THE LONELY LORD OF ALL EVIL.
By D. Jonas Laurence.
Part One.
One day Satan found himself sitting on his red-hot throne (made from the bones of evil souls) staring into space, chin resting in his hand, elbow on his knee, and sighed a huge sigh of loneliness.
He looked around him. There was no one to talk to. His lap dogs were out chasing down unfortunates whose souls had been sold and needed to be collected.
His son was up on Earth studying art at some expensive university.
His vixens were getting their hair and make-up done and, anyway, Satan had come to think that maybe they only wanted him for his money (for Satan owned a heap of property on Manhattan island and the rent meant that he would never have to work again).
No, there was no one to talk to.
So Satan stood up and walked down to The Beginner’s Pool of Molten Lava. A couple of new souls were thrashing around in the burning lava, screaming as their skin burned and re-burned and burned some more.
“Hi.” Satan said. “We haven’t met properly but I’m Satan. I own this place.” He swept his arm around the walls of Hell.
“Ah, um,…how you guys doing?” He addressed the closer of the two burning souls. “You enjoying your stay? Can I get you anything? Coke? Mars bar ice-cream?”
But the burning soul just screamed some more.
Satan sighed again.
“Well,” he said, “if you need anything just let me know. Just remember you only have another thousand years of molten lava in The Beginner’s Pool. Then you can move on to The Intermediate Pool of Napalm. Keep your chin up eh?”
But the soul just screamed again and Satan turned back around as the soul’s eyes caught fire for about the fiftieth time.
“Don’t be a stranger.” Satan mumbled as he sauntered back down a path towards The Endless Pit and The Waterfall of Fire.
Satan came upon of couple of his Guardians of Hell.
“Alright Guardians of Hell,” he said giving a mock salute, “how’s it all going today. Everything going smoothly?”
But the Guardians of Hell just dropped to their knees in genuflection, kissing his sweaty red hooves.
“Master of All Evil.” Said one of them.
“Supreme Sorcerer of Mayhem.” Said the other one.
One began licking his hoof-nail. Satan had recently had a bout of fungus on his hooves and pulled his leg away in embarrassment.
“Damn it!” he said and stormed away back towards his throne, “is there no one to talk to in this Hellish place?”
No one answered him.
Typical.
So Satan sat back on his red-hot throne and reluctantly reached for the Special Phone.
He dialled one for Heaven’s switchboard.
“Hello Mr. Beelzebub,” a cheerful voice answered almost immediately, “we haven’t heard from you in quite some time. How is the weather in Hell?” then without waiting for an answer, “Hot I’m sure. Ha ha.”
Satan hated being called by his full name but kept his irritation in check.
“Hello Janine,” he said, trying to sound as friendly as possible because he had heard, from numerous sources, that if you got on Janine’s bad side she was known to put you on hold for eternity or longer, “how’s tricks?”
“Oh. Well. You know, I can’t complain Lucifer. Life is wonderful, as ever, in Heaven and we have all been blessed recently with such great people as Johnny Cash, James Brown, Syd Barrett, Jack Palance, Hunter S. Thompson, Richard Pryor, and, of course, Anna Nicole, to name but a few, so…you know, all is peachy.” She sounded happy that Satan had taken an interest.
“How can I help you today Ruler of Demons?”
“Oh well Janine I was wondering if I could talk to the big man’s son for a moment. If he’s not too busy of course…”
“Well I’ll quickly check for you Deceiver of Man.” Janine said cheerfully and Satan was put on hold.
He sat there listening to the hold muzak; which was a duet of the aforementioned Cash and Brown, a medley of everything from (I feel like being a) Sex Machine to The Beast in Me. Satan couldn’t help but tap his hoof in time with the Heavenly sounds.
“Hello? Antichrist?” Janine was back, “I’ll patch you through to The King of Kings.”
And then Jesus was on the line, his voice calm and magical.
“Satan my man,” he said, “long time no hear. What’s up dog?”
“Yeah, hi JC, sorry it’s been awhile, souls to give eternal suffering and all that.”
“I hear you ‘tan the man. Thanks for punishing all the assholes. We are eternally grateful for your clean-up job brother.”
“Well, you know JC, it’s a dirty job but someone’s got to do it.”
They both laughed for a moment and Satan was happy to have called. Talking to JC always cheered him up – if only a little.
“There was one thing I had to ask you though JC.” Satan said, serious now.
“Shoot.” Said the King of Israel.
“How do I stop being lonely?” Satan blurted out, “JC? I’m so lonely. I have no one to talk to. No one…” and then, although he hadn’t meant to, Satan began blubbering like a little girl with a skinned knee.
“Hey. Whoa. Red man. Calm down.” Jesus said, obviously a little shocked at The Lord of All Evil’s emotional outpouring.
“Hey there ‘tan. Don’t worry. I think I know what you need. Just listen to this…”
And so Satan did listen, wiping tears from his eyes, sniffling a little, until he had heard Jesus’s plan. And then his tears stopped, and his sniffling too, and he sat up straighter in his throne and said, “Damn it JC! You hit the nail on the head. You the man…”
“I know dog. I know.” Said the Son of God.
And so that was how Jesus ended up taking Satan up to Earth and registering him at
MEET PEOPLE Dating Agency…
THE END.
Please read more of the adventures of The Lonely Lord of All Evil and JC in Part Two. Out next week!
Wednesday, 30 May 2007
Saturday, 19 May 2007
anyone but san antonio
anyone but san antonio.
say no more. these guys are arseholes. they cheat and bitch about every call and they are ugly and old and tim duncan is a bitch and tony parker is a bitch and manu ginobli is going bald and i hate them. cheats! bruce bowen is a fat boy. they have no style. they are pricks and anyone but san "i got fouled every play bitch arse" antonio! assholes! kick amare "chocolate jesus" stoudamire in the achilles when it took him two years to come back from surgery? old bastards! detroit will kill you. and i will laugh.
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
say no more. these guys are arseholes. they cheat and bitch about every call and they are ugly and old and tim duncan is a bitch and tony parker is a bitch and manu ginobli is going bald and i hate them. cheats! bruce bowen is a fat boy. they have no style. they are pricks and anyone but san "i got fouled every play bitch arse" antonio! assholes! kick amare "chocolate jesus" stoudamire in the achilles when it took him two years to come back from surgery? old bastards! detroit will kill you. and i will laugh.
ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha
Thursday, 17 May 2007
What the Fuck?
This is a cheerful little number that I just found in a un-looked-at folder hidden in numerous folders somewhere in the matrix of my computer. So, here goes....
WHAT THE FUCK?
By D. Jonas Laurence
What the fuck am I reading?
Five o’clock in the morning. Beer in my veins looking at pictures from last nights Golden Globe Awards. And didn’t Brad and Angelina look nice? No, they fucken didn’t.
They looked like fucken airbrushed wax-dolls.
And there is Justin Motherfucking Timberlake and where is his new girlfriend ‘cos he has dumped what’s-her-skinny-arse.
And I am on websites looking at celebrities in swimsuits saying to myself;
“What the fuck?”
What the fuck am I doing?
Am I reading a book?
Fuck no! I am reading about some fucken asshole who is banging some skinny fucken Hollywood whore.
What the fuck?
What has this world made me?
Who cares?
What is the point?
What the hell am I writing?
Nothing.
Air.
Farts.
Ball-sack fluff in the night.
Dreams of skinny arse cutting slabs of roast beef into milk white fluffy bread.
Mustard.
Pus.
Vomit.
Yoghurt.
Now I am freakin myself out.
‘Cos I am getting weird.
But that is better than reading how that Latino chick from Desperate Housewives battles against cellulite…isn’t it?
About how she fucks him and he fucks her and is she on drugs and Paris is kissing him and his brother and making sex films and he is divorcing her because she had an affair with him who is cheating on her and how it all means ab-so-fucking-loosely-nothing to me right at this moment.
Isn’t it better?
Shut up.
Watch the Oscars.
Be envious.
Want.
Want clothes…
And cars…
And hairstyles…
And dogs…
And skinny arses…
And stupid awards for shit that makes my brains turn to jelly.
And I have no idea what I am taking about right now.
So bye bye.
I am off to read the book I should have always been reading.
Before I was brainwashed by your airbrushing.
THE END – (for now…)
WHAT THE FUCK?
By D. Jonas Laurence
What the fuck am I reading?
Five o’clock in the morning. Beer in my veins looking at pictures from last nights Golden Globe Awards. And didn’t Brad and Angelina look nice? No, they fucken didn’t.
They looked like fucken airbrushed wax-dolls.
And there is Justin Motherfucking Timberlake and where is his new girlfriend ‘cos he has dumped what’s-her-skinny-arse.
And I am on websites looking at celebrities in swimsuits saying to myself;
“What the fuck?”
What the fuck am I doing?
Am I reading a book?
Fuck no! I am reading about some fucken asshole who is banging some skinny fucken Hollywood whore.
What the fuck?
What has this world made me?
Who cares?
What is the point?
What the hell am I writing?
Nothing.
Air.
Farts.
Ball-sack fluff in the night.
Dreams of skinny arse cutting slabs of roast beef into milk white fluffy bread.
Mustard.
Pus.
Vomit.
Yoghurt.
Now I am freakin myself out.
‘Cos I am getting weird.
But that is better than reading how that Latino chick from Desperate Housewives battles against cellulite…isn’t it?
About how she fucks him and he fucks her and is she on drugs and Paris is kissing him and his brother and making sex films and he is divorcing her because she had an affair with him who is cheating on her and how it all means ab-so-fucking-loosely-nothing to me right at this moment.
Isn’t it better?
Shut up.
Watch the Oscars.
Be envious.
Want.
Want clothes…
And cars…
And hairstyles…
And dogs…
And skinny arses…
And stupid awards for shit that makes my brains turn to jelly.
And I have no idea what I am taking about right now.
So bye bye.
I am off to read the book I should have always been reading.
Before I was brainwashed by your airbrushing.
THE END – (for now…)
Wednesday, 16 May 2007
A City Scene in the Eternal Play.
A CITY SCENE IN THE ETERNAL PLAY.
By D. Jonas Laurence.
One night a guy, sitting at a bus stop, waiting for a bus, began spitting.
He had seen it on TV and wanted to try it. Sports stars did it. Gangstas did it in South Central. Cool people spit. So he began spitting; because imitation is the most sincere form of flattery.
He was smoking a cheap cigarette and spat in between puffs.
He spat down by his shiny black shoes.
His shoes were non-descript. He was non-descript like his shoes. You felt you could only describe him because of his non-descriptiveness. He had shiny black hair and shiny black shoes. He wore black leather jacket and white shirt and black jeans. He was maybe a heroin junkie or a speed freak.
He had sunken cheeks and evil eyes.
And now he was spitting.
Black stubble like dirt littered his skinny chicken neck.
Spit. Spit. Puff. Puff.
Grease dripped from him like turkey juice.
He was a slimy goose rising from a bowl of lard.
Spitting globules of fat on to the land. Or, in this case, the concrete under the bus shelter at the bus stop.
Finally he spat so much that mucus began running down the gutters carrying little rafts of cigarette butts ferrying ants to another place.
And then, finally, he spat so much that his shoes disappeared.
But he carried on spitting.
And then, finally, he spat so much that his black leather jacket, white shirt and black jeans disappeared.
So he sat there waiting, smoking, spitting, naked – because heroin junkies or speed freaks don’t wear underpants.
And then, finally, he spat so much that his sunken cheeks disappeared.
The evil left his eyes.
The dirty stubble left his neck.
The grease left his hair.
It was all spat away.
And, still, he continued to spit.
And spit.
And spit.
Until the years of his age began to disappear. Each time he spat another layer would peel off like onionskin and disappear.
He became younger and younger. Pubic hair disappeared and his penis shrunk.
Pockmarks gave way to baby skin smooth and shiny in the artificial light that illuminated the scene like the eye of a dragon.
Soon there sat a baby.
Smoking a cheap cigarette.
Waiting for a bus that just might never ever come.….spitting on the ground.
You would think that he would stop spitting at this particular juncture. But oh no, not this guy. Now it was a habit. He couldn’t help himself.
So he, the baby, continued spitting until he was a foetus.
And then, finally, he spat so much that he disappeared completely.
I know all this because I too was waiting for that bus, and I witnessed it all.
Zero point zero zero zero one of a second after he disappeared the bus pulled up to the stop and I got on, went home, and brewed myself a cup of Chinese green tea.
I heard recently that the guy now resides in another dimension where, as penance, he is made to ferry lost souls over the rancid Sea of Phlegm – which is actually a just a lake, although it is a very large lake.
The Sea of Phlegm is sometimes treacherous with chunks of lung lining, hard green matter, and bloody crusts.
The ferry is made from a skeleton of human bones with stretched and dried human leather over the frame.
The guy has an oar made from a human arm and a punting pole made from a thighbone.
The cheap cigarette is still in his mouth.
And this is where he must stay.
Ferrying lost souls across a lake of spit like the cigarette butts ferried ants down gutters overflowing with mucus an eternity ago, when he still had a chance to change his ways.
And stop spitting.
THE END.
By D. Jonas Laurence.
One night a guy, sitting at a bus stop, waiting for a bus, began spitting.
He had seen it on TV and wanted to try it. Sports stars did it. Gangstas did it in South Central. Cool people spit. So he began spitting; because imitation is the most sincere form of flattery.
He was smoking a cheap cigarette and spat in between puffs.
He spat down by his shiny black shoes.
His shoes were non-descript. He was non-descript like his shoes. You felt you could only describe him because of his non-descriptiveness. He had shiny black hair and shiny black shoes. He wore black leather jacket and white shirt and black jeans. He was maybe a heroin junkie or a speed freak.
He had sunken cheeks and evil eyes.
And now he was spitting.
Black stubble like dirt littered his skinny chicken neck.
Spit. Spit. Puff. Puff.
Grease dripped from him like turkey juice.
He was a slimy goose rising from a bowl of lard.
Spitting globules of fat on to the land. Or, in this case, the concrete under the bus shelter at the bus stop.
Finally he spat so much that mucus began running down the gutters carrying little rafts of cigarette butts ferrying ants to another place.
And then, finally, he spat so much that his shoes disappeared.
But he carried on spitting.
And then, finally, he spat so much that his black leather jacket, white shirt and black jeans disappeared.
So he sat there waiting, smoking, spitting, naked – because heroin junkies or speed freaks don’t wear underpants.
And then, finally, he spat so much that his sunken cheeks disappeared.
The evil left his eyes.
The dirty stubble left his neck.
The grease left his hair.
It was all spat away.
And, still, he continued to spit.
And spit.
And spit.
Until the years of his age began to disappear. Each time he spat another layer would peel off like onionskin and disappear.
He became younger and younger. Pubic hair disappeared and his penis shrunk.
Pockmarks gave way to baby skin smooth and shiny in the artificial light that illuminated the scene like the eye of a dragon.
Soon there sat a baby.
Smoking a cheap cigarette.
Waiting for a bus that just might never ever come.….spitting on the ground.
You would think that he would stop spitting at this particular juncture. But oh no, not this guy. Now it was a habit. He couldn’t help himself.
So he, the baby, continued spitting until he was a foetus.
And then, finally, he spat so much that he disappeared completely.
I know all this because I too was waiting for that bus, and I witnessed it all.
Zero point zero zero zero one of a second after he disappeared the bus pulled up to the stop and I got on, went home, and brewed myself a cup of Chinese green tea.
I heard recently that the guy now resides in another dimension where, as penance, he is made to ferry lost souls over the rancid Sea of Phlegm – which is actually a just a lake, although it is a very large lake.
The Sea of Phlegm is sometimes treacherous with chunks of lung lining, hard green matter, and bloody crusts.
The ferry is made from a skeleton of human bones with stretched and dried human leather over the frame.
The guy has an oar made from a human arm and a punting pole made from a thighbone.
The cheap cigarette is still in his mouth.
And this is where he must stay.
Ferrying lost souls across a lake of spit like the cigarette butts ferried ants down gutters overflowing with mucus an eternity ago, when he still had a chance to change his ways.
And stop spitting.
THE END.
Saturday, 12 May 2007
Falling To Pieces.
FALLING TO PIECES.
By D. Jonas Laurence
One day I began falling to pieces.
I suppose now, looking back on it all, it had been imminent for quite some time, years in fact, a lifetime maybe, but it all began in earnest one day. One day I couldn’t cloud myself in milky, billowy, marshmallow pillows of alcohol, or drugs, or DVDs, or music, or books, or cooking shows, or radio broadcasts, or Playstation, or pornography, or shopping, or anything…
One day I could not deny the simple fact;
I was falling to pieces.
It began with my fingernails.
One day I was showering. I was washing my hair with an expensive dandruff shampoo that I need to use in order to keep my shoulders from looking like someone has sprinkled flaky piles of cocaine on them, when I felt something within the soapy coils of my hair.
I placed my head under the boiling hot stream of water and manoeuvred whatever it was in my hair until it was in my hand.
I looked down. It was a fingernail.
I inspected my hands and found that the nail of the little finger on my left hand was missing. It had simply fallen off.
I turned the fingernail clutched between the fingers of my right hand. I stared at it. There was no blood or evidence of it having been pulled or knocked off. It seemed to have just fallen off. And left nude pink skin in its place.
The next day another fingernail fell off.
And the next day another fell off.
And the same thing the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
Until I had no fingernails.
Of course my toenails were next to go.
They turned a strange orange and flaked off like cheese smelling cornflakes.
I found these hidden in the folds of my duvets.
Hidden in the folds of my socks.
Scattered to the corners of my rooms.
Ten of them.
I began to get worried.
Next thing to go was my hair.
I don’t just mean the hair on my head.
I mean all my hair.
I was soon as pube-less as a ten-year-old boy.
Hair even fell out of my nose.
And my eyebrows.
My eyelashes fell out for Christ’s sake!
Then one ear fell off as I was driving to work one morning.
That annoyed me.
Then one of my balls fell off when I arrived at work.
It fell out the bottom of my slacks and bounced down the hall like a flesh coloured ping-pong ball.
My secretary happened to be walking down the hall and stood on it with a mushy noise.
She screamed and I sent her home for the day.
(No pay of course as she had crushed my nut!)
I had begun carrying around a small rucksack and I placed my squashed nut in the rucksack along with my finger and toenails, my hair, and my right ear.
What next? I thought.
And as if in answer my nose fell onto the floor with a snotty slap.
Fuck! I screamed.
I picked my nose…up off the floor and threw it in my bag.
Then I ran from the office as fast as I could.
So fast in fact that I didn’t notice that my foreskin had fallen off somewhere.
I ran back to my car and drove out of the city.
I was sweating, panicking, freaking out, and I stopped to get a pack of cigarettes on the outskirts of the city.
I drove into the desert.
I smoked a cigarette with my arm hanging out the window.
The two nail-less fingers holding my cigarette fell off.
They bounced and skidded across the road and two hyenas picked up one each in their jaws and ran away laughing.
Bastards! I screamed and jammed on the brakes.
I skidded to a stop and reached into my glove compartment for my gun.
I jumped out of my car and aimed at the closer of the disappearing hyenas.
I pulled the trigger.
But I forgot that I no longer had a trigger finger.
The bastards got away.
So I got back in my car and started driving.
I began to get hungry and thirsty and decided to stop at the next restaurant I saw.
I saw a restaurant up ahead nestled in the shade of a huge red rock.
The name of the restaurant was THE HUGE RED ROCK RESTAURANT.
I skidded into the parking lot with dust and rocks and a slab of my elbow flying.
My mind was racing like a horse on speed.
I got out of my car, still sweating.
I stepped into the cool interior of the restaurant.
I went and sat at the bar.
The bartender and I seemed to be the only people in the place.
I put my rucksack down on the seat beside me.
“Hey guy,” the heavily tattooed bartender said to me, his muscled arms flexing, sticking out of the denim waistcoat (no shirt beneath) that he wore, “You okay? You don’t look so good.”
“Of course I don’t look too good!!” I screamed. “My fucken nose has fallen off! My right nut has fallen off and been stood on by my secretary! Give me a fucken whiskey. A double.”
The bartenders face grimaced at my outburst.
But he poured the whiskey anyway.
I gulped it in one.
My heart was racing again.
“Give me another.” I said.
So he did.
“You got any supa-glue?”
“What?”
“I said, ‘you got any supa-glue?’ What, you dumb or something?”
So the bartender sighed and rummaged in a drawer under the bar and passed me a tube of supa-glue.
I took my rucksack and opened it. I extracted my nose and smeared it with glue. I stuck it back on my face.
I took my squashed ball and moulded it like putty back into a shape like a testicle.
I rubbed glue on it and put my hand down my slacks, inside my silk boxer shorts.
I stuck my ball back on.
The bartender watched me with an amused look on his face.
I held up my hand, the one with the two fingers missing.
“Fucken hyenas got my fingers man.” I said.
“I hear you brother. I hear you.” He replied.
Next I stuck my ear back on.
Next I stuck my hair back on.
I was a poet and I did not know it.
I was getting tired.
I drank another whiskey.
I threw a lot of money on the bar. Enough for the whiskies and the supa-glue.
“Thanks for listening.” I said, and stood up to leave.
“It’s my job man. It’s my job.” The bartender said and began polishing the bar with smelly wood polish.
I left and got back in my car.
I looked in the mirror.
I looked a little better with my nose and hair back on, but I had glued my ear on upside-down. That pissed me off.
An exhaustion now came over me like a wave of poisoned gas.
I started my car and started driving.
I needed to find a place to sleep.
Finally I came to the outskirts of a small town. The sun was going down.
I slowed and near Main Street saw a sign in neon that said:
HOTEL SMALL TOWN – Rooms to rent – vacancies.
I parked my car outside and scooped up my rucksack and my supa-glue.
Faceless peoples walked the footpaths. Birds chirped. Dragonflies chased gnats and mosquitoes. Wolves howled in the distance. Vultures circled in the darkening sky. Bad omens everywhere.
I checked in with a fat woman smoking a menthol cigarette.
She gave me my key after I gave her a lot of money.
I went to my room located at the back of the hotel.
My room overlooked a park where children played on swings and jungle-jims and merry-go-rounds, and mothers talked in small groups watching their kids like hawks.
I watched this scene and felt tears spill from my eyes.
My heart broke inside me.
Broke into a million pieces and I knew that I would need to buy more supa-glue in order to put it back together again.
More tears spilled.
Then my left eye fell out.
I tried to pick it up but my hand, the one with three fingers, fell off.
My shoes fell from my feet.
My socks fell off.
My toes scattered like marbles.
My nipples fell off.
My kneecaps fell off.
I picked up the telephone with my one good hand.
I pressed one for reception.
“Please!” I screamed, “You gotta help me. I’m falling to pieces. I need all the supa-glue you can find. Please, I’m begging you! I’ll pay anything. Just bring me supa-glue!”
I could hear the fat woman smoking her shit-smelling menthol cigarette.
“Well…okay then.” She said, and hung up.
Thirty minutes later there was a knock at the door.
I crawled over (my feet had fallen off, as had one leg below the knee – or where the knee used to be) and called out.
“Please leave the glue just inside my door. Don’t try to look at me!”
I unlocked the door, after turning off the light, and hid behind the door.
The fat woman wheeled in a wheelbarrow. Placed it down on the floor and left.
“Thank you! God bless you!” I yelled to her, just before my tongue fell out.
Then I locked the door and turned on the light.
Piled on the wheelbarrow were twenty industrial sized buckets of supa-glue.
I began carrying each bucket into the bathroom. Crawling. Sometimes pushing the buckets, sometimes pulling them.
I had to do twenty trips.
Each time I lost more of myself.
My arse cheeks fell off.
My chin fell off.
My moles fell off.
My armpits fell off.
My cock fell off and I put it in my tongue-less mouth so that I would not lose it.
Finally I had all the buckets in the bathroom.
I poured all the buckets into the bathtub.
The glue came about half way up the sides.
Next I crawled around the room picking up all the pieces of myself.
I put them all inside the bathtub as well.
Finally I crawled into the glue bath.
I began putting the pieces of myself back together.
But it was like a really difficult jigsaw puzzle.
I couldn’t figure out where all the pieces went.
Nothing made sense.
I tried and I tried.
But the exhaustion was too much.
I couldn’t help myself.
I fell asleep in the warm glue.
I never did wake up.
I guess it was just my time to go.
As I mentioned, I had been falling to pieces for such a long time I don’t think there was anything I could do to stop it. I mean I tried. I never gave up until the end, when I just couldn’t fight it anymore.
I just had to sink into the glue.
It was nice to know that some people missed me.
I wish I had have known that when I was still around.
Maybe that could have helped in some way.
Maybe that could have made it easier.
I don’t know.
And I guess, now, I never will.
My obituary read:
Dead.
Will be missed by children Larry and Sarah and by ex-wife Laura.
Beloved son of James and Mary.
Victim of a freak glue accident.
I guess the old children’s nursery rhyme was true.
All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.
THE END.
By D. Jonas Laurence
One day I began falling to pieces.
I suppose now, looking back on it all, it had been imminent for quite some time, years in fact, a lifetime maybe, but it all began in earnest one day. One day I couldn’t cloud myself in milky, billowy, marshmallow pillows of alcohol, or drugs, or DVDs, or music, or books, or cooking shows, or radio broadcasts, or Playstation, or pornography, or shopping, or anything…
One day I could not deny the simple fact;
I was falling to pieces.
It began with my fingernails.
One day I was showering. I was washing my hair with an expensive dandruff shampoo that I need to use in order to keep my shoulders from looking like someone has sprinkled flaky piles of cocaine on them, when I felt something within the soapy coils of my hair.
I placed my head under the boiling hot stream of water and manoeuvred whatever it was in my hair until it was in my hand.
I looked down. It was a fingernail.
I inspected my hands and found that the nail of the little finger on my left hand was missing. It had simply fallen off.
I turned the fingernail clutched between the fingers of my right hand. I stared at it. There was no blood or evidence of it having been pulled or knocked off. It seemed to have just fallen off. And left nude pink skin in its place.
The next day another fingernail fell off.
And the next day another fell off.
And the same thing the next day.
And the next.
And the next.
Until I had no fingernails.
Of course my toenails were next to go.
They turned a strange orange and flaked off like cheese smelling cornflakes.
I found these hidden in the folds of my duvets.
Hidden in the folds of my socks.
Scattered to the corners of my rooms.
Ten of them.
I began to get worried.
Next thing to go was my hair.
I don’t just mean the hair on my head.
I mean all my hair.
I was soon as pube-less as a ten-year-old boy.
Hair even fell out of my nose.
And my eyebrows.
My eyelashes fell out for Christ’s sake!
Then one ear fell off as I was driving to work one morning.
That annoyed me.
Then one of my balls fell off when I arrived at work.
It fell out the bottom of my slacks and bounced down the hall like a flesh coloured ping-pong ball.
My secretary happened to be walking down the hall and stood on it with a mushy noise.
She screamed and I sent her home for the day.
(No pay of course as she had crushed my nut!)
I had begun carrying around a small rucksack and I placed my squashed nut in the rucksack along with my finger and toenails, my hair, and my right ear.
What next? I thought.
And as if in answer my nose fell onto the floor with a snotty slap.
Fuck! I screamed.
I picked my nose…up off the floor and threw it in my bag.
Then I ran from the office as fast as I could.
So fast in fact that I didn’t notice that my foreskin had fallen off somewhere.
I ran back to my car and drove out of the city.
I was sweating, panicking, freaking out, and I stopped to get a pack of cigarettes on the outskirts of the city.
I drove into the desert.
I smoked a cigarette with my arm hanging out the window.
The two nail-less fingers holding my cigarette fell off.
They bounced and skidded across the road and two hyenas picked up one each in their jaws and ran away laughing.
Bastards! I screamed and jammed on the brakes.
I skidded to a stop and reached into my glove compartment for my gun.
I jumped out of my car and aimed at the closer of the disappearing hyenas.
I pulled the trigger.
But I forgot that I no longer had a trigger finger.
The bastards got away.
So I got back in my car and started driving.
I began to get hungry and thirsty and decided to stop at the next restaurant I saw.
I saw a restaurant up ahead nestled in the shade of a huge red rock.
The name of the restaurant was THE HUGE RED ROCK RESTAURANT.
I skidded into the parking lot with dust and rocks and a slab of my elbow flying.
My mind was racing like a horse on speed.
I got out of my car, still sweating.
I stepped into the cool interior of the restaurant.
I went and sat at the bar.
The bartender and I seemed to be the only people in the place.
I put my rucksack down on the seat beside me.
“Hey guy,” the heavily tattooed bartender said to me, his muscled arms flexing, sticking out of the denim waistcoat (no shirt beneath) that he wore, “You okay? You don’t look so good.”
“Of course I don’t look too good!!” I screamed. “My fucken nose has fallen off! My right nut has fallen off and been stood on by my secretary! Give me a fucken whiskey. A double.”
The bartenders face grimaced at my outburst.
But he poured the whiskey anyway.
I gulped it in one.
My heart was racing again.
“Give me another.” I said.
So he did.
“You got any supa-glue?”
“What?”
“I said, ‘you got any supa-glue?’ What, you dumb or something?”
So the bartender sighed and rummaged in a drawer under the bar and passed me a tube of supa-glue.
I took my rucksack and opened it. I extracted my nose and smeared it with glue. I stuck it back on my face.
I took my squashed ball and moulded it like putty back into a shape like a testicle.
I rubbed glue on it and put my hand down my slacks, inside my silk boxer shorts.
I stuck my ball back on.
The bartender watched me with an amused look on his face.
I held up my hand, the one with the two fingers missing.
“Fucken hyenas got my fingers man.” I said.
“I hear you brother. I hear you.” He replied.
Next I stuck my ear back on.
Next I stuck my hair back on.
I was a poet and I did not know it.
I was getting tired.
I drank another whiskey.
I threw a lot of money on the bar. Enough for the whiskies and the supa-glue.
“Thanks for listening.” I said, and stood up to leave.
“It’s my job man. It’s my job.” The bartender said and began polishing the bar with smelly wood polish.
I left and got back in my car.
I looked in the mirror.
I looked a little better with my nose and hair back on, but I had glued my ear on upside-down. That pissed me off.
An exhaustion now came over me like a wave of poisoned gas.
I started my car and started driving.
I needed to find a place to sleep.
Finally I came to the outskirts of a small town. The sun was going down.
I slowed and near Main Street saw a sign in neon that said:
HOTEL SMALL TOWN – Rooms to rent – vacancies.
I parked my car outside and scooped up my rucksack and my supa-glue.
Faceless peoples walked the footpaths. Birds chirped. Dragonflies chased gnats and mosquitoes. Wolves howled in the distance. Vultures circled in the darkening sky. Bad omens everywhere.
I checked in with a fat woman smoking a menthol cigarette.
She gave me my key after I gave her a lot of money.
I went to my room located at the back of the hotel.
My room overlooked a park where children played on swings and jungle-jims and merry-go-rounds, and mothers talked in small groups watching their kids like hawks.
I watched this scene and felt tears spill from my eyes.
My heart broke inside me.
Broke into a million pieces and I knew that I would need to buy more supa-glue in order to put it back together again.
More tears spilled.
Then my left eye fell out.
I tried to pick it up but my hand, the one with three fingers, fell off.
My shoes fell from my feet.
My socks fell off.
My toes scattered like marbles.
My nipples fell off.
My kneecaps fell off.
I picked up the telephone with my one good hand.
I pressed one for reception.
“Please!” I screamed, “You gotta help me. I’m falling to pieces. I need all the supa-glue you can find. Please, I’m begging you! I’ll pay anything. Just bring me supa-glue!”
I could hear the fat woman smoking her shit-smelling menthol cigarette.
“Well…okay then.” She said, and hung up.
Thirty minutes later there was a knock at the door.
I crawled over (my feet had fallen off, as had one leg below the knee – or where the knee used to be) and called out.
“Please leave the glue just inside my door. Don’t try to look at me!”
I unlocked the door, after turning off the light, and hid behind the door.
The fat woman wheeled in a wheelbarrow. Placed it down on the floor and left.
“Thank you! God bless you!” I yelled to her, just before my tongue fell out.
Then I locked the door and turned on the light.
Piled on the wheelbarrow were twenty industrial sized buckets of supa-glue.
I began carrying each bucket into the bathroom. Crawling. Sometimes pushing the buckets, sometimes pulling them.
I had to do twenty trips.
Each time I lost more of myself.
My arse cheeks fell off.
My chin fell off.
My moles fell off.
My armpits fell off.
My cock fell off and I put it in my tongue-less mouth so that I would not lose it.
Finally I had all the buckets in the bathroom.
I poured all the buckets into the bathtub.
The glue came about half way up the sides.
Next I crawled around the room picking up all the pieces of myself.
I put them all inside the bathtub as well.
Finally I crawled into the glue bath.
I began putting the pieces of myself back together.
But it was like a really difficult jigsaw puzzle.
I couldn’t figure out where all the pieces went.
Nothing made sense.
I tried and I tried.
But the exhaustion was too much.
I couldn’t help myself.
I fell asleep in the warm glue.
I never did wake up.
I guess it was just my time to go.
As I mentioned, I had been falling to pieces for such a long time I don’t think there was anything I could do to stop it. I mean I tried. I never gave up until the end, when I just couldn’t fight it anymore.
I just had to sink into the glue.
It was nice to know that some people missed me.
I wish I had have known that when I was still around.
Maybe that could have helped in some way.
Maybe that could have made it easier.
I don’t know.
And I guess, now, I never will.
My obituary read:
Dead.
Will be missed by children Larry and Sarah and by ex-wife Laura.
Beloved son of James and Mary.
Victim of a freak glue accident.
I guess the old children’s nursery rhyme was true.
All the King’s horses and all the King’s men couldn’t put Humpty together again.
THE END.
Thursday, 10 May 2007
The Man Who Gave Up Everythng.
Just for you Willats to read when you are supposed to be working.
THE MAN WHO GAVE UP EVERYTHING.
By D. Jonas Laurence.
Once upon a time there was a man who gave up everything.
First of all he gave up cigarettes. After a while he felt so good about giving up cigarettes that he gave up drinking beer.
He felt so much better for giving up drinking beer that he soon gave up drinking bourbon. And whiskey. And vodka. And absinthe. And poteen. And the 100% alcohol solution that they keep in torpedo chambers of submarines.
He felt good giving up things.
So he gave up brushing his hair.
He gave up cutting his hair.
He gave up shaving or brushing his teeth.
He gave up wearing shoes.
He gave up ironing his clothes. Then he gave up wearing clothes all together.
He walked around naked, with mangy hair and beard, smelly breath, dirty (because he had given up using shower gel or even showering), until he gave up walking as well.
He would then stay at home not sitting, not standing, just sort of hovering, because, of course, he had given up both sitting and standing.
He had given up his furniture and his oven. His house was empty. Except for dust. He had given up dusting.
Then he gave up his house.
He had given up mowing the lawns a long time before.
So then he began to hover on the streets.
He gave up eating ice cream.
He gave up eating chicken.
He gave up drinking coke.
He gave up eating apples.
Then he gave up eating all together.
Then he gave up drinking any form of liquid at all.
Then he hovered to the country, he had given up on the city.
He kept his eyes closed; he had given up on seeing.
He kept bumping into trees, but he soon gave that up.
Until finally he hovered into a field of grass and daisies and he lay down.
“I have given up hovering,” he said to himself, “my hovering days are over.”
So he lay there on the grass and daisies of a field in the countryside with his eyes shut.
Then he decided that his heart would give up beating.
Then he decided that he would give up breathing.
Then he decided that he would give up living.
And he would have been happy but for the fact that he had already given up on being happy a long, long, time ago.
And so he gave up living.
And he found himself before the great big pearly gates of Heaven.
And St. Peter said to him “Do you think you are worthy of entering Heaven?”
But he didn’t answer, you see, because he had given up answering questions whilst on earth. Whilst living.
“Oh, you’ve given up on answering have you?” St. Peter boomed. He couldn’t see him of course, because he had still given up on seeing, but St. Peter’s voice radiated around him like music from a symphony orchestra.
Until he gave up hearing.
“Suit yourself.” St. Peter sighed and cast him down into the pits of Hell. Because if you come to the great big pearly gates of Heaven and have given up answering then you can’t very well answer the question that St. Peter has for you, and if you don’t answer then you must be cast into the pits. Them’s the rules.
And so he found himself in the pits of Hell.
And Satan came running over on his cloven feet like a little schoolgirl with a new Barbie doll to play with.
“Yayyyy!!!” he said in a nasal voice, “I can’t wait for you to suffer in the eternal flames of damnation.”
But of course our hero had given up seeing and hearing, so he didn’t know that everyone was talking to him. Satan got closer and peered into his face.
“Hmmm,” he said, “given up seeing and hearing what what.”
Satan had extremely bad breath, as you can imagine, as that is one of the tortures of Hell, everyone you meet has terrible halitosis, and so our man gave up smelling right away.
“Bugger,” said Satan, “I’ll just have to throw him into the beginners pool of burning molten lava for a couple of thousand years.”
So he did.
But Satan hadn’t counted on one fact.
Our hero had already given up feeling anything. So the burning molten lava didn’t hurt, and he had already given up on burning, so his skin remained intact.
And now he simply gave up on the effects of time, so the couple of thousand years in the beginners’ pool flew by in 00.00001 of a second.
“Shitbox!!!” the Devil screamed, “turds! Butt-plugs! Feces face!” The Devil was angry you see.
“What can I do?……” the Devil mused sitting on his baboon red arse, “how can I give this pooh-stain the proper punishment?”
But it didn’t matter anyway because at that moment our protagonist decided to give up Hell.
So he found himself in a place where he did not know.
He had given up seeing, hearing, smelling, and feeling. He couldn’t taste anything so he gave up trying.
So then he did the only thing that he could think of.
(Before he gave up thinking.)
He gave up existing.
THE END.
THE MAN WHO GAVE UP EVERYTHING.
By D. Jonas Laurence.
Once upon a time there was a man who gave up everything.
First of all he gave up cigarettes. After a while he felt so good about giving up cigarettes that he gave up drinking beer.
He felt so much better for giving up drinking beer that he soon gave up drinking bourbon. And whiskey. And vodka. And absinthe. And poteen. And the 100% alcohol solution that they keep in torpedo chambers of submarines.
He felt good giving up things.
So he gave up brushing his hair.
He gave up cutting his hair.
He gave up shaving or brushing his teeth.
He gave up wearing shoes.
He gave up ironing his clothes. Then he gave up wearing clothes all together.
He walked around naked, with mangy hair and beard, smelly breath, dirty (because he had given up using shower gel or even showering), until he gave up walking as well.
He would then stay at home not sitting, not standing, just sort of hovering, because, of course, he had given up both sitting and standing.
He had given up his furniture and his oven. His house was empty. Except for dust. He had given up dusting.
Then he gave up his house.
He had given up mowing the lawns a long time before.
So then he began to hover on the streets.
He gave up eating ice cream.
He gave up eating chicken.
He gave up drinking coke.
He gave up eating apples.
Then he gave up eating all together.
Then he gave up drinking any form of liquid at all.
Then he hovered to the country, he had given up on the city.
He kept his eyes closed; he had given up on seeing.
He kept bumping into trees, but he soon gave that up.
Until finally he hovered into a field of grass and daisies and he lay down.
“I have given up hovering,” he said to himself, “my hovering days are over.”
So he lay there on the grass and daisies of a field in the countryside with his eyes shut.
Then he decided that his heart would give up beating.
Then he decided that he would give up breathing.
Then he decided that he would give up living.
And he would have been happy but for the fact that he had already given up on being happy a long, long, time ago.
And so he gave up living.
And he found himself before the great big pearly gates of Heaven.
And St. Peter said to him “Do you think you are worthy of entering Heaven?”
But he didn’t answer, you see, because he had given up answering questions whilst on earth. Whilst living.
“Oh, you’ve given up on answering have you?” St. Peter boomed. He couldn’t see him of course, because he had still given up on seeing, but St. Peter’s voice radiated around him like music from a symphony orchestra.
Until he gave up hearing.
“Suit yourself.” St. Peter sighed and cast him down into the pits of Hell. Because if you come to the great big pearly gates of Heaven and have given up answering then you can’t very well answer the question that St. Peter has for you, and if you don’t answer then you must be cast into the pits. Them’s the rules.
And so he found himself in the pits of Hell.
And Satan came running over on his cloven feet like a little schoolgirl with a new Barbie doll to play with.
“Yayyyy!!!” he said in a nasal voice, “I can’t wait for you to suffer in the eternal flames of damnation.”
But of course our hero had given up seeing and hearing, so he didn’t know that everyone was talking to him. Satan got closer and peered into his face.
“Hmmm,” he said, “given up seeing and hearing what what.”
Satan had extremely bad breath, as you can imagine, as that is one of the tortures of Hell, everyone you meet has terrible halitosis, and so our man gave up smelling right away.
“Bugger,” said Satan, “I’ll just have to throw him into the beginners pool of burning molten lava for a couple of thousand years.”
So he did.
But Satan hadn’t counted on one fact.
Our hero had already given up feeling anything. So the burning molten lava didn’t hurt, and he had already given up on burning, so his skin remained intact.
And now he simply gave up on the effects of time, so the couple of thousand years in the beginners’ pool flew by in 00.00001 of a second.
“Shitbox!!!” the Devil screamed, “turds! Butt-plugs! Feces face!” The Devil was angry you see.
“What can I do?……” the Devil mused sitting on his baboon red arse, “how can I give this pooh-stain the proper punishment?”
But it didn’t matter anyway because at that moment our protagonist decided to give up Hell.
So he found himself in a place where he did not know.
He had given up seeing, hearing, smelling, and feeling. He couldn’t taste anything so he gave up trying.
So then he did the only thing that he could think of.
(Before he gave up thinking.)
He gave up existing.
THE END.
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