Chapter 14 read by Tyler
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Sir Thomas. ÁHey everyone! ÁItÕs Sir Thomas! HeÕs alive... If thatÕs what you call it.
The callous cowboy sailed past the entrance, right up to that sombitch Mardren. God had told him that he could pass GO, but that he couldnÕt collect cold goo.
He spat in MardrenÕs face instead.
I watched the cowboy as I massaged my heart, trying to make it beat again.
When my heart was beating once again, I knew: That was not Sir Thomas.
Not only was it imitation armor, it was also coming apart at the seams.
-ÀWhat... what the Jimmy Piersal is going on here? -I was tentatively penciled in as OUT TO LUNCH. ÀWas this some fantastic ally of good olÕ Sir Thomas?
I am just itching to act like Medea or be a rude, metallic cowboy avenger like Tom, only this time, actually do something to the bombastic bastard Mardren.
I looked at Mardren.
And then at the cowboy.
And - ÀWho the fuck was writing this? ÀAn ex-ping-pong player? – And before I could move my head again, my eyes magicÕd their selves right out of their destitution. Right out of their existential hold on words and other living things.
The cowboy avenger looked like he had now seen everything. And if he hadnÕt now seen everything, he was probably about to hear everything from the large and metallic voice of Mardren the Magnificent.
But I wasnÕt sure that Mardren still had knees or legs, let alone mouths. And after one gigantic gulp of cold goo, I was ready to punt downfield to Mardren.
The huge, blue circles in the air exploded. I turned around to see a crayon punting cows like they were twigs.
Mardren was lancing a boil. but it wasnÕt his. It belonged to the precious bolo tie that the air called ÒhomeÓ.
The llamas were lining up outside, their large talons not so talon-ey in the naked midday sun.
But I passed, punted and kicked to them anyway.
And sang them sweat-shop songs.
A man in a crystal seersucker suit ran in and exploded, incinerating everything in the entire house - almost. Everything was either on fire or truncated.
The resulting flames formed a brilliant light that was so intense our marshmallows burned against it. As did our eyes.
And, despite all of this horror, someone was making farting sounds.
Cold goo had been written in and smeared on the Bible millions of years ago. It is an ancient tradition much like breathing air. Much like sucking the air from truck tires. Much like drinking from those tiny whisky bottles.
Despite failing to take down the sun, the crystal seersucker suit was still running around like a sweaty, albino, roto-tiller.
I was so depressed that I watched as my life flashed before me.
That didnÕt help.
And neither did trying to float with the blue flotsam above the mess, like I sometimes floated above the cemeteries of Fear Street. And that was when I had had one toke over my limit. ÁSweet Jesus!
Despite using all of my mental powers, I could still see that turncoat Spellman... err... Mardren. He was trying to levitate also, but his now literally holey tunic wasnÕt cooperating.
-ÁNo! ÁNo! -Mardren gritted. His body shook furiously, like a wet schnauzer. The intention wasnÕt comedy, but comedy it sure as fuck was.
I cinched-up my pants and plotted my next pun.
I was sure that I was the darling of this cautionary tale, but, besides never wearing purple, I couldnÕt think of what it was cautioning against.
Maybe against the human zoo that hisses at you every time Mardren and his cadre of rodents is around. Maybe. Maybe the point is just that IÕm so darn cute.
ÀWhat? ÀWhat did I just say? ÀCute?, I asked my self, looking like La Traviata was in town. That or NAMBLA.
And then I saw it.
It was a tiny, tiny Ace of ♠, turning and turning in the singularly brilliant light of the moon.
Pardon my assholeness. It was given to me at birth, and damned if IÕve been able to do anything other than hiss and act like a jackass since. ItÕs like IÕm an entre on the Human Zoo menu.
Mardren and I both started screaming like white punks on dope, and at the same time.
Except I got there first.
-ÁLet go of my caramel apple, Charro! -I gritted.
I drew the Ace of ♠. And then I threw it into the PeopleÕs Democratic Republic of Yemen, which sent an electrical charge, somehow, through the Museum of Misery and Hysteria. God, I hope my corrugated computer is unplugged. This shithole could go up like Planet Rock, and it just wonÕt stop, itÕs gonna drive me nuts. IÕm tired and I wanna go big-game hunting.
I have hormones coming out my fingers. And fingers coming out my clavicles. And clavicles coming out of body parts I thought only an iguana had. I refer you to ÒGrayÕs AnatomyÓ, chapter 6, page 52.
And, for my referring trouble, I received 2,000 volts of the museumÕs electrical charge humming through my body.
I sailed across the room like a crispy monkey chasing pom-poms.
After I hit the wall, my tiny comb-over started believing that it was a Central American country, and not just a mess on top of my head.
I crawled and I crawled. And I crawled some more. It was gruesome. It was grotesque. I peed myself.
I crawled until I couldnÕt take it anymore, and then I spat at the cowboy.
I had taken a pummeling and kept on crummeling. I crummeled by the light of the moon. I crummeled by the light of the raging fire.
And, despite all the crummeling, a sonic boom hit me, inundating my ears with the petulant cries of pets everywhere - barking, screeching, hiccupping to be set free. And, when no oneÕs looking, I plan to set them all FREE. But first, when I regain my senses, IÕm going to the movies.
I grabbed some Doritos off the ground. I was rodently hungry. The pets would have to wait. They may die or carry-on, Ábut IÕm FUCKING HAVING A SNACK!
ÁAggghhh! ÁI just slipped on the goddamn guacamole! I had guaranteed Doritosª and dip, and now this. And, Ágoddammit!, IÕm the one who brought the guacamole. And, Áfuck!, Áthe Doritosª are metallic!
-Just fucking great -I actually said that out loud.
But my voice sounded other-worldly. Like some dentist with rheumatoid arthritis had capped my tonsils instead of my teeth.
I was maintaining, in a goddammit-the-fucking-Doritosª-are-made-of-metal sort of way. I was gyro-sobering like a minx and wound up - Àwhere else? - in front of that jackass Mardren.
All that crummeling and I end up in front of this fat ass. But, Áoh well!, thatÕs just the kind of crazy and amiable thing that happens in this sordid solenoid fantasy.
Mardren started hitting his head like he was under attack from himself. The blows were landing with frightening frequency, his once large teeth now puny Chicletsš on the floor. ItÕs like he had barely escaped a horrible carjacking gone horribler. With his Chicletsª teeth and his sunny disposition, he and I were a cinch for 1st and 2nd prizes in the Solenoid Fantasy category.
-So, you think that I can defeat myself, Àis that it? -He bellowed. A flame the size of Venice Beach ripped through his being and punted his self across the room and onto the fainting couch-. There is nothing that can destroy me when IÕm wearing my baby powder.
This was one rugged guy.
Mardren opened the brazenness with a par, and then parred the next three belief systems, capping it off with Fundamental Mormonism and five shiny, new teenaged wives. But he would not achieve full Buddha-nature until he birdied at least one belief system.
Instead, there was another explosion, another spectacular and blinding ray of light, and another stomach upset to last through seven reincarnations.
The vernacular lit up like a blazing gold cigar. My hizzle had no sizzle and my tea cozy had stopped cozying.
But then the rays got stuck in mid-air. Chupacabras. Chupacabras and crawling. Chupacabras, crawling, and rays getting stuck in mid-air. These are the things that piss me off, even more than Chewbacca pie.
With a movement that was all brazenness, Mardren threw himself at the rays.
His fat-assedness freed the stuck rays, and the earth was bathed in a blazing light.