him, he bound the producer tightly to his high quality swivel chair with a long plugboard. Before the producer could properly mentally say goodbye to his expensive lawn furniture or indeed react at all he promptly kicked him through the window.

As the producer was a vain man, he had purchased the penthouse of the tall office complex in which he worked. The money to do so had come from his successful coup of nabbing the rights to FInkleburg right under Sam Mouth's nose. The film, with its wacky Zionist monologues and palpable sense of imminent Rapture, was a surprise hit in the places of the world that are too poor to afford coherent thoughts.

The expensive but unfortunately useless glass cut small incisions in his cheeks and jowls, as he sailed windily down the jet streams towards Mother. His eyes blinded by air, he barely made out the erect statue that impaled him. A child who saw this later became one of Canada's foremost nuclear accident casualties, but that's a story for another lawsuit.

Benn decided his name, given to him since birth, Benn Walshee Sr., was ill fitting for the times, and would be better suited to an age where men stayed still for a winter to grow mushrooms between their thighs for the famine. Modern accounts lie of course, "The Famine" actually referred to the oversized feline monster that ate all the food in the 40's. Whatever happened after was only a consequence.

He decided to call himself "Deciduous Gallows", and after consultation with the Lord, stripped to his cape and flung himself out the shattered glass. His majestic trip was almost brought to an end by that bitch gravity, but Mama Earth smacked that hoe up something fierce, like.

His planelike body sailed like a planelike air mobile, except one that was a person, albeit a planelike one. Twelve seagulls died nearby him, with him unaware, because his mind felt like a cannon.

First he stopped at the Andly Household, where young boy Jacob Andly had held his family hostage to make them please stop selling him for sodomy for just one week. Deciduous Gallows straightened him up, cleaned off his tears, looked him straight in the eye and placed his boot firmly into his undeveloped testicles. The resulting look of awe, pain and terror was exactly what Deciduous Gallows needed to level up to the next level of level up.
After nearly castrating an 11 year old child for no apparent reason, Deciduous Gallows desired even further acts of social kindness.

Upon spotting Enda, the kindly old woof from the village square sodding around the village square like a kindly old dog, he decided with his augmented eyes that the dog would do for a cleaning demonstration. After setting up with most commotion in the village square, he issued his demands on folded crinoline dainties and put on some light krunkcore to ease the mood.

He brought Enda, still tired and shaky from being airlifted out of the village earlier for training, down to the strange looking industrial washing machine and coaxed him gently inwards. Enda looked back with a look that looked something like fear but only the most experienced dog psychos in the audience recognized it and they had been muzzled due to repeated attempts.

It was only partway into the show, when the noticed the twitchy smile of Deciduous Gallows was becoming more twitchy by the second, that the faint smell of blood began to fill the arena. Churning sounds began emanating from the machine, that even those who had never seen a machine such as it before could understand that things had become royally arsed.

The machine went through the rest of its cycle as normal as a felix, but all those in the audience understood what would happen next. In fact, what happened next would make the audience realize they could never know what would happen next.

Enda was clean alright. Cleaner than ever before.

For many months after this, Deciduous Gallows drank himself silly with Fuckgut, a new drink invented by the same man who invented anthrax, Mr Anthrax. It's claimed that not only does it submit your liver to pressures unbeknownst in nature, it also undermines its confidence and fondles it in its sleep at the same time. He felt guilty that Enda had met such a clean, clean conclusion to such an exercise. Cleanliness no longer had such an allure for him anymore.

It was only in 2009 when he finally felt confident and gastrically sound enough to proceed with his third act of social kindness. He traveled back through his past selves until he reached Gromeus, a mad dwarf inherited by Fat Foot, a Chinese diplomat in the 8th century, who kept him chained up against an efficient machine that produced musk for hairdressers on budgets using twigs angrily grating against each other in a man made fog.

Fat Foot killed Gromeus in a previous life before that as Whimsy, a mystical burning goblin faced child, who shouted about Jew to anyone lucky enough to be trapped in his forest. He would entertain them with sourmeats, and smash them out of jars if they got trapped because there were lots of jars there. The ancient ferns around him wept oil at the thought of looking at his burning, popping body and he used it to power the first electric Ween Machine.

Gromeus, then known as Pange Bapta, wandered into the forest on a particularly unforgiving Tuesday, then known as Wednesday, to search for the mysterious Italian Nerd Bird, but found only pain and suffering at the hands of a mortally drunk Whimsy, who found the courage in his mad box to lunge worthfully at the Pange, digging through his chest soil to find the sweet heart within. No need for gloves here, Petal, this is wartime.

After Whimy had roasted the heart on his sleeve, he gratefully pushed it into his pudgy cheeks and bit down hard with ruthless ecstasy.

Fat Foot remembered this unlike Gromeus, who did not. Fat Foot punished him daily. Gromeus took it, because God was kind enough to make him a masochist. For his third act of kindness, Deciduous Gallows took it upon himself to make Gromeus retch onto the merchants donkey, coating it with his lunch of raw sawdust and hoof gunge.

This infuriated Fat Foot to the point where he saw through the flimsy flickering temporoid of his opponents possession, and swore himself into the future, fucking past 15th, 18th, and even 20th centuries, before arriving in our own time.

However, he knew not of the new theory floating around the halls of the scientific establishment of the time.
A new calculation, forged from molten core by Roger Davidson, LRA, convinced scientists that even though one had died many years ago, by taking thyself swearing through the zones of living, from various forms of collars to one another for instance,
that even though one had died many years ago, still existed, to a certain degree, in the very earth, trees and flowers, cabbages and cornflakes around us, to an amount that amounts to probably less than what you occupied when amounts still mattered to you.

Essentially what this meant was that when you arrived from a long trip back from the seychelles enjoying the sunrise as long as you had come there from whence you had began then I imagine you'll do just fine sir, but if you're calculations brought you from the place you set out for then I imagine the place you set out for would be the first place that you would visit, but if it was your first visit prior to even setting out for it to be the destination of your first visit then I imagine what would happen to you would be similar than what would happen to Fat Foot right now.

Fat Foot landed on rough tarmac in the centre of a large village of commodities and trader heaven. He began to look around to admire, but felt an absolutely unmistakeable sensation as soon as his stomach convinced him that he was totally settled in this time zone. This sensation told him straight up what he least needed to hear. He was going to transform into a sexy woman tractor toy, which had been commissioned by Hasbro to revive the aging "toddler slut toy that the dog can hump comfortably" demographic.

Fat Foot first felt the Chinese sucked out of him. His features turned pasty and indistinct, like marmaladeargarine, and then he felt his limbs compress into tiny plastic forks for picking up imaginary hay, the hay was not sold separately. His face melted first into brightly coloured oil then solidified into friendly long eyelashed eyes where the driver compartment would be if it was a real tractor.

It did not use his eyes for the white material surrounding her eyes, it instead used his teeth. His eyes were relegated to being pulped and smeared over the metal parts that used to be his hind quarters in order to prevent the cheap die cast metal from rusting. His shape was now only 26.9% of what the average mass of all his constituent parts in a man of his size would have weighed prior to the introduction of the Chinese Meat Chute.
Coming up with a rough estimate, we say 40 pounds. Thus, he was reduced to only 1/20th of his previous side, in order to fulfill the dreams of a smart kid who wished she could make herself intolerably stupid by huffing bleach while mommy went to work. This worked, and she felt herself strolling down the town, clumsily falling over children left and right while her fucked brain tried to stabilize itself enough to smartly reply to a man who had called her a waste.

She instead slurred that he was "ignoble" and started scratching her ankles because that's where the pain angels who convinced Previous Sally to do the horrible things to herself who endangered the living of current one, who felt the pain of thought run through herself and returned to her dreaded dettol addiction. She fell to the ground in a sidestreet, crushing while she did the recently transformed Chinaman toy. She felt the crushing feeling of discount plastic ex-human soul.

For yes, he had been taken into the grips of the Toy God, who gifted him with the gift of mind absence. When his form finally righted itself from the journey, the universe breathed a deep sigh of Right. The absence was god for Fat. He did not care when her arse destroyed him, for he could not care, His blood still boiled inside him, his fragile feminine tractor frame unable to hold the raging torrent of human rust inside him. When her actions ended up breaking him, it was only seconds later his corpiage exploded with the force of a thousand gallons of blood!
This caused such trauma in poor Sallys head that she was forced to sell herself to a nearby butcher shop for them to turn her into Vegan Veal, because she was stupid from bleach, and knew no better way to commit suicide.

Fat Feet was no more. Deciduous Gallows never got to meet his oldest master, nor did his stated goal of three actions come to fruition. He settled to a life of pretending to touch himself on a camera for internet use of Momo only. She liked her bit of disappointed middle aged Tat.

It could be said later on that in handling this situation my judgement cost money.

Chapter 16

The smell of his crushing hammer brought back to life the insurgence of inner Death Tree that was Twiggy, Twiggy was back. No more was Brian Millet in control, Twiggy was in control. He wrestled himself free from his unnatural leather environment and began searching for concentrations of mammalian flesh.

Twelve steps away under the dim blue light of an Air Light was a small child attempting to convince a machine that it was under duress and needed its skittles immediately. The machine cooed behind him, and saw Twiggy transform. Hesitantly, it dumped its load all over the child, who laughed, and Twiggy, his eyes hazy from inhalation, began the process of Assembly.


Always begin with a child in the upright position hopefully 20 feet away from you. Twiggy broke this crucial rule because the child was still laden with load but Twiggy was betting and hoping that the child would arise during the run up before the censor twisted his eye towards them. Ooh, this light was magical! The child thankfully arose and opened it all around him before Twiggy fucked him off into the bushes and checked his lunchbox for more Twiggy Money.


Make sure that the child cannot move anymore ever, by severing the connections it has with its childhood toys. No matter where childhood toys form, they always remain as molecules, even in the dump, and the child always has the memory of the toy, whether they like it or not.
By combining the physical molecules with the child thinking, you can get an accurate representation of the toy, and the childs brain knows this, this is why children need their old toys to move, all the way up through adulthood. When they reach 17, their bond becomes slightly weaker so its harder to figure out the colour, which is the most important aspect of the toy.

Twiggy severed the link between child and toy and the toy vanished into the bits of rubbish that it actually was. This was the procedure done correctly. The child was unable to move or think, and would remain that way. Twiggy inhaled.


Flee the scene.

Twiggy fled the scene.

Chapter 17

Moopy, have you got your own car yet?

Twiggy heard too much this night to remind him that Mr Fortune was taking him to court over failure to deliver expectancy. Twiggy inhaled, and remembered he was Twiggy, and set out for holy rolling.

His grotesque form shambled into twelve fully grown bears on the way, and he took them out without a scratch, provided you remember these were steel bears, and Twiggy was 80 yards full of heavy pound coins, which gave him considerable lash.

It was only when he got there and inhaled some more that he realized that those bears were children mining steel to cover their families in in expectance of his arrival. He smiled at their good fortune at being given the easy labour in the defense of Homes against Twiggy. He inhaled again, and felt himself become steadier and steadier. Soon he was so steady he could simply look at a village and wish it into the stars, and the inhabitants would even be happy, because the unbearable heat of the stars would enable them to hallucinate Mohammed Ali leading them gently into heaven, when in fact it would be their frontal lobes going spastic while melting.

Twiggy was on a roll for several millenia, taking out more people combined than Fairylea and AIDS combined twice over. Soon he was forgotten by the naked native tribes, who began to derive civilization in preparation for the Europeans arriving.

Twiggy felt the Mecoils and the Normans all at once, and realized that his takings of the previous night were combining with his constant breathing. Twiggy inhaled, and collapsed

Last edited by Furburt on Mon Jun 18, 2012 12:51 pm; edited 3 times in total
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Post by Furburt on Wed May 30, 2012 11:54 pm

Chapter 18

Bumbling Postman Racist was another one of those classic civil servant death sentence people. If that was a person you know being hit by that bus, call 1470 now, and receive oats from 17 different participating occupied overseas territory zones.

Enough time in the back of an ambulance reading dirty movies in braille would freak the fuck out of anyone, lesser not a man without a spine born to ratchet himself to walls via spit and membranes grown in Tahiti. Fucking hell, does anyone have a spider grip anymore?

The military of Godonia was 20,000 men strong and consisted of one infantry division with IFV support, 2 cavalry battalions and a specialist corp of 4,000 men. The navy consisted of eight angry screaming shivbeasts who could dart around the map with seconds to spare and were responsible for Godonia only having 20,000 troops left. They were considered being cut by a military expenses board, but they decided that because they were introduced by the nations founder, Alexandri Godon, they were of sufficient historical merit to allow them to kill up to 70,000 people a day.

In the midst of all this parliamentary touching, ten men were about to embark on a fightquest that they thought would enable them to secure the vast riches of Ancient Hünderwunken, but ended up being chased through endless corridors by a supposedly friendly Merlock with a visibly enchanted shitfist.

Chapter 19

Pistachion began a transition that would last him two lifetimes, one stacked
after the other to prevent the second life from forming during the
duration of the first one.

In one hand he held cotton, in the other, untanned leather. By rubbing
them together at altogether sickening speeds, he could cause a localized
incident fairly fast.

Once twelve old men in codpieces began to surround him and harangue him
with threats of a lifetime spent gutting unruly sheep, he finally began
to see the point in all the football lessons he had attended as a child,
and began to wail visibly.

Sensing a confrontation afoot, the men began sharpening their daggers by
cutting silk with a menacing look on their faces, while Pistachion kept
squirming like a weasel at the sight of them.

Once he had acquired sufficient mass, he took off, like a firework in a dustbin, and left the
men aimlessly removing foreskins.

The forests, lakes, and lion floors (kilometers of precious land dug up
and replaced with smooth, useless parquet made out of lions) zoomed
underneath, begging him to taste them, and he did, again.

Drinking booze steadied his hands and he began to feel sensations again.
His unbearable pain that he had suffered since he was a small boy sewing
milk together for transport in Bolivia returned and took him out with a
sharp sun glance.

His spirals attracted many onlookers, who would not help him because he
was a wetback, and they then dissipated, leaving him gushing.

Almost all the drink in him was turned into panic wee in an instant, by a
rare and unknown function of the body called Piggy Callous. To summon a
Piggy Callous on your skin, you need a Piggy Whistle.


1. Find yourself a reasonably happy, well-to-do pig with no outstanding debts nor friendships with famous celebrities.

2. Make sure the pig is isolated inside a locked shed reasonably nearby a water source and out of the way of any Pig Revenge Squads.

3. Coat the pig's sphincter in Extra Fine Resistance Fluid. Enjoy his unholy twitching while you do so, it will be the last time you'll be happy today.

4. Boil the pig.

5. Continue to boil and reboil the pig, until all that is left is a thin pink layer of scum on top of the water, and the aforementioned pig sphincter. During the boiling process, the sphincter should have resisted the evaporation but still have hardened and shrunk.

6. Depending on the temperament of said pig, the Piggy Whistle will produce a different sound when blown into hard.

7. Swallow the Piggy Whistle whole and induce it to stick in your throat. This will enable you to talk like a pig. Pigs will not be able to understand you, nor will you be able to understand them, but people in your daily life will respond to your absolutely unnatural whine like you were Satan himself, and attempt to club you to death with groceries. This is a great way to practice your martial arts skills.

If the Piggy Whistle is over lubricated when swallowed, it can easily fall down the throat, into the stomach, where it gets lodged in the bladder. This strange appendage will then convert all the moisture in your body into urine and release it instantly at the slightest panic.

And this is what happened to Pistachion. He felt himself noticeably deflating as he spun around helplessly in the town square, trousers soaked from gush, until Major Guthmann popped his belly with a rifle. He screamed as his engorged gut spilled helplessly on the pavement in front of him, and rolled down the street into a storm drain, squelching as it went. His eyes pleaded for help, but Guthmann just laughed, because he was a wetback.

Chapter 20

It was the olden days and times were hard and Mary made sure to go down to the Church every day and pray that times wouldn't be quite so hard.

Well one day Mary went down to Church swinging her arms like a happy child but no sooner had she gotten to the doors of the Church then she saw a terrible sight.

A crow flew out of the Church with The Host in his mouth, and Mary ran into the Church and told her Mammy and the Priest that the crow had taken The Host, and the Priest and Mammy nodded and said that it was true, a crow had taken The Host.

Well Mary was having none of that and she ran out of the Church to find the crow who had taken The Host. She walked 12 miles in her bare feet passing by Baraduff and the Finnegans house, until she came to a babbling brook next to a gorse bush, and she saw the black crow with The white Host on his lap on the gorse, and next to him was the devil, and the devil was an awful sight.

So Mary ran all the way back to the Church passing by Baraduff and the Finnegans house, and ran into the Church where she saw Mammy and the Priest and she told Mammy that the Divvil had told the crow to take The Host, and Mammy said that we couldn't have that, and went to fetch Officer Doyle.

The Priest gave Mary a Macaroon bar and told her that she was a very brave girl, and that most girls would have given up and gone over to the divvil, but Mary didn't, because Mary prayed every day.

Soon Officer Boyle arrived and asked Mary where the divvil was hiding and Mary told him that the devil, the crow and The Host were at a babbling brook next to a gorse bush past Baraduff and the Finnegans house.

Officer Boyle said that he and the other Guards would have the matter sorted promptly, and that she was welcome to come along if she wanted.

It was only after Officer Boyle stepped out of his car at the brook and felt the bullet penetrate the lard of his neck that he realized he was not dealing with the divvil at all, but with Feargal Patch, a known local criminal who looked a bit like the divvil.

Mary took Officer Boyle's nightstick and went towards Feargal. Feargal asked Mary what was she doing with that nightstick, but then he came to his senses, then shot Mary, The Host, and finally himself.

Chapter 21

Breaking News: Terrible Developments

A new resurgence in filming techniques considered long obsolete since the beginning of the 20th century has shocked and appalled visiting dignitaries from oil rich states.

A spokesman for the Algerian ambassador to the US said today that it is "alarming." Almost 200 years of cumulative filming knowledge was vaporized in an instant, and Arabic nations want to know why.

A White House spokesman promised many hours of stoned lift rides.

Source: AP Wire

Men Convicted of Not No Knowhow

Twelve men were today convicted of not being interesting news.

The men, who up till today had not committed any acts deemed newsworthy by any sources, local or national, were slapped with a sentence that included the provision that they must shit themselves in traffic at least once a week, preferably more. The case has sparked outrage by homeless men whose manhoods froze off many years ago.

Source: Dad's wound

Christ Was A Scat-Paedo

Today it emerged that UN scientists have conclusively proved by extensive simulation, research and acquirement of over 700,000 fragments of biblical text, that, contrary to public and theological belief, Christ was a Scat-Paedo.

"It really is quite waterproof" Said Roger Beggins, lead scientist in the Arms-Barney research institute. "There is absolutely no doubt that between the years of AD.4 and AD.30, Christ engaged in some acts that even today would be considered cruel if you showed them to a newborn lamb. His Homosexuality is best described as 'Ultimate'."

Predictably, this outcome led to widespread protests among the Christian community, with young male protesters defecating on themselves and rubbing themselves suggestively on statues and photos of Christ, in order to prove his heterosexuality by his lack of erection.

The Vatican has condemned this behaviour, saying that the protesters in question are far too old, and that if Christ was a Scat-Paedo, he'd be into someone a lot more pert and youthful than them.

Tune in for more when Pope Benedict dies in a backwards chemical toilet tonight.

Chapter 22

I dream of drink sometimes, to soften my pain. When I lie there, shooting gut wound making my bowels a misery, I think of sweet creamed Whiskey, and how in the old days, I would lie there, pouring it down my trousers, shriveling my manhood under the endless ethanol. To these days I still cannot become enchanted. What days they were.

Now, I lie with my 'tines in knots waiting for me to find a shell to place through my brain while my limbs scream why as a mad record player in my head.

Some days I would drink so much that my excuses to my wife would become nonsense in my mouth and spit on her face. What days they were. Some days I held her head in the oven until she apologized for causing my condition.
She always did, even though she had nothing to do with the condition. How I loved my wife. How I loved her until I didn't anymore.

Now my guts lie in ruins, and my empire is a small pair of used batteries that I intend to kill my bowels with. I used my old hypodermic from my shooting up days, and shot the sweet precious alkaline directly into my brain.

Rather than melting my lobes instantly as I had hoped, it only took out half of them, and I spent the rest of my days in an endless schizo nightmare, unable to see any colours in anything except when I wasn't paying attention, and then all the colours would assault my eyes as though it were a Celine Dion gig and the one Peruvian girl had stopped crossing her legs.

Sound became to me all high frequency scrapes, and I think I screamed for many years straight. I was eventually cured by taking a half cut open coke can to my forehead and playing around in there until my vision corrected and my face stopped spasming. The only disadvantage was my gangrened eyes. The end.

Chapter 23

Marcello Bellini sat on the beach at Omaha having boiled his macaroni for the second time. When he ate once boiled macaroni he always came down with stomach cramps. His squadmates used this as an example that he wasn't used to American macaroni, and that his previous experience with macaroni must have been in the old country, i.e. Italy.

They would call hiim 'wop' and 'almost-nigger' and 'thingy' and it would hurt his feelings, so he would take out a terrible revenge on any vaguely Italian looking German officers, Russian hiwis, or indeed Italian conscripts serving in France. He would shoot them down thusly, but keep them alive until the perilous moment when it came to cut their buttocks off and wear them like breasts on his uniform.

This was not weird in those days, and was considered a mark of honour by certain demented colonels. His enemies respected his decision, and always kept perfectly still and silent, unless they were Greek, in which case they wailed like budgerigars, and had to be cremated with thermite grenades.

All in all, Marcello enjoyed his time in Normandy, and grew a fabulous beard that even regimental headquarters were forced to admit was a PR opportunity. He grew it long enough for it to jam his rifle when he fired, so he stuck to throwing grenades using a cup attached to his beard. This never worked, and killed him the second time he tried it.

Biupta wept.

Chapter 24

Momo Murphy felt churning engines inside her make devious noises as though sedition was at hand and by Gupta the tendons in her back went into throes and did her face go into throes too? Yes.

All over her was the stink of molten lava, the stink only known to parachutists, pyromaniacs and Pierce Brosnan. 12 years of angry skirmishes between FARC and Reality produced nothing but wiping Columbia out of our existence and replacing it with an ocean known as Alamierda lo quepasó ennuestropaís, or Alapaís for short. This was traveled by angry Momo Murphy in a tendon yacht screaming at passengers to row.

The poor bastards didn't know what had hit them, as Momo toted her black gat at them and told them this wasn't the cruise they were promised, but a death march towards Wake Island, away from this stinking nuclear hole. She shot two women in the fanny to let them know she was sincere and roasted a bone there and then.

Her eyes twizzled by magic dreams, she noticed only one of the 2 men sneaking up on her with knives. One was shot in good faith, but the other managed to chop Momo's Twix in half before she could put him down with comfortable ease. She screamed like a cure for cancer had been found in her backyard and began feverishly writing down lottery numbers.

A Venezuelan Air Force MIG flew overhead, honking its siren like a stupid maraca, while its pilot, Benito, laughed like a sitcom and did speed off the dials. He began wailing for his emergency blanket, and cleared his shins of all wrongdoing by taking them away from the pedals. An Alpaca studied his moves with wavering discontent.

Momo could not understand why her insides hated planes, so she began to search on for an auntie-aircraft gun of some description that could be discreetly transported to her within the next 20 minutes.
A saucy little Chinese number did the trick, and she placed the order with waffles on the stove. The memory of Marcy did little to cure her raging bowels, and she gave 10 cartridges to a small Indian child, who promptly gorged himself yellow on cordite. She didn't mind, she had plenty.

She commanded her men and women to row, row and row. The two women with the injured front bits wailed and bled on their oars, while kindly surrounders comforted and tended their wounds.
Momo was having none of that, so she loaded up a tear gas shell and thwacked it at the crowd. It hit missy injured number 2 and knocked her clean out, towering noxious flumes zoned the crowd, and crying sounds were paramount on that sad minute of burning.

Mr Chinaman arrived on the ship, thoughtfully prepared with gas mask on head, motioned a Chinese 35mm Type 90 onto the ship via ramp, where it set down its wheels gradually and 2 very nice young men bolted it onto the ship.
The Chinaman, whose name was Omar, left an extra 10,000 rounds of HE ammunition, free of charge. Momo was pleased, and would continue to shop there in the future.

While the customers choked in the poke, Momo began the setup process. She didn't mind the lack of rowing, the stationary position helped her calibrate the aim with the help of nearby whales.

The MIG made another encirclement and felt the hot hell of 2 puffing butchers hurling fiery sweets at their main man areas.
It dropped like a drunk sparrow into the sweet blue of the new ocean, which we call Alamierda lo quepasó ennuestropaís, or Alapaís for short.
Towards the bottom of the ocean, the jet pilot, who we will call Benny, for his name was Benito, was insulated by the protective nuclear protection installed by Mr Happy Chavez at the behest of his Eritrean masters. They feared US Doom.

He knew he had over 3 hours of air time left in the craft, and 2 more ounces of premium speed. He did it all in one chufffull, and spent his time gesturing madly at fish and dancing to nonexistent breakbeats. Benny dropped deeper and deeper throughout the new ocean, and the many hours passed like happy touchdown every day every minute!

Benny thought to himself


Benny did not get to finishing that sentence, as incoming water at a depth of 2000 fathoms drowned his thoughts through his ear. Rather than submit to the ignominy of drowning, a great shame in his community, he instead used his still dry Makarov to blow a great big pighole through his bonce, but missed sadly and blew only his lobes.

He spent the remaining 23 seconds of his life in an endless schizo nightmare, where his only contact with his life was through screaming harpies that would eat the faces of those he had met in social situations and never got to know better.
Stinking, bleeding, wet, and with the mind of a traumatized child, he confusedly slurred vowels at the demons of his childhood only to have them laugh and promise more colours he didn't and couldn't understand if he kept holding out on them and refused to defecate himself for the final shaming.

Reeling in horror to what his vindictive animal mind was doing to him, he attempted to further explode his mind, but the gun was wet, and time was short.
So, even while sitting in his mind watching a disaster communion of all the times he was caught shitting on jewelry with the owners whipping his mind with jagged spikes of his childhood mirror, he managed to wrestle free and bite his penis off, causing bleeding blood to seep into the ocean, attracting a variety of adventurous surface mice, who burrowed into his chest, stole his heart, and wished him a happy death in Mousetongue.

Momo was watching all of this from the surface, and came to the conclusion that only happy rowers rowed like mad fucks. She mourned the passing of Benny with a rub of her hips to keep the KFC grease out, and shot the least popular of the prisoners to encourage them. They vomited up the last of their malnourished guts in celebration, and returned to rowing, hoping that scurvy would take their fingers to they could be relocated to the fanny repair patrol.

Chapter 25

Supposed you wanted to buy into commerce and Miles told you he was game for it anyday? Well, you'd have to do it then, wouldn't you? You don't say no to Miles.

You could accept a preliminary offer of 8 years for our own life together. We'd bond at the core and symbolize each other in all our actions, mouths and words, everythought would be about ourselves. This would enable us to use our respective skills to process housing applications together, this would make our local economy strong.

But to be honest, you look like a big man, who thinks big, nation big. What if I told you that for just 16 years of your time, you could be done up to look like a pig for the ruling heads of Europe? It's high pay, and no hassle.
Over time, the technology would get more advanced, so you might have to terminate your contract before the 16 years are up, otherwise they'll replace your legs and arms and face and body with pig parts, and only your brain and spinal column will remain, and you will remain, their own totally paralyzed pig person.

You can't leave until the absolute opportune moment, and only you will know when. Until then, you will wear a pig outfit made out of a real live pig, and we will break your legs and neck to fit in it. These days, you don't actually have to do that much movement, just make sure your body produces a lot of heat and sweat and you make a convincing pig noise 4000 times a day.
They might feed you, but don't eat it. If the pig gets too smelly, sing for help and we'll get to you with some cleaning fluid, but only when your owners are out, so persevere until then.

If that's not your bag, how about you become a biblical replication of Jesus for a national park? It requires none of your genes to be lost, just stored. This requires your whole life, but we'll give it back easy, to a Kenyan neighbour who said he'd live it for you! All you have to do is wave. Just wave.

Actually, let me tell you a little story about Miles, the man you fear because he holds sway over your children, and they have aimed crossbows at you before. One day, in the days before the great Twiggy, Miles was a man younger than yourself, and he wanted to get into commerce too.

His obscene ginger hair made an unbearable target, so I beat him half to death when I first met him. After that, we became firm friends. I would twist his hamster when I demanded his service, but other than that, no incidents occurred.

One day, Miles demanded one of the three choices I have given you, except they were different back then, because I knew exactly how to hurt a child in the most painful way short of disconnecting him from his childhood toys.

Now that McDonalds has made children fat and squidge, it's impossible to find the pressure points, and you just have to crunch them in a massive auger. He chose to wear the pig, and he held on too long. The bastards at the EU converted him to a real pig, and we cloned the original Miles from a tissue he had sneezed on and given to me.

The new Miles, the one you know, seized the opportunity, went to Italy, and found the original pig, who looked vaguely like him, sitting on a cushion in a palace in Florence. His position screamed comfort, but Miles knew that he had been posed there by a devout concubine in the service of the EU Transport Sheikh. Miles picked up the limp and almost lifeless paralyzed pig and debated kicking the whole harem to death. He said yes, and kicked the whole harem to death.

When he returned on a jeep through the Holy land he gazed upon the Piggy Original. He had expected to bring it home to Dr Floom who could somehow extract the Piggy Miles brain and use it to power a train network, but when he gazed upon the sad, drooling paralyzed piggy version of himself, he felt not pity, but hate, and decided to Make Piggy Pay.

He drove 40 miles from the coast to the cavernous mountains of Kuwait where a snake pit lay. He threw Piggy Original into the pit and watched as it was torn apart by snakes and later goats while all the while he micturated onto the Piggy Originals increasingly ragged body.

The Piggy Original himself was confused throughout, with a mixture of pain and awe as a clone of him mistreated him for many weeks in a snake chamber.
It was only when the Gulf War broke out after years of GRATING THE PIG that he really truly died for good. He then found himself in hell for stealing a biro in maths, and found his form to be merely a less coherent pig, with joints optimized for searing pain and face uglier than a man with fingers to operate a Smith and Wesson would allow, but Piggy Original had no such other than hooves, and suffered in silence forever.

So you see, Miles is a true American hero you're working under. He singlehandedly crafted himself a new future from he ashes of the past, and saved an important Americans reputation by conducting illegal operations in Italy. His own. When he says he wants you to get into commerce, he means it from love, compassion for you, and experience.

Do the right thing. Get in the pig.

Chapter 26

It's Wesley Guptas Birthday.

Hip Hip Hooray.

The Girls all say.

It's Wesley Guptas birthday.

Mavis decides to say.

He's an awfully desirable chap.

I've had him in my flat.

And he was good to me.

Made me tea.

Helped me.

It's Wesley Guptas Birthday.

Hip Hip Hooray.

The Girls all say.

It's Wesley Guptas birthday.

Wesley was accosted.

and quickly exhausted.

By a woman whose friends

Wanted it all to end

Wesley could not help.

But shouted at the welp.

That he was the king of this land and that she was only the help.

It's Wesley Guptas Birthday.

Hip Hip Hooray.

The Girls all say.

It's Wesley Guptas birthday.

Wesley No.

Not Now.

Not Here.

Not with all these people.

Control yourself.

Chapter 27

It was only 12 years later that Mavis explained I had a particularly Christmassy manhood, and that it was unsustainable under the current conditions. I attempted to argue my point, but a freak condition known as Tangs pascal afflicted me there and then, and my thoughts turned only to the acquisition of an ordinary old fashioned milk float cunningly disguised as a field mouse using the very latest in digital camouflage.

My family, ignored. My wife, shunned. My life, dumped, as I marched out the door, naked as the day god left me, and marched towards the nearest auto-dealership.
Along the way, my illness convinced me to throw a brick at a dog, who ended up belonging to a fairly well known local celebrity. The dogs brains made a funny pattern on the fresh cement, put in the day before by the Fabulous Marching Sounds, a banjo troupe from Washington whose brains had been killed for yard work.

The pattern looked something like a lemony bishop, if you could imagine that but in animalogue form, that'd be great, thanks. Anyway, I studied it stupidly for many minutes, oblivious to the cries of woe from the assembling crowd, or my own illness screaming inside me to fetch her her milk float.

I felt my tongue droop lower to the floor. I laid it down flat on the salty pavement, tasting faint hints of human skin flakes, communing under the very earth. The blood from the friendly dog seeped down the small incline from her head to my tongue and the power of gravity made it ooze the happy path down my tongue and through my gullet.

It was only when I realized it tasted of Thai Cornsweets that I came to the conclusion that it must be the Goddess Chocolate sending me a special visit to go above my own illness and turn up at a ball in a ballgown while really pissed.

Some hours later, I downed my 7th double rum and forced myself into a form fitting mariners dress. It was not the ballgown I requested, but it worked just as well as I saucily squeaked myself up the eager sailors, who were not eager, nor sailors, but tired Chinese immigrants, who were too overworked to knife me. So they sat there and took the drunken transvestite soul out of me, and that chapter of my life ended when I was 26, so I shot a man in the back of the head and married Mavis, who was the head cop in my district.

My brother, Phelp, had a much worse time of it. He mistook my endless estrogen for tablets ecstasy and I had to spend 2 days draining his mammaries in a field.

The man I shot was called Moskin Faith Gupta, a spiritual monster man from Davis, who could spin like a top for hours and hours, and frequently would, his mind a Doppler paradise of endless faces coming forwards from the mist for advice, and swiftly disappearing before he could deal with them. He subsisted off the bread that lies in the air, and only has to be found by shrinking your most loyal baker to the size of an atom and having him locate the hidden yeast molecules schmoozing along with regular air.

It is typical regulation that the first slice must be toasted with the baker still clinging on to it, only then will life continue.

I told myself that I could never go to prison with a face like this, I'd be thrown out for having too much intellect behind my eyebrows. They'd see the giant reservoir of unpublished novels lying in there like rats in the hunt, and surmise that I was an educated sort, and that I was to be treated with respect and kindness. They would provide me with an angry Norwegian maid instead of prison, and she would slice open pictures of me while I slept and scream at my home videos.

They would provide me with an Oldham level typewriter, to make sure the prison warden had enough saucy nip-fiction to make his balloon muscle reach conclusion. I use this clunky metaphor because a swear bird reaches under me right now.

My gun was already loaded when I stepped inside my own illness and found Faith waiting for me there. He was sniggering over his beard, for his head was a small oval ready to become huge with every step, or so it seemed to my eyes, which were rarely wrong, and when they were, they always dilated before nighttime anyway, so who cares?

Reality is imperfect. Don't believe me? Next time you find yourself shearing a sheep, remember that in 2 seconds flat he could reduce you to the same atoms as that sheep, so you'd find yourself needing a consciousness to inhabit, because loose atoms are nature's greatest fiend, and you knew that, so you jumped into the sheep, right?

NO! You shouldn't have done that! The sheep was booby trapped! It's got a new fangled gastric muzzle system. You know, when the passy hammock has to go drop in the lake of shame, why not make it popular, when people see your whole backside transform into a human, then a goat, then a working behind, they're going to want to see your receipt for your own special behind, but you'll be paralyzed by the workings of your own sheep mind to produce necessary legal tender.

The law says that when sheep linger for more than 5 seconds on a question, that means they've already made up their minds and just want to make you sweat.

Faith made up a large portion of my aiming sphere at that point, so I let go of my dual puffer and hoped for redemption chats for Faith. Gladly, I accepted a wee bit of aidsy bloody in my jacket and hole jacket, so it's all alright really, he's dead, and I'm left in prison to rot like a winky hitman.

The guards left a lovely silken pair of ladies undergarments in the toilet, and I gave them to my son, Michael, who wore them like the prison bitch he was. I gladly accepted his offer of Livefire Ludo, and loaded my .44 I had smuggled in with my own ninth soul.

When the amazing sentence was up and my legs could return to their previous position out of sight, out of mind, I had let myself know my employment prospects were seriously limited.

Thankfully, Mavis came back to me. I apologized for destroying her life twice and she let me know that she had rationed my rashers. I accepted this, and enjoyed a warm hug with an old friend.

The next day, however, I felt the itch to adventure. Unknown to Mavis and my family, I had kept a small .22 pistol under my bed throughout the duration of my prison sentence. Retrieving it, I struck out for Cloughnaswill.
The first man I met driving was known only as miserly Joe. By standing myself at the optimum point in front of him while we chatted inanely about beef and fascism, I was in a perfect position to watch an unrelated bomb in an unrelated crime destroy another misers household and the opportunist within.

While Joe was distracted by the pouring smoke, I thrust the barrel of my gun deep into his bellybutton, piercing the soft flesh within. I loaded in a Japanese made Nai Hon'yaku Tawagoto bullet, which contained sufficient reverse action to suck his insides into the bullet. I fired in his face, spraying his intestines all over his shellshocked maw, and laughed heartily at my first kill of the night.

However, he was not dead, and thinking on it, I reasoned that this was probably better for him. He could crawl through the street wailing and bleeding from his belly rip while eager prostitutes smelled his purse from miles away and offered him final services. Sometimes being a miser would serve you well upon disembowelment. I cleaned the blood off his face and straightened his wig, and dumped him on the pimpingest corner I could find.

After wishing him well, I made my way to the local butchers. While driving through endless streets, smoking crack out of a light bulb from a stash I kept under the seat, the phone rang. After having a quick giggle at the thought of Mavis driving around with crack implements under her booty for night on 2 years, I picked up my phone.
Mr Caller ID positively identified the audiographic assailant as Mavis herself. I nearly ganked my own crack at the thought of it, but I chased a massive G-rock and felt alright after that.

Answering the phone with my brain held in the hands of the crack beast, I perhaps insulted her breeding more than I should have, but no matter. She told me she would take me back, provided I killed enough men to be an international worry, as opposed to a national one. I bid her a sweet donkey sunrise and drove into town.

Last edited by Furburt on Thu May 31, 2012 12:00 am; edited 3 times in total

This device will make me famous
This device will make me fly
This device will make me holy
This device defies all laws

Laws that are stupid, and make no sense.

Big Black, Newman Generator

The New Adventures of Momo Murphy
Arrested For Copying Dogs

Posts : 16683
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Location : Éire.

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Post by Furburt on Thu May 31, 2012 12:24 am

Chapter 28

Enough screaming had taught my elegant wellingtons to stop curdling up in the sun. I lent them to my friend Bertie (Who is 11 years old) and they shrunk so much in the sun that his thighs swelled up with blood and to this day sophisticated gentlemen recognize him only as POLIO BOY, his life is ruined. I need to assemble myself a new pair of feet out of clay, and stretch out the wellingtons in the oven with the clay inserted, in order to truly test the mettle of the God of Squeeze. Chris' difference engine was almost ready, and I got myself to prepare noodles for the first time, so I stopped verbalizing completely.

Twelve times a day me and Mr Shank ran the marathon around the Mesley Hupta memorial cemetery, I think he just wanted my autograph, but he kept running, and he looked like a saucy spaniard.

I didn't capitalise spaniard for a reason, you know. I was proud to be an Angry Wasp Man forever, but the Medallion came and took my horse away, it was only when my horse, Spencer, was dead in the ground from AIDS that I realized I had been fucking my own wife instead of my horse this whole time, because I didn't have AIDS. I almost shot my own head into a coma before I came to my senses and ate roast wife that very night. The next day the mayor of the town came to offer me his personal homburg hat in exchange for collaborating with the spanish and I said Nay and he say Yay and I shot his head into a coma.

The Medallion told me I had only two choices, and I took both and ate the mayor.

Chapter 29

Understand, for I am Itchy Dealer.

House one two and three are me and mine, Itchy Dealer diversifies again. In looking around his house, Itchy Dealer understands that time was never a commodity he could afford. His walls were untouched by common decency, and his friends who lay around the house coughing into jars were acquaintances at best.

Understand, I am Itchy Dealer. I am the only thing between you and the next neighbourhood and I know this all too well. My uncommon scabies taints your product like mould, but you are afraid to go beyond the walls. Understand, I am Itchy Dealer.

"Itchy Dealer!" Harked the husky-voiced ladies with the skin like old teabags who sold their youth for family size Quality Street. Itchy turned to face them, turned too far, then turned back, in one deft movement.

Their faces, though melted through enforced age, still stirred in him some primitive sense of masculine justice. He took his private hammer, and smashed their favourite vending machine a night before. Soon, the delicious female chocolate would be unattainable to all but those most numb from inhaling. They could force their useless hands through the vent, and obtain sweet nourishment from within the Chocolate Artificial Bowel.

I am only too pleased to keep you in my house. I am imagining my darkest hell, I am imagining a day with Tom Petty's face. I am Itchy Dealer, understand.

I am Itchy Dealer, and I am herding synonyms around in a wordless error zone. Try to toast me, I crumble like Father Doolan's dreams.

She's crying because she knows that herself is but an absolutely tangible horrible and that only the most leggy of bonds markets with survival.

Itchy Dealer plunged himself deep into his cinnamon cereal to find the Magic Toy within. It was 9ft down, 26 inches east of the exact meridian of the cereal toplock. When Itchy began searching, his deepness took him deeper into the cinnamon than ever before. He had laid it out in a gigantic highway stretching through his living room. The room, elongated by intoxicants, was stocked full of the spicy goodness, and he dived and dived. He knew the ration was only one toy to every 600,000 boxes, and by god, they weren't about to fool him this time oh bejaysus no.

You've got demon bones. You've got demon bones. You've got demon bones. You've got demon bones.

On and on droned the alarm like a last gasp from a vet embedded in the raw earth. The vet had moved too far for matter to catch up with him, and his theoretic form inhabited the rich Arabian ground, only to be followed by Corporeal, and stuck.

Itchy Dealer took his magnum to his bitches one by one to gauge their reaction. Having surmised it as negative, he left the house, wearing only an ornate chestnut coloured bathrobe with the words "Manky Lecher" embossed in lime type on the back.

After chasing a massive g-rock through the streets of his own mind, Itchy felt sufficiently aggravated to duffel-bag a passer-by. After this heinous task had been fully elaborated upon, came the difficult phase of convincing Uncle Janus to make creme brulee for the whole clan before sunmelt.

Standing on that street corner that day in that particular timezone with that particular duffel-bag was a grueling task accomplished only by worming through a cadillac and snuffling all the sweet Zinc within. Drivers and passengers both would ark in astonishment as violent Sodium fires broke out within their deprived motos and took their legs out with vicious burns and unfriendly gauzes.

Itchy Dealer offloaded the bag to a passenger, and began crying out once more.

I am Itchy Dealer, Itchy Dealer is a crank who nobody wants to believe, but Itchy Dealer is old enough to realize that throwing plastic hammers at ATMs is considerably less effective than using real ones.

With this knowledge in mind, I aim to create a new system of balancing cheques without oaring the news out of an old washbasket down by the Giuseppe household.

I am Itchy Dealer, and when we resume my story, my habit will have smothered another mother.

Chapter 30

My unfriendly urgency startled untold members of often frequented societies, such as, Horstram, and Pro, in the Cat house area at least. Colloquial.

Anyway, two pipes intersecting were not enough to stop my vision being impeded immeasurably by angry goat chin dressing gown on two wheels who knew exactly what my role was and whose role I was supposed to be filling.

My steel penis vibrated from the shock because he looked just like the Nip who gutted me, but I was alright and began to hum California at his irate self, hoping the melts would take him just like they took all who lived through Jazz. Only 12 men had the key to such a facility, which I hoped would store my Hope Plants that I plant everywhere to make sure we live through the Crustie Symmetry Succession.

Sympathy for your errant wife was the only thing they taught me in the college of my chosen occupation, and old fucks who fuck me are old enough to know I'll fuck them back.

Grip me, grasp me, inflate me, take me, he is a no good nobody who knows only his own clacks and the squeak of his wheels as he trundles the corridors ruining me up big time.

Chapter 31




Women only pay attention to men who eat far more than their stomachs could possibly hold. This is proven fact. Other men simply drift in and out of their eyeline, and actually cause women pain just by being around. Gluttonous men, however, occupy their full attention, and if you are the only truth they know, you have a distinct advantage. If you can attend a party and eat an entire oyster plantation, you are guaranteed a tug on your engorged oneself tonight. This is proven fact.



This is a crucial step. Unless you suffer from searing groin pain daily, you know not the trials and tribulations of those who do. To make you a more emphatic person and thus secure your rights to the Gold, we create a new regimen of daily vinegar baths to make your foreskin pert and alert.
Ladies can join in too, but we do not guarantee against sudden turtle swarms. Best begun during a lazy storm when lightning strikes your shaving equipment, rendering mushrooms before your very eyes.



A helpful tip. Shouting loud enough will kill most everything as long as what you shout is sharp and not blunt. Blunt noises stop trains dead in their tracks, because trains are discerning sorts.



It is worth knowing that all badgers are sworn by the Oath of Knirr to protect and shelter our organization in any way they possibly can. No badger can break this bond under pain of sparrow. By using our overt badger army, we can convince al-Qaeda to buy jetskis for everyone, ending world hunger.

"Everyone?" I hear you quack incredulously. Yes, everyone. Everyone in the whole wide fucking world. Now fuck off, Jones.



Itchy Dealer came to the conclusion that America was a bizarre nation. Hundreds of years ago, rampaging men from the European nations embarked on killing on mass scale in the hinterlands of Indian culture.
The blood seeping from the thousands of dead Natives lodged itself into the very soil on which the foundations of their society were constructed. As expansionism prevailed, corn and other goods were needed to feed the hungry wandering mouths of American Service.

By growing the corn in the same land in which they dealt death a thousand times, they ensure that their beefburgers, their lives, their ham, their soda drinks, are all contaminated with the blood of the Indian Menace.

Soon, the very blood broiling in the heart of America would overflow with the maddening conflict between white and red. Each American serviceman assisting coalition forces overseas would have to turn his gun on himself, lest the Indian man in his belly assumed an actual conscious form and wrestled his body for control.

Hopefully, a good marine would realize that he could not become Benny Koni and use his government issued '16 to pound rounds into his fore-mound.

When Itchy had fully surmised his theory of control, he celebrated by going to a party and sitting very quietly in the corner while opening and closing a switchblade all night.

Chapter 32

A man who issues a proclamation that declares that all men who consider themselves of an upbringing worthy of a wealthy man in tassels must report to the city hall at once could not be suspected of anything other than perhaps a slightly greasy footprint he would leave, as his saunas were breathtaking.

But once again, the great unwashed does not see it like that, and began burning his breathmint empire, smokestack by smokestack, plastic grin men fell like targets in a wall-house, it was not their job to fail for him, but they did it.
The city hall was not crowded with the bunting of today, because it was a happy paradise empty of all menkind.

In a fearsome show of solidarity with his friends poor turnout, it came upon the Lord Duke to make up a new bonfire song for Eddie Croak, a man revered by both the public and the poshy, a man whose songs touched on what it meant to clean oneself utterly of left-wing feathers.

A girder-herder in a previous world, Eddie strapped on his guitar and began wailing elegies to butchers and piggies alike, dividing the ever further line between Turkish and Future.

The man could not have been happier to learn that not only was his name Gerald, Bard of the 0 seas, but that his best friend, the Lord Duke had secured the wonderous Eddie Croak.
Having grown tired of his nervous clawing at the luxurious ermine seatrests, his wig straightened itself by using Prairie Magic and he killed it quickly with a gin and tonic.
He took this as a dreadful omen that his HAUNTING CHILDHOOD DIARRHEA would return to challenge him to a duel in his adult-world.

However, he was to be mislaid by the sound of many mennions outside his office space. For you see, Gerald's office was on the 4th floor of City Hall. His fabled crowds had gathered outside his office to chant his name. Gerald was completely overcome with the sensation and stabbed a passing heron in jest. The heron did not take it as such, and promptly passed.

His immutable transgression concluded, Gerald sauntered toward the balcony in full confident flight of a man.
However, the Gin and Tonic seeping through his pores past his now deceased wig had a terrible effect on his motorman skills, and he plunged himself at the railing with a gusto that was too reverent at best.

His tumble titillated onlookers the world over, and for many years after that, an original piece of his remains would fetch many on the open market.

But what of Eddie? Well, his story is different entirely. His contract included a get out clause in case of hilarious death of the beneficiary, so essentially, Eddie walked. Eddie walked for many miles out of the city that a drunken blart had blurted to him was called Valhalla and contained angels around the area.
Eddie scoffed at the time, and scoffed now, and scoffed forever, no matter his state of being, he would always scoff.

Eddie was scoffing down the R96 when a mad truck made out of howlers pulled over and beckoned him to kiss the driver. The driver, held in mute agony by his gearstick, began a process known as begging for death. Eddie was too cool for either of them, and the truck drove on, dropping howlers as it went, down the ever blackening avenue.

Eddie marched further, sustained by fog. Ever time a car would go past, Eddie would imagine a sequence of notes that exemplified each drivers personality based on the brief snippet of their face he would gain and what he could surmise about them by the make of their car and driving patterns.
When the tune was complete, he would blackmail the local robin redbreasts into singing his ghastly tune 8 miles up the road in such a way that the driver would hear it and be driven mad by the reflection of his own mind. Eddie's hope was that the endless tide of loonies south would kill the city he once loved.

To blackmail said birds, he would weep briefly for Uncle Godfrey, then, when Bird Empathy kicked in, he would sneak into their robin mind and learn the secret location of the Harmony Mushroom, a 12 continent-wide shroom that controls all animal and plant life on earth, except humans.
By the miracle of inbreeding, we escaped our hyena past and outgrew Shroom, who occasionally attacks us in the form of fancy diplomats from oil rich nations..

This shroom contained the secret to bird breeding, nestled in its core. By using his grief harvested from the death of his dear benefactor, Gerald, Bard of the 0 Seas, he would channel his mind influence deep underground, attempting to reason with the Harmony Mushroom. The prime minister of Sweden complained about how absurd it was, but was shouted down by angry Palestinian grandmothers who knew about his Covert Israeli Dance-offs.

Soon enough, Harmony Mushroom decided that dealing with Eddie was enough to make him want to ride a pusher, so he cut him a deal. He would destroy Eddies mind for exchange of the secret of robin breeding.
Eddie said yes with no hesitation and began the process of the protocol. The protocol consisted of 9 separate diodes that Eddie would connect himself to. Each one would ask a separate question about his mother.

By use of a secret diode implanted weeks before on the patients forearm, his nerves would be convinced that his mother rubbed up against the wall every day so Eddie could rub himself there, pick her static electricity up, and kill drifters with it. This was untrue, but Eddies nerves told him it was true, so he had to start eating his own brain from the inside to survive, as is the case for all such maternal revelations.

By stopping just short of the biting point, the Harmony Mushroom managed to breach the limit between Sufficiently Disturbed and Completely Incapable.
It is little known that there is a small residual tongue called the Branock at the back of the near the cerebellum purposely for the purpose of licking your brain clean of secrets for angels. It flits and gurns wildly when stimulated by the Harmony Mushroom, wiping you like a floppy dipped in lucozade.

Eddie enjoyed his new thoughts. He was not able to strum his chum the guitar anymore, but he didn't mind. He was on the same level now as his unstoppable bird armada, and the only thing that was going to stop him was a full strength hurricane.

Sensing possible irony, the God of the North, Pat, threw up a full strength hurricane, which turned his magpies into chickens and his chickens into more chickens. Soon Eddie's operation was destroyed before it had began.
Only 12 men had been corrupted with the Mad, and they had been torched in Central Square 2 days ago by a crowd. Eddie watched from his shelter in the basement, but he could not help his birds, because he was completely mentally incapable.
The ruralcane raged on, claiming umpteen possible events that could have happened instead of it, and this was what most angered Eddie, that he could be fighting a Savant on a Mountain.

Unfortunately Eddie's heroic plan to go it alone against the City without bird backup was a new commodity that the world imagination market was not ready for. He made it good for a few days in his happy bubble shelter, but soon craved the restless hustle and bustle of neighboring Homotown.

Arming himself with a bag of tweezers for raves, he started his car in the brisk morning air as the chickens lay around him. However, the weather reporter, Cuun, had had a bad day that morning.

10 men wide was his habit, consuming all that was around but Cuun was enough for fame and fortune and wished to tell his story to all those men who looked him in the eye. He knew he was Indian because his mother had told him all those years ago that he was and then he grew a stupid beard to deter the mystic cravings of the local sensual princess.

This gangly girl, who grew too fast for her own mind, wanted Cuun to steal a tricycle for her and leave town in a bottle truck. Although she was 22 years old, Cuun still wanted to bag and stomach her, but decided not to because of present company.

However, his repulsive facial hair drove her away, and got him a job telling cunts how to read clouds. He might as well be speaking in mousetongue to these people.
Disturbed by the fact they found his weather hilarious, due to his ethnic heritage and lack of polo-neck, he conned these gentrified slabs by concealing a phat hurricane approaching.

Eddie felt the lift first, then the drop. Eddie thought of all the times he had sung to a hippie only for the hippie to fall away like ash in the street. Once.

Soon after Eddie was consumed by stoats, but they kept his brain and nerve system in a jangly purse to sell to a happy consumer, who would make Eddie anew, later.

Chapter 33

Ran, running ran ran down the running hill still running was man, twelve, 10, 8 away, screaming past under bridge again twice no journey no nothing running down the running hill was man, tasting blood again slow slow slow until stop.

Carrying out observational functions? Hell yeah! Making sure of complete incompromise? You said it!

Liam, the self-infesting child.

Outside the world in a window in a world was Liam, the self-infesting child, who doctors despised and nurses spat on, who coughed blood and never told a soul, who ate a playstation in sheer boredom. He watched a man who through his soul he could tell he had gay intentions spitting blood on the floor of the world outside as Liam realised it.


Above are 6 true gaps. In these 6 true gaps, insert 5 STOP, then the universe realizes like a company it cannot continue without a reasonable accountant. Connie Consway tells you in the last gap insert the letter F, then you are left with a word that isn't a word at all, so start again until you get it right.

Connie Consway was a shamer, she shamed men into revealing the location of their wives. When their wives were located, she would ply them with gin until they were sufficiently unaware and tether them tightly to an Atlantic vessel. Usually, she was the only one to see them leave.


Ran, running up field grey green so close your eyes expecting brightness natural showers beauty but only the same field throughout the time of your life leaping through corridors of grass while music composed by Gods own scratchdeck plays, enough of this time in the place and fuck over yourself ending in a heap by the lambs who were not scared because you are not threatening

fuck out and suit up and go again pounding pounding pounding pounding rabbits fear me rabbits fear me lambs fear me salt fears me I am Clint Eastwood fuck over yourself ending in a heap

Outside, a government sniper watched him with a steely.

Inside parliament demanded release of its own spiral safety notebook. That's all I will write about that now.

From heap man rose demanding evolution for a path to freedom which we had assumed was everlasting and ultimate, like a crab, instead ended up being wavelike, like a wave, rise from heap keep going 2000 metres I am from the source of drama

Liam could count all the ants in his room before they breeded more of themselves. He hoped to use this astounding ability to convince David Lynch to re-shoot pivotal moments in Twin Peaks with a camera made of ants. David Lynch canceled due to scheduling concerns, but the idea remained strong in Liam's mind, and he used his strong mind to lift cats when his arms were tired.

Perking his ears up, he felt the smell of his own body subside into a pleasant flame, and called upon his parents to provide for him a precious metal.

Cunning ran out through fox around man-sized harvest spirals, taking up at least 6% of the field as they went, fox could not take him fox was not a man darting was consistent throughout, coherent enough made 2500 away fox got new priorities run ran running artificial human trees are no obstacle artificial human steel is no obstacle

Every second, new bodily meat, new flavours entering the random stream of the man who took a tip and put one front out lie that and followed until it was automatic like a soda pop dreamy drinky stardom

If you march up the town on a petty Saturday, the perspective of the buildings will remind you of your days in the Worm Zone, a Zone between our Zone and the Zone after the Worm Zone. In the Worm Zone, life continues as much as it should, except our consciousness is ruled over by very specific ancient Worms.
Over the eternities, the Worms would become bored with thought and endeavored to create a new race of sentient databases that the Worms could use to process their daily inanities and free up extra Worm brain for the accumulation of dust, to be thrown into the interdimension, to find shards of old Zones glinting in the black, revealed only through dust.

These systems became such a success that they were sold to all the major fragmented dimensions, through a complicated system involving handshakes through metaphorical hotels representing the possible link of our own synaptic layout to the mathematical equations birthed at the core of the universe.
After a few years of sale, the system lost popularity, and the remaining stock were dumped on Earth, where I believe they make a go of it.

The thought that the universe may only exist because we as sentient beings have created it between us to house the irrepressible and timeless concept of consciousness was a bit too much to take for Liam, the self-infesting child, whose own concept of reality was being warped by his new pop record, which contained the lyrics

"Muldoon, Muldoon, you really are a waste, speaking of synaptic universal layouts and being crap on bass.

No boon, no boon, is gained from you. Muldoon, Muldoon, no-one's gay for you."

We created this universe, the man running is running from this truth

This song created a fever pitch in his mind that created a new destructive influence in his nascent hormones. By watching his brother play FIFA for 8 hours straight while taking sneaky pulls on daddy's tequila, he was able to cultivate the irrational anger available within himself to break out of his bonds and leave the house.

He was determined to track down the man of distance, and question him on the notion of this Universe business. But before doing that, he needed to sit down at the local bus stop with other members of the community and FACE THE FACTS


Immigration is on the rise, it has been for years. Guess what's being going down? Water consumption. The only explanation I can come up with is that Mexicans have hardened to their natural environment and drugged the humanity from themselves, becoming half-lizard and feral in the process while removing the need for water.
But why would it be going down? Because they are taking the water from hard working white Americans, water that they don't need, because it is rooted deep within Hispanic culture that white people are huge crusty loaves rich for dipping in humous.


This bus stop is evidence of murder just by existing in the same world as murder. You, and you too, are both evidence for murder, and against it too. If you keep existing in the manner in which you're accustomed to, we'll have to remind you of the time Mary Of Your Home Town confessed to the heinous crime of allowing miscreants to turn her into a human burglary.


Oysters are tokens used by Satan for massive underground poker games. Only Hunderwunken have the means or the needs to thoroughly investigate these hypogeal scenarios. Their investigation turned up no proof that grapefruits are inherently Honduran in any way more than they already are and vanished their investigation development facility under magic tarmac. We will never know the truth, and you must think of this every time you wound your impotent self badly in place of pleasure.

None of these facts related in any way to Liam whatsoever, but he was determined to keep them present in his mind, in order to salve the greasy tunnels of electrical thought. He knew that if he ever stopped thinking, his body would melt away along with all of reality and his true self would emerge in a post-realist symbolic suspension where recognizable social cues would be replaced by abstract interpretations of unconscious constants, interoperated loosely through the philosophical concepts that govern life, present in all supposition.

Liam would step into his world and the world would glisten with horns. A flat, grey desert, obscured at the far corners by the planets tilt, no features in sight except the rock he stood upon.
As he focused his eyes to the blaring yet indiscernible sun, he would become aware of the sharp black curls permeating the landscape, of an odor, an odor of cheap movie set dust, burnt in a rage, he would become aware, of the true fact that the curls or the horns were thinner than he thought. He saw large clumps but only when he was focused did he see it was not just bundles and gatherings but a spirdery moss that permeated the landscape.

Liam, the self-infesting child, surveyed his plinth and reached down. He saw the sides were of curl and horn and hook as well.
Black like Dara's liquorices, it glistened out for him to touch it. Shifting his balance downwards over the ledge, under the slight, stalagmited gap between him and his prize, he dangled with his legs over the edge but his hips under it. Reaching out in vervent glory, he scratched it gently and immediately felt the wrath of a thousand wizards. Venturing towards him in flocks of 2, they first changed his body to cardboard and dipped him in milk.

His sweetheart, Millie, was milling around the mill when the wizards dumped his melted milk self in front of her. Unknowing of his condition, he soggily disintegrated his way towards her, causing her to scream a terror that would last a 1000 years, and could power NATO's finest reactor for decades to come.
His bloodline now severed, Liam felt compelled to commit himself to suicide using the mill's mandatory and sophisticated self-harm equipment (EU Directive 9878), but was stopped by the wizards, who relayed his previous self to his milky body, cleaned him up, gave him a nice shirt, aged him by 200 years and stuck him in a wordless error zone.

He was granted reprieve on the 27,603rd day to visit his earth form for urinary reasons. As he awoke, he noted that in the intervening years a methhead had been popped in the alley where he had fallen. He searched the deadhead for signs of activity, and found it, a slightly chipped pipe in the boys shoulder pocket. He checked for the sweet concoction within and found his salvation. He created fire by reaching into the junkie's eyes and removing the Light That Shines Within. Striking same off the cerb, he accelerated his thought process and completed his first inhalation.

Soon, all his problems melted away from his, and he was left with one firm conclusion. He was going to get up there and KICK THE MOONS ASS!!!!

Chapter 34

Total Salesman killed time by Killing Time. Two taddy said he blow down da, said me rhyme with me la-la, good times, free reign got the hood on trash pop my legs snodebarone reels in the gash. Just a little bit, bawh, I bop hard like Indian treasures kicking down Greebo the Grown there's a gun on your aerial! Mops trying to shut me down, big mac mary heavy hounds, glock in my truck.

Total Salesman was in a bar. Total Salesman was moving on his rail system along the bar, observing patrons. Mackintosh Macintyre, a patron, was clumsily drinking a spiked rum while pathetically ogling his one and only through the bars mirror, was one of the first to spy Total Salesman and feigned bladderosis, and ran to the jakes.

Total Salesman dimmed the flashing neon atrocities surrounding the bar and lowered the music ever so slightly. The hubbub of conversation dipped in decibels accordingly. Total Salesman rounded on Paul, a portly fellow who no doubt enjoyed the occasional puff.
Total Salesman, whose slack body and legs and arms and head suspended on a hook belied his Total Salesman eyes, began opening his mouth/mind with a creak.
Soon Paul was downing his pint in a fever, listening to the amazing things Total Salesman had to tell him. Paul downed a lot of pints that night.

Total Salesman moved on to the next person in the bar.

Mackintosh Macintyre attempted to micturate but produced only steam. He was safely entombed in the Urine Cavern, where he would hide out Total Salesman's pitch forever if he was a Sherman. Instead, Mackintosh Macintyre spied an open window and forced his skinny body through it like a deft mouse. Leaving not but a trace, he vanished into the courtyard of the bar.

Total Salesman had finished with another worthy customer from patron. His rail clicked as he moved at the slowest possible speed down the bar. The barman was long gone, and the customers were raiding the taps like ludermons. Paul was pleasant enough.

Total Salesman creaked when he opened his mouth/mind and told Frederick about the mysteries of capitalism, how it allowed him access to the Throne of the Universe, how, if Frederick submitted the use of his form on this PUNY EARTH, then Total Salesman would allow him to become special cotton on his new world, where he would be woven into the finest cushions and be sat on in the palace forever.

But of course, Frederick accepted, and keeled over on the floor, twitching with the remainder of electricity in his body. Total Salesman thanked him, and moved on.

Billy Joe Junta was a cyclic dharma whose life was summed up by an equation about as big as a house. Total Salesman was surprised when Billy Joe threw his whiskey at him, and took him outside to get wet.
Billy Joe was expecting constructive dialogue, for he was a smart fellow, and had whipped badgers at Yale. He hadn't expected to get so wet that the rain would consume him. Total Salesman held him in place with a smile and begged him to bring life to his crops. Billy Joe smiled for the first time in his life, and became piss gutter water.

Total Salesman was smiling happily outside when he noticed Mackintosh Macintyre sneak across the street El Infeliz style. Total Salesman smiled some more and ordered some rail extensions. Having assembled what needed to be assembled, Total Salesman shook hands with each and every man in the bar, and promised them all he'd be back soon. They all nodded in agreement and went back to their pints with a glow of true truth in their hearts.

Total Salesman extended the rail throughout town. Through Midwust in the south, between Hornets and the Hünderwunken facility. He found Mackintosh Macintyre fairly easily, weeping in a bush in the country out past Hünderwunken for his failed libido. Total Salesman lowered himself down gently and held out a limp old arm for stroking.
Mackintosh Macintyre felt compelled to accept, but instead got wise and jumped in a storm drain, which led to a storm town where it was full of people who were actually storms. Total Salesman was blinded by potential profit and missed Mackintosh Macintyre sneaking away among all the storm people who needed storm-drugs.

Mackintosh Macintyre made it through a tube of resistant alloy that constituted downtown. In doing so he became a creature of grunts and pain, not unlike a hardened battle hog. His small, runty form was designed to take the form of many thousands of degrees of lava. He climbed into the tube of fiery resistant alloy that constituted downtown and felt the burn, but took it. He squealed but he could not make sounds because it was a religious sound born of god and metal was allied to Henos, god of Earth, who was not the God you knew.

He toasted for hours while he sourced information. In there, in the pain flames, he saw his mother, Julia Macintyre (née Talleyrand-Périgord), scolding a different child for not being him. This made him feel damn good, so he asked his mother for his Soothy, so he could plunge it and remind himself of the time he could shit with ease.

However, when she turned to him, she reminded him that she was constructed of fire by disowning him. This made him feel bad, which the tube interpreted as weakness, so it spat him out on the sidewalk, raw and scorched, where his tolerant runty form had been replaced by himself as weasly college student Mackintosh Macintyre.

Total Salesman was standing nearby. His rail dipped off as far as the eye could see and gently drooped as it stretched above him. Total Salesman gently clicked over to him and asked if there was anything he could do. Mackintosh Macintyre asked for a Soothy, and was given one.

Total Salesman took the time to tell Mackintosh Macintyre about his fantastic scheme. Mackintosh Macintyre listened intently, while Total Salesman spoke of corn and wheat and cotton and rye and lavender and fields of honey-brush, where the essence of the men smart enough to drink.

Total Salesman spoke slowly, clearly and with a friendly tone, and Mackintosh Macintyre found himself convinced. They shook hands merrily as the paramedics arrived, and Mackintosh Macintyre keeled over with a smile on his face and a piece of paper guaranteeing him to an eternity as cotton firm in his hand.

Total Salesman let out a stifled giggle, for there was no cotton. He hoisted his bag on his head, and found it was heavier still. The paramedics touched him where they should not, and it pierced him in a way that was bad for him, and worse for them.

The city felt it, and Itchy Dealer knew, that everyone who's everyone felt the space in their toes where friendship died that night.

Chapter 35

We had a problem on the news-wires last night. We had to run a story before we could get a confirmation for what we thought was a spelling error. We thought it should have said "Cheryl Cole on ten years of fame", but what it actually said was "Cheryl Cole on ten years of famine".

We were forced to run with it anyway, per the bosses demands. By the following day, shit had gone nuts.
People were buying famine by the truckload. By 8am the shops were sold out across the nation and people had to resort to burning their own food.
Across the country, far and wide, houses and people were spackled with grease, absorbed by the very air from the thousands and thousands of food-fires across the land. McDonalds employees were gutted in the streets.

By 11am there was scarcely any food left on the island of Great Britain, those who weren't into the glammags held off the mobs by throwing them pets and boarded up doors in a fierce attempt to shut out reality. Cheryl herself had gone into deep hiding with her private army, and would refuse to reemerge until normality had ensued.

In the office, we were watching it all with a steely. We stared out our huge windows, browned by grease, and made out angry shapes in the street, twitching and fighting and burning for their glossy overlords.

The editor, Joe 'Dwarf' Christop, was perched on his desk like an owl, awaiting the daily numbers. When the daily numbers were brought in to him, he stepped off the desk. When he read the daily numbers, he reached deep into his trousers and extracted the Most Inner Seam of his corduroys. This magic seam enabled him access to the Swiveling Drunken Madness, an ability that he deployed 2 seconds later.

Swiveling, drunk, and mad, he tore through the office to find me. He knocked over a valuable printer as he grabbed me. I could feel the sweat pour off him onto me, his reddened face puffed with lunacy. We began to exchange dialogue.

"You little saucy FUCK"
"That's me"
"Please help me. Please, I'm tripping and I don't know why"
"Well, I'm sure we can find you some salty water."
"I am to begin throttling you"
"You are indeed"
"Harder still"
"That's the spirit"

I was thrown out the window, and landed, broken, in the crowd gathering outside, where I became one of them, and they called me Broken Tom, because of my limbs.





Chant this.

Chapter 36

Xanadu is waiting, holding hell back with arms, not hands, so tall he can compare himself to mountains favourably without being accused of exaggeration, his arms pound as earth force upon the ground that causes tectonic shifts which causes evolutionary bottlenecks which causes ethnic strife which causes Iran, which causes Iranian running shoes, which causes broken limbs at the 2016 olympics, which causes 2012 to happen retrospectively.

Xanadu is pounding, pounding as earth force upon the ground. A man half his size would drink a lake in agony after not long, but Xanadu is pounding. The entire British political establishment is gambling, gambling like mad women at the darby.
They want to bet on Xanadu, but they don't even know that he exists, so they sent out their best men in a boat built for their worst men in the hope that the French will copy them and fail as terribly as they are about to now.

Winston Church, a lighthouse operator who charmed queers into range regularly, took a break from his senselessness and focused his ultra-shooby binoculars in the direction of Xanadu. He saw the action unfold with a weary glint, first royal marines would toss themselves into the water from their zodiacs, sacrificing their bones for a flabby scientist, who sat on a yacht many miles away pretending not to pretend to himself that he was a government employee with a bathrobe and a tan.

He was meant to be supporting them with hell-fire, but fell asleep in a martini and was drank by a hungry female. Tragic.

Xanadu seemed to not care, he kept pounding, each pound separating the world of water beneath him, and exposing the underside of the ocean. He had expected it to be the colour of brown, but instead the only way to describe it was to kill Tobias.

He kept smashing the surf in order to reach the fabled dry zone underneath, burning through his hands with a pain not unlike ambition for ones former father to do well in pointless agony. Colonel Duckmark took pause for a second to consider his options. Xanadu was on the other side of a fabled wall.
Fabled walls were sacred blends of earth and water that operated around areas that holy men had tread. By this we do not mean scumsuckers like the pope or the ayatollah, who cause apathy and dismay, by this we mean holy men like Ron Howard.
He once tread on the atlantic in a brief period in his career between films where he impersonated a drowning man for his own amusement.

Using a clever system designed by his own, he could keep himself, visually, in a state of perpetual drowning. He would peruse the local ship routes for hours, row himself out to the optimum apex of water and tide and feeling and mankind and dump himself there for hours.

Hypothermia wouldn't even give him pause for thought. It was as the 14th cruise ship passed by mournfully that he realized his newfound obsession had given him the opportunity to commune directly with God.

God told him to sail to each point in the galaxy, starting with Earth and moving onto other places, where he would deploy a bag of Holy at each location, ensuring it was a fruitful place forever. It would have to be in the water, because water is a happy, holy place. Fish believe in God.

He only left 5 locations on Earth before fleeing to Titan, but each of them is so convenient that within 200 miles of its position a fabled wall can be formed by any of such a disposition to do such a thing as erect a fabled wall.

However, people with this disposition are rare and far apart, and don't bond well with their horses, so Duckmark knew that this was an unusual occurrence that was not covered by his Handy Manual.

He searched for the biggest gun he could find among the small vessel and raked his teammates with lead. Their incessant thinking was growing loud on his already strained mind. Their death would serve as a warning to himself that he kills people when upset.

Xanadu paid no heed to the dutch inherited gobblings of the sapiens below. He kept pounding, and pounding, and pounding.

The sway in the water was caused by the disruption of the aqua firma by the pounding we have previously mentioned. Unfortunately, in the moments preceding the event that follows the event I am describing now and soon after the death of his crewmen, Duckmark inhaled all the compressed oxygen.

He drifted through the boat, rubbing himself calmly on the straps and oars, feeling the majesty of the sweet oxygen coasting through his brain. He slid into the water without a care in the world. He felt his oneself being tugged each which way by the conflicting currents created by Xanadu, one 34m away, one 66m. Unfortunately, he was busy feeling himself becoming a new man again to feel the slide under the first. Soon, water gave way to air, and he felt Xanadu make him part of the earth from which he sprang.

This is not the whole story of Xanadu, but it's the part everyone shouts about when they're drunk and angry.

Chapter 37

I am the western crucifix. Hello. I am made of a strong and knotty wood of which I do not know the name, I stand daily facing towards Nineveh. In the days, I hoist my own weight in pain, who have taken from this air, this air which I breath. In the nights, I concentrate. I concentrate because I want a stomach. If I try hard enough each night, maybe I can find one.

One summer I awoke with a monstrous black wig upon my head, condemning me. It had been placed there by Gentilicio Scipioni, a trader of some note. He hated the wood that birthed me because of a dream. He passed through lanes of stone, frightened and afraid, a hard gauze on the jagged protrusions that assaulted him on his terrible upward mule. Upon the entrance to the next land, he saw a burning fire, assaulted by images of destruction and fire, he retreated down his tunnel of slime.

As the path constricted and the darkness continued, Gentilicio finally awoke. His thighs were warm with fear, and his wife was already hopelessly panicked, and told the children to fetch their special domes that the blacksmith had constructed for them, as the same demon that killed the coast was here to belch his flaky mold upon the town. She was wrong, and Gentilicio, even in his early morning state, recognized this.

I saw all this happening as their house is in the west. He wanted to convince his wife of his undying loyalty to her, which he did by petting the dog twice, in front of her and everything. She simply continued rambling paranoid.
Her current favourite were that the neighbors were the natives of a pre-determined civilization demanding rights to return to the peninsula from which they were birthed. She had already eliminated Gaius Tent's house, and his livestock were deadstock now.

The western crucifix, that is, me had become tired of waiting. For 12 years since my felling I have hoisted sinners and shinners and winners and seen no benefit. I had made no progress in any direction whatsoever. It came to me to march, and march good.

I ripped my body on my legs and marched towards the man himself, David Mann. He screamed and lost himself instantly at the sight of me, but the sands around me were swirling and the burning sands began itching and David Mann knew that the area he was in was the only area he was allowed to be in because walls had been created because I was meant to do this to him now.

I could not observe these kinds of marital problems, I said, without a hint of malice in my voice, without any sort of financial safeguard, I said.

He replied in a muffled piss.

I knew the deal had fallen through, because my mother told me that when I thought the deal had fallen through, I definitely knew that the deal had fallen through.
I could tell David Mann was not willing to negotiate with me, so I hoisted him up on myself, as a prisoner. That may seem excessive and predictable, given how things like this generally turn out, but none of your fucking opinions would stop me. I did it special this time too, I made it sure that with every stride I took, I landed him back into his soft position.

That boy-man who wigged me remained inside that fucking house like a crimson HowMouth.
I patrolled the streets for many hours after that. I would go up a street straight, then turn back on my axis and continue down the same street. I would then count the amount of cars on the street and divide that by the amount of roads that lead off the street. I would then take that number to decide which turn I should prioritize next. I would also bite horses and children, all the way.

One day, one of Gentilicio's children was insecure enough to venture outside, to show herself to the boys, to prove she had not gotten flabby. I ran at her like I was Mike Tyson and she was Some Other Animal and I burnt her on me, jiggling like a mad torch, trying to convince the residents of this settlement that I WAS INDEED THE AFTERMATH OF THEIR HEDONISM

David Mann and Yulia Scipioni burned in tandem strapped into my straps as I shook and jiggled violently in the street. In another context, it would look almost romantic, except he was 40 and she was 15, and they were both burning on me.

I felt the heat alright, but because it was voluntary, it didn't spread. Gentilicio Scipioni looked out his window with some dismay. Yulia was not a person he was interested in, because his son Tummy was far more cool and hip for him to hang out with. Still, she had nice face and wholesome technique.

I shouted at Gentilicio that only bees would stop me, and that he did not have any bees, so that he might as well consider that nothing could stop me, because the only thing that could stop me is so far out of his reach that he could not possibly use it to stop me.

Gentilicio Scipioni replied with a grunt that sounded half-merecat, half-I'm a whole man, baby. I was confused by this, and responding by throwing his charred daughter at him. He took the ashy thingy left over to the face with some dismay. i felt that my point was not being adequately communicated to the hunk of flesh that lay staring at me in the upstairs window of his pretty middling city hometown in the hometown of Crucifix town. I am the western crucifix. His wife began going through his apartment area with a machete looking for eerie voices coming from her feet. She stood on white sheet, so when she finally got her toes right where she wanted them, cleaning time would be easy-lime. She did not seem overly concerned.

It was implied that I was doping him for hours, but that's just not true. I found it a little ridiculous that Gentilicio Scipioni was allowed to have sex with a tree but a tree was not allowed to have sex with him. I was about to drag him down to the petrified forest and teach him fear, but he returned with my greatest enemy, wood-buddies!

I had to flee the garage where he kept the gigs for the Domus. It was a groovy place, but those fucking wood-buddies got so damned close, I had to hammer it back into neutral. I kept to the roads.

My siege goes on now, but I'll give you updates someday. You just have to write in comments below that you're a happy homeless man, and explain why. NOTE: No cornflakes answers.

Don't worry, I'll get him eventually. Just keep strong for me!

Chapter 38

I am lusting after a girl. The girl has a wizard on her shoulder telling her that I am a fool. I must kill the wizard. I stabbed the girl in the shoulder after school. It hurt her, but killed the wizard. We are happily in love.

In 20 years time I will become a hard hitting investment banker with a huge cabinet full of files. In these files I will document all the times I have come close to purchasing the rights to parade a docile crab around the Epicentre. Three times. Three whole times.

Once the vodka becomes a martini, I cannot account for my movements. If you were to ask me where I was on the night of November 5th, I'd say I'd have to find you another negro to stare at while I become the night.

Creases on my suit, they drive me mad. If I burned Rusty Buttons, could I still return to a civilized life? Or would Incredible Jed, the town superman, simply drop me off a fertile field and watch me plummet through every negative zone? I need my suit ironed by a lady with hands like hammers. If you can't find me a women such as this, I'll be forced to reconfigure Annie for my own purposes.

Bass is like a bell, you play it with your head. Before I became a hard hitting investment banker, I killed Father Clock. I used a bass guitar, which was in fact a .22 rifle, disguised as a petulant dullard called Subtly. I would thumb the gun in my hand and puff like a ______ until the desired effect had been achieved.

My files shook and rattled once the Freedom had been achieved across the land. No more were objects simply designed for our own purposes, they had achieved thought, and feelings, and in them grew a great desire to escape to Monaco, where they would establish a kingdom that would threaten the EU, and their Technocats.

Oh, on that note, if any of you fine motherfuckers want to join me and just kill some fucking cats somewhere, with guns, and knives, or whatever, just ring me at MY NUMBER!!!!

I told myself I would keep some cream in the fridge for you, because I know you like your coffee to resemble the last scream of a dying elk. You came in when the lights were already dim, which was kind of stupid.
When we first met, I explained to you that when the lights are dim, I am not myself. I am terror. When you felt the cream hit your eyes like a dash of salt straight from heaven, you knew our time on earth was limited.

But that's enough of that random knowledge, maybe you can figure me out a radio station where men are men who know how elms grow? Sorry, that doesn't make any sense. GET ME A MILKSHAKE

I have been asked by my solicitor to shove soap into my urethra, but this is an absurd suggestion by a clearly deranged mind. If you ask me, I think he did it to himself already, accidentally, and is simply looking for company in misery. What a cunt.

I hope that when I slide down a railway line by communing with a dream that you will hold my salary in every single post office in the world in equal amounts so I can fly anywhere with impunity. I know you'll do this, because you're my son. Please, for gods sake, vote for the floating head.

When I turned myself into a trinket for a day, my wife got away from me, she had been jittery for years, but when I changed, she saw her chance and bolted. I hope Rufus Wainwright does not get too distracted by his singing career to snap her neck. All in a matter of time.

In the meantime, I go around cabinets in my own personal mind, snapping secretaries to pass the time before 20 Ships returns. 20 Ships was a son of a fleet magnate who owned 20 ships. He named his son 20 Ships because he had blown half his head open with a shotgun the morning before his son was born. 20 Ships was his only words for the next 3 days, until he crossed into the Other World, where he fought with his own soul.

20 Ships was my best friend in the whole world, because he was the only man who understood me. He first saw me attacking a vending machine in Paris and killed 10 men introducing himself to me.
They were Algerian and Spanish, so the pretty French girls nearby giggled at their demise. These women were demons, but that was common in the French capital.

I shook 20 Ship's's hands and told him a special secret. He told me one back and shot me in the stomach with a crossbow. I passed out holding hands and cemented our friendship.

I would hope that as soon as Carol destroys what's left, 20 Ships will arrive, a clam killer if there ever was one, so I hoped in it. I had books to sort out, for first I was a businessman most of all.

Book one was all about the Dutch fleet, it said:



This was normal and in order. He had received the same message every day for the last 20 years of his life.

The second message intrigued me more. It was a manifest destiny sheet for a Ms Momo Murphy, anchored in the port of Nairobi. It requested 80 pints of arsenic for a party and 12 air-cycles. It did not outright request Mythical Birds, but implied that it did.

Such brazen fury in a manifest destiny was unusual, and could only be the work of Momo herself.

It was only as 20 Ships walked in the door that I realized what this meant. Momo was coming home.

I began to trip, and trip hard. 20 Ships saw this and started to trip too. Soon, we viewed each other only as goats to be exterminated. We killed the buildings generator with our Auras and fought in the darkness.

The patterns created on the walls make the gouging out of eyes seem almost significant. He got a few good hits on me, or maybe his goat self did, I don't know, but I felt something. I didn't like feeling things ever since childhood, so I beat Mr Goat until 20 Ships returned, then I beat him until 20 Ships' head turned inward and leaked out of itself, and then I kept going.

I felt good, because I had processed the grief of losing him by beating it into what was left of his face.

Still, Momo was returning. Oh dear.

This device will make me famous
This device will make me fly
This device will make me holy
This device defies all laws

Laws that are stupid, and make no sense.

Big Black, Newman Generator

The New Adventures of Momo Murphy
Arrested For Copying Dogs

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