The Schedule

I was able to recover quite quickly from my Labor Day farewell and found that I was able to bring myself to make soup again. I hadn’t been able to do it for some reason, and I think saying goodbye to that pristine jet ski made everything right again. For months I struggled to pull together the ingredients – I could get the broth in the pot and the meat on top of that, starting a low simmer. But when it came time to add the celery salt I would start screaming bloody murder and run into the street with whatever tree limb had fallen that day. and I would hit the stick on the street until the entire thing was in pieces. Standing by the side of the road now, I would continue shrieking until a car would zoom by and get its tires and suspension shredded by the gift pieces of timber I had left. I would then saunter into the house, still shrieking, and fall face-first onto the kitchen floor, convulsing occasionally until the broth and meat would boil over and slowly inch toward me, scalding my skin and ruining my fresh undershirt I had bought just for the soup-making occasion.

As I added the celery salt, Charles came in and gave me a round of applause. “Fuck you Charles,” I snapped immediately.

“Y’know, you don’t have to be such a jerk to me all the time.”

“Oh really? Is that something you wrote in your Dipshit Book?” Charles was writing a book of rules on how to live because he saw some show about it one time and thought it would be a great idea. When he first sat down to write it, he told me the idea and I gave him the gem of a title “The Dipshit Book”. He cried in his sleep for a fortnight. But that actually may have had to do with the nightmare machine I hooked up to his head so never mind.

“Actually, I think it’s just common decency. I treat you well.”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you?”

“Yes!”

“Well why don’t you go write about it you fucking LAUNDRY CHUTE?!”

He looked at me for a second and I saw an attempt at comprehension flash over his face but we all know that Charles will never understand how badly I just insulted him. Especially since he doesn’t know that I’ve rigged our laundry chute to destroy any clothes that are thrown down it. Charles still hasn’t caught on and I don’t use it.

“Y’know what, I think I will!” Charles said after that momentary confusion passed. He happily marched to his room. I followed him to watch this maestro in action. He sat down in this beautiful leather chair that looked brand new. “Where the fuck did you get that?” I said accusingly.

“Oh this? I got it at the furniture store. Salesman told me it was 100% genuine Italian leather. Got a great deal on it too!” He started tik-tik-tikking on his laptop’s keyboard and humming a happy fucking tune. “How much did you pay for it?” I asked.

“You’ll never guess.”

“$2500.”

“Nope.”

“$26,000.50.”

“Wrong again.”

“A can of beans.”

“I paid: ONE. HUNDRED. DOLLARS.”

I gaped as Charles grinned and turned back to his “work”. Something didn’t feel right about that chair. The fact that he paid less than a can of beans for it really made me suspicious. I ran out, retrieved my magnifying glass, and ran back in. I took a good long examination of the chair. Then I looked at a close-up of Charles’ lice. They waved at me – I waved back. Charles scratched his head.

Finally, after a few minutes of careful examination, I figured it out. “CHARLES.” Charles stopped what he was doing. “What?”

“Charles this is a fake leather chair.”

“Malarky!”

“No I’m serious, this is a fucking fake leather chair!”

“And how do you know that?”

“I can see it’s fake!”

Charles thought about this for a second. He took a breath and said calmly, “Well you know what? That’s fine – I only paid a hundred bucks for it so it’s not a huge deal. It’s still a cool-looking chair right?”

“NO CHARLES YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND. THIS IS A FAKE LEATHER CHAIR. IT’S A FUCKING FAKE CHAIR CHARLES. THE CHAIR IS NOT REAL!”

He looked at me, looked at the “chair”, and it disappeared. He fell heavily to the ground and lay there, confused and hurt.

“You got fucking ripped off,” I said to him matter-of-factly. Then I kicked him really hard in the head and went bowling.

The Labor Day weekend was turning into a great success. I wasted most of my August plotting and scheming the best ways not only to buy up as much of the state’s supply of charcoal as possible, but also to consume as much wheat- and corn-based products as possible. I sat in front of my map – on which I had marked with tiny flags the locations of all the major charcoal outlets – eating a taco shell sandwich and drinking The Slurry (that’s my trademark beverage – simply mix equal parts water and corn syrup). I had already hit most of the larger grocery stores, and the supply of charcoal in Charles’ room was steadily rising. I think once the stacked bags of coals blocked his entry to his room, he started yelling at me. But luckily, I don’t give a shit.

I guess I should tell you that the reason I wanted to buy all of that charcoal is because I knew that it would demand a high price in the weeks to come. I had recently driven off the side of a bridge and onto a barge carrying a brand new hydroelectric generator to be installed up-river. My car completely crushed the generator, as it was sitting on top of the deck being protected by nothing other than some cotton ropes. So now I have to pay them back for that. But in my defense, I didn’t MEAN to do that. I was actually aiming my car at the wake of a vegetable ship that had just lost a crate of fresh farm corn overboard.

As the weekend approached, I posted signs around the area and put a couple of ads on TV to come to me for all of your charcoal needs. We have it all so come on down! I actually got a lot of customers, most of whom were grumbling about the inconvenience, high price, and the amount of flour coating the floors of my “office” (which was just my kitchen table). My plan was to sell all the way through the weekend, but I ended up selling all of my stock by early Sunday, and not only was I able to pay the river for the generator (the river purchased it, who knew?), but I also had a decent amount of money left over. I decided right then and there that I would treat Charles and myself to a Labor Day on Lake Parches! I also decided one other thing right then and there: I would buy a jet ski. So I went to the jet ski store and I was like, “Hey man I need one,” and they said “Sure thing!” So they got me a jet ski on a trailer and hooked it up to my car. I threw a wad of money in their faces and left to go home and get ready for the exciting day.

That night, I had a very strange dream. We were at Lake Parches and for some reason we were with a couple of other people and we had the jet ski on the dock. While these other people were tinkering with it while it was lying on its side, the jet ski came purring alive like a goat in his engine costume for Halloween. I screamed, “No, don’t set it upright! We have to get out of here!” They started to lift it upright. “No! No! Stop!” I shrieked. They lifted it all the way up and it started making grinding noises. Before I could yell anymore, the jet ski exploded in a violent ball of fire, taking all of us with it to Davy Jones’ Locker.

I awoke with a start, practicially hyperventilating as my heart tried to force its way out of my chest. I knew this dream would haunt me all day.

As we drove to Lake Parches, I looked out the back window from time to time. The jet ski was staring at me, waiting for its chance. I was hoping my dream was not a premonition of things to come.

Well, we got to Parches and put the jet ski in the water. When I tried to start it up the engine barely turned over. We had to pull it out of the water. As soon as we did that, a couple of guys came over and offered to help us put the jet ski onto the dock and fix it. I started to get more and more nervous.

After the jet ski was put on the dock my vantage point was exactly the one from my dream. My heart started pounding like it was that morning and my breathing became more rapid and shallow. “Well, things look fine now, let’s turn it on!” one of the guys said as he pushed the button. The jet ski purred on. “No…” I mouthed. “Now let’s get this thing upright!” the guy said. As they started to put it upright, I shouted, “No, don’t set it upright! We have to get out of here!” But they didn’t listen to me. As they lifted it up more I could start to hear the grinding noises from my dream. They were loud and ominous-sounding. “No! No! Stop!” I screamed. Finally, the jet ski started jerking and bucking like a young man in the electric chair. The guys held onto the handlebars of the jet ski and seemed to be pulling back on it. Finally, they looked like they could hold no longer. As I cowered at the end of the dock, the guys released their grip and the jet ski shot off the dock and into the ski at a 45-degree angle. The engine powered on as the jet ski faded off into the distant sky.

I stood up and walked to the edge of the dock, watching as the jet ski disappeared. You’re finally free, old friend, I thought. You’re finally free.

It’s been a long time. A long time. I can only give you a small smattering of an idea of what I have been up to for the past 10 months. Many sandwiches were had, many hearts were broken. Needless to say, I was the one stomping out the flames when the disaster finally hit the small seafood stand that rolls around town grilling up shrimp and boiling crab lobsters. It was then that I wished that I had spent the time to learn Spanish in my younger days, because I could have yelled angrily at the bystanders “en espaniol” and made them think that I was a hero from a distant land, come a-running because I hear the cries of Scott, the proprietor of the treasured trailer. Instead, I had to resort to spitting in their faces, and when they all spit back simultaneously, I jumped out of the way in order to have their spit land on the flames and extinguish them. A gay man walked up to the smoldering wreck, flicked his wrist, and walked away briskly, using as small steps as possible.  The flick of his wrist was enough to fan the heap enough to start the flames up again, and I had to dump out some buckets of water so I could wear the buckets on my feet to stomp out the fire (I didn’t love that fucking seafood enough to ruin my loafers).  A collective sigh of relief re-ignited the flames once more, so I jump-kicked one lucky contestant onto the flames and used his body to smother them. Another day, another job well done.

Anyway, I’m pissed. So pissed. As I was watching “The Overhead Projector Roundup” (the best new program of the season), my piping-hot chicory burning my throat as I swallowed it far too fast,they were setting up the new OHP-5000 on the show: it is one of the greatest models yet. So they set it all up and throw on the sample graph page that comes with it (to demonstrate colors and the like) and it’s all blurry. I yell, “Focus! FOCUS!” Usually this is enough to get the dickbags on the show to turn the focus knob. Well, they did turn the knob, but the picture was still blurry. I looked more closely and saw that the hosts were out of focus as well! I yelled, “Focus! FOCUS!” as I turned the knobs on the TV in order to sharpen the image. But I got nothing. My TV was officially out of focus – broken. I cursed the heavens and the birds living in their apartment building (my chimney) flew out and scattered in different directions. At first I thought it was because my heavens-curse scared them, but as it turned out my chimney lost power in the night and so they all had slept through their alarms and were now late for work. Several of them were in such a rush that they didn’t even kiss their wives goodbye. For shame.

I had no choice but to have a guy come look at it. He showed up in a drab gray coverall, took one look at my TV, and said, “Welp. There’s yer problem.” I stared at him for a moment, drooling. Then I said to him, “What? What is the problem? Please tell me!” At this point I was hanging on the lapels-area of his coverall, hooked on as dead weight. He shooed me off, and I fell to the floor with a reverberating BOOM that only a hardwood floor can produce. He looked at me with disgust and said, “It looks like the tubes are going. You’ll have to get a new TV if you want focus.” At this point I panicked. “A new TV? I don’t know how to get a new TV. Where do I get a new TV? Can anyone get a new TV? What’s a new TV?!” Again I had him by his lapels-area, dangling as if my life depended on it.  Again he deftly managed to remove me from his fabric, and I fell down again.  He reached into his pocket and pulled out a business card. He handed it to me saying, “Try this place. If they don’t have a TV you like I’ll eat my coverall.”

Now I know a lot of you are thinking that

A. I wouldn’t find a TV that I liked, and I would angrily go to the repairman’s house and demand he eat his coverall,

or

B. I would find a TV that would suit my lifestyle perfectly, but I would go to the repairman’s house and lie about it and start shoving coverall down his throat, the whole time grinning like a newborn alligator.

However, neither of these events occurred. In fact I was quite smitten with one of the TV I saw at the store, but I was kicked out of the store for repeatedly trying to ask it out on a date.  She called over the manager who had to escort me out – I did manage to slip my number to her though. She’ll call.

So after I got booted, I took a shit in the parking lot, set up a small tent, and sold tickets. My plan was to have everyone in the store be mesmerized and stop paying attention to what was going on in the store. My plan came to fruition about an hour later when I managed to convince the managers to “Step right up and see the Amazing Fecallio!” They consulted with each other for what seemed like an eternity, then they all shrugged and stepped inside the tent. I put a padlock on the nylon door and bolted into the store.

I put my arm about the TV again and continued trying to convince her to come home with me. She was reluctant at first, saying she wasn’t that kind of girl. I explained that all I would do is look – no touching. She nervously said, “OK,” and the two of us walked out with none the wiser.

Of course when she saw the old dead TV she screamed. I just chained her to the radiator and turned her on. I forgot how much I liked watching baby cartoons. Man oh man those things make no fucking sense.

Earlier today I was making rye toast to bring to the public access TV studio. They have been welcoming me there for the past week, eating the toast I’d prepared while I poured excessive quantities of milk into their teleprompter. It’s still working after 6 whole days of abuse. Anyway, one of the pieces of toast burnt, so I couldn’t bring it in. I knew if I walked in with burnt toast, the anchorpeople would just shame me mercilessly, using non-regional dialect to break me down. Ultimately, I know I would start crying and confess to them that I like wearing suspenders on occasion. It’s not like I’m using them to hold my pants up or anything! I just like straps! So I had to make more toast. Then I realized I was out of bread. Snapping my fingers in defeat, I asked Charles if we have any more in the freezer. He asked why I couldn’t check myself, and I replied that I was wearing oven mitts and couldn’t get the handle. Charles came in from the next room and saw my un-mitted hands. He sighed and opened the freezer, then told me there was no bread. I decided I had to get some, because if I didn’t have toast, I couldn’t lubricate the teleprompter. Makes sense, so don’t you dare fucking judge me. I’m the one telling the story, not you.

I left the house and hotwired Charles’ car. I drove recklessly through the street. Mothers with carriages dove out of the way. I laughed like an iguana that caught a burglar looting his bedroom by turning on the lights and surprising him with balloons. I kept a straight path and yelled “On your right!” to a group of joggers as I blazed past. They stacked up and formed a giant middle finger with their bodies, and I laughed like a barn door that was left slightly ajar, allowing Farmer Sullivans’s prize-winning hog to escape. In case you were wondering, yes, I was driving on the sidewalk. I HAVE A PERMIT.

As I drove along, a giant car was backing out of a driveway. I would have hit it if I didn’t screech to a halt. Then I realized it was actually a yacht on a trailer. I hopped out of my car and scrambled up the side of the boat. As I stood with one topsider on bow, the breeze flapping through my light shirt, the sun warming my exposed thighs below my khaki shorts, I heard a door close below me. “Excuse me. What the hell do you think you are doing?” I looked down and saw a man in a polo shirt glaring at me.  He was the previous owner of the boat, as of that moment. “Why, I am enjoying the sea breeze on my boat, of course,” I replied.

“This is my boat,” he asserted, getting more angry with each passing wave.

“Five degrees to port, Jonathan,” I said over my shoulder to the man in charge of steering the boat. I turned back to polo-man. “Correction: this was your boat. I bought the boat, no less than an hour ago.”

“What the fuck are you talking about? You’re on my boat, which is on my hitch, which is attached to my car!”

“I will not argue semantics with a landlubber like yourself. Rest assured, she is in good hands.” At this point I put my hands, previously on my hips in a triumphant manner, on the steel railing, giving it a good rub. I think this was what pushed polo-man over the edge. He started to scale the boat, but I shouted to my good men the crew, “PIRATES! ASSUME DEFENSIVE POSITIONS!” I drew my dagger and awaited his arrival. I yelled up to the crow’s nest: “KEEP YOUR EYES FIXED ON THAT COASTLINE!” The man was having trouble getting up the side of the boat because of his shoes (they could not grip her fine hull with the tenacity that is required of a pirate’s footwear), so I walked over to him and said, “Here, let me help you.” I bent my leg at the knee and lifted it. Then I brought it down on his head with all the force of a captain who is used to pirate attacks. A started gasp came from his mouth, then he fell about eight feet to the asphalt ocean. He floated on the surface, unmoving, and I declared a victory. The men and I celebrated with hardtack soaked in fresh rum, and the sun set on yet another beautiful day at sea – another beautiful day to be alive.

I think I should tell this story from the beginning. Lately I’ve been starting all of my stories in medias res, which of course is Latin for “in the newpaper’s ethnicity”, so they mostly start out with something like, “I wasn’t allowed to eat at the diner because there was a sign in the window that said ‘No halfies allowed.’ What’s up with that?” The newspaper is black and white, and hence a “mulatto”. So I guess I’ll tell you all about my day.

It started out innocently enough. I rose from my slumber as the rising sun’s rays filled my room. The plant I keep on the windowsill sighed like a laser printer, feeling the warmth cover its leaves. I slid onto the floor and walked with bare feet into the bathroom, where I pissed for about half of Good Morning America (I installed a TV on the wall for just such times). After a couple shitty guests and several flushes, I left the bathroom and sat down at my spot at the table, which was lovingly set by Charles. My mulatto newspaper was waiting for me, and a hot omelette was slid onto my plate. “Just the way you like it,” Charles said, his compassionate smile whetting my appetite. I dug into the food and guzzled my coffee as I read the classifieds. Usually I read them in the morning because I like to look for deals, and occasionally I find them. Today, it found me: there was an ad taken out for “EASY MONEY FAST”, and I was captivated. The ad ran over several pages, and since I had started reading mid-chew and I was so enthralled by the ad, my mouth hung open and the partially-masticated eggs dripped slowly to the plate. Charles didn’t notice for a few minutes, as he was cooking his own food. As he sat down to eat it, making a huge ceremony of preparing to eat (as always – the prick), he looked up and saw that I was, as he said later, “being gross.” With a blatant disgusted sigh he rose from the table and stormed out of the room, his shoes clicking on the hardwood.

I was there for about 20 minutes before I finished reading the ad, at which point I got incredibly upset at having finished it. I wanted it to continue, but the ad had other plans. I rescanned the ad and found no address, just this command: “Apply Within.”

I was on the verge of tears for nearly a week, feeling lost, empty, and anxious. I paced the halls, boring intense grooves into the floorboards and wearing away the print on the tile (I was wearing golf shoes at the time). I couldn’t stop thinking about how the ad patiently led me on for several pages, and then decided to be on its own and do its own thing. It just stopped! Abruptly! And I could not, for the life of me, figure out what I had done wrong.

I took it upon myself to call the newspaper’s Classifieds department and sort this whole mess out. The guy I talked to was very helpful. He explained that the advertiser had rambled for hours, hung up mid-sentence, and paid in full. He said there was nothing he could do. Wait a minute, come to think of it, that dickhead was completely unhelpful! I have a right mind to go in there and start shredding up newspapers until the floor is covered. The sheer volume of newsprint on the floor would cause all of the dogs in the county to raid the offices and start shitting and pissing everywhere. The people that are allergic to dogs would leave in a hurry, and the dogs would take over their jobs. For the first couple of weeks everything would be fine – the dogs would keep up correspondence with everyone and investigate events in order to write compelling articles. Then a news story would break – the scoop of a lifetime – about the new cat president abolishing dogs from the press, and though the story was completely unconfirmed and was in fact planted in the office to create dissent, the dogs would drive that newspaper into the ground.

Once I realized that it would be nearly impossible to co-ordinate the efforts of more than 2 dogs, I decided to solve the riddle of this newspaper myself. “Apply Within”. Wait a minute, I thought, what if it means… no, there’s no way it could… that’s impossible! But what if… I have to see! At this point I ran to my TV and turned it on. After about 30 minutes of channel surfing, I was satisfied that “Charles In Charge” could not possibly be on the air. Then I went back to thinking about the paper. It says “Apply Within”, so maybe it means I have to get inside the paper! I walked into the kitchen and smoothed the paper out on the table – it was open to the ad. Holding my nose, I jumped into the paper!

I fell for about five seconds, and I landed in a rolling field where the sun was shining. I could hear a bubbling creek nearby. I saw trees, and I heard birds talking amongst themselves within the branches. I was startled by all of the beauty, but I was hit by an overwhelming thirst. I decided to find the bubbling creek.

When I surveyed the area, I found a small clump of tall trees that were apparently shrouding the creek, since the sound came from that direction and there was no creek to be seen. I walked over there and stopped right at the edge of the grove of trees. They stared at me. They stared right into me. I shivered like a goat reaching ecstasy. Obviously these trees did not want me finding the bubbling creek that was hiding within their web of branches – they were meshed together like an organic chain-link fence, keeping out livestock, cattle rustlers, and me – the leaves and the needles insuring that no eyes could peer through the barrier. So I put my hands in my pockets, leaned forward, and began chewing.

After a few minutes, I had gnawed a me-sized hole through the foliage. as I snapped the very last twig with my incisors, the door-shaped piece I had just chewed out fell to the ground with a rustling “WHAP” and I swear I heard the trees booing me.

And there it was.

I saw a small hole in the ground bubbling up with running water. I knew that this had to be a secret. As I walked forward towards the water, the trees definitely said, “NOOOO!” I got on my knees and put my lips to the organic water fountain. The cool water touched my lips. And I drank it in.

The water was sweet. Sweet like the first day of spring or the satisfying tang of revenge. I was ripshit. “SWEET WATER?! WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT?!” I stomped my boots into the waterhole again and again, covering it up with mud and dirt. I set the grove on fire and walked out as the trees squealed like lobsters getting dropped into a pot of boiling urine. The fucker burned to the ground as I walked purposefully back to where I dropped into this world. I jumped into the air.

I plunked back into my seat at the kitchen table and nearly fell backwards. I got up and puked everywhere. Charles walked in with his empty breakfast plate and left immediately. I heard him retching in the upstairs bathroom moments later.

As I stood there on the corner the man repeated, “Can you please turn that off?!” He stared at my ghetto-blaster as I looked around in wonderment and my tape played an audio drama that consisted mainly of swears and references to “Perfect Strangers.” The lights were so breathtaking! I had no idea how else to react to the spectacle. Finally, the man hit the “Stop” button, snapping me out of my stupor. I immediately got angry with him. “Who do you think you are?! You come in here and start stopping people’s ghetto-blasters while they’re staring at the overwhelming lights of a place you call home?! Get out of here.” I pointed my finger off to the distance. “I said GO!” The man, speechless (as I had stolen his words from his breast pocket), turned slowly and walked away, shaking his head and muttering in a frustrated fashion about how he should have stood up for himself.

I have no idea how I ended up there, but I was smack-dab in the middle of a place called “Northern Empire.” It was like New York City, but one major difference; the police force was a pack of highly-trained sharecroppers. That and it was perpetual night. But the lights, the lights! They reminded me of a time I went to my greengrocer and asked for a sack of potatoes, and he accidentally gave me a big bag of mulch. The entertainment that mulch gave me was immeasurable. Nowadays, I’d say it gave me about 11.23 fun-units worth of fun – that’s a lot of fun! I took about half of it and funneled it into Charles’ gas tank – when he started ‘er up, it squealed in delight and booted Charles out of the seat, driving to the nearest overpass and serving ice cubes to the commuters stuck in traffic due to some jerk spilling footballs all over the road (that was me). Needless to say, Charles never saw the car again. At the time, I guffawed like a cucumber in a clothes dryer. The rest of the mulch was doled out in such a way to yield maximum fun-units.

Anyway, there was a payphone on the corner where I was standing. It began to ring. I looked at it as the bell got exercised. After a couple rings I picked it up.

Me: Hello?

Charles: Where the fuck are you?

Me: Northern Empire.

Charles: Northern Empire! How did you get all the way there?!

Me: Fuck you Charles.

I ignored the fact that he knew right where I was standing and slammed down the phone with such force that the coin bank broke open, letting loose a waterfall of quarters that some bums showered in. I decided to make the most of my predicament and see the sights.

As I meandered down the avenue I passed an all-night diner that was lit up like a beacon to lost foreigners. I bypassed it when I saw a man inside at the counter stooped over a bowl of soup. He was trying so hard to bring the soup to his lips, but his arm was trembling too much. The waitress wiped down the rest of the counter and looked at him with pity. Not wanting to be part of this bullshit tableau, I kept walking. I passed a row of smut-movie theaters, and I ran my hand along the walls as I passed them. I wiped the goo that accumulated onto a passerby’s face. He cringed and shouted in disgust, but he couldn’t see me putter away because he had too much goo in his eyes.

I walked this way and that for about an hour, taking cross-streets and really having no direction. I finally stopped walking when I reached a building that was completely dark and completely huge. I could just make out the giant letters above the great iron doors: “Northern Empire Times”. I thought to myself, This is it! This is the place where all the magic happens! I’m standing in front of a magic temple! I simply must go on a tour! Except, I didn’t think this – I was saying it aloud unbeknownst to me. As I was saying it, a car full of guys turned onto the street and slowly pulled up behind me. “Hey you!” said a voice from the car. I dropped a dime on the ground, placed my right heel on it, and spun to face them. Then I picked up the dime and rolled it in my fingers. “Hey fellas!” I shouted at them. The guy in the passenger seat got out and walked up to me.

Guy: You tryin’ to get in here?

Me: Yeah. I want to go on the tour!

Guy: Don’t you realize it’s closed?!

Me: I’ll be the judge of that!

I handed him the dime and he stared at me like I was the asshole that was driving the piece of shit car he was just in. I told him to drop the dime. He hesitated, then he dropped the dime. It rolled a few yards down the sidewalk. I sidestepped to it, put my right heel on it, and spun to face the building. I picked up the dime and sidestepped in front of the doors. Then I walked to them, grabbed the handles, and threw them open.

What happened next was amazing. A surge of light hit all of us, and we covered our eyes and cowered. I rose to my feet and walked in. There was a huge soiree going on in what looked like the most elegant ballroom ever created, and the five of us ran in and enjoyed.

For about 30 seconds. We all got thrown out when I ripped the bannister from the beautiful stairway and started throwing people off the balcony. Some fat lady was appalled, so I slapped her in the face.  Hard.

The guys from the car tried to get back in the doors when we got thrown out, pulling with all their might, but they were unsuccessful. I pushed them out of the way and said, “Guys, you gotta do it like this,” and I grabbed the two handles on those huge doors and threw them open. Again the light surged at us.  We ambled in and the soiree stopped. Everyone looked at us in fear. An older gentleman walked up. “So. You’ve discovered our secret. For years we’ve kept this building closed from outsiders. But now the outside has come in. So what is it that you want?”

“I want a fuckin’ shrimp cocktail,” I said. The man snapped his fingers and a waiter appeared with a gorgeous shrimp cocktail in a crystal cup.  I took it off his tray and sniffed it. “This smells like cherrywood,” I said, and I threw it to the marble floor. The cup shattered, and the shrimp squirmed away, cheering like a bottle of detergent on moving day. The older gentleman tried to form words, but only air came out. Probably because he was having a stroke. He was pretty old. “Boys, you should go,” I said to the guys with me. They slowly backed out of the hall, and I heard their car peel out as they drove away.  I almost lost my temper, but I took a breath and steadied myself. But in the end I lost it anyway. “DO YOU HAVE ANY IDEA HOW INSULTED I AM?! CHERRYWOOD IS MY LEAST FAVORITE WOOD! I CAN HANDLE PINE, I CAN TOLERATE CEDAR, BUT CHERRYWOOD?! THAT’S THE LAST STRAW!!!” With that I sprung from my haunches and slapped that fat lady on the other cheek. Hard.

She was on the balcony.

I almost walked right by the damn thing. Almost didn’t spot it and pick it up. Almost didn’t sniff it and feel the texture of its sides. Almost didn’t rip off its sweater and wear it as my own.

Of course I’m talking about the goat that was tied on the corner to the crosswalk sign. He was pissed. He bleated in anger and tried to eat the tin can I had tied to my belt that morning in an effort to make people thing I was a car carrying a newlywed couple. I got a bunch of rice thrown at me, so it must have been a success. Then again, I did go into China Palace and just start screaming in people’s faces. That poor family just wanted to decompress after a long day of backgammon, and I made them get upset. Very upset.

But not all was lost – on the way out of the restaurant, I noticed a peculiar item in the trash. See, China Palace has this habit of having an open garbage can next to the buffet, which one must walk by in order to get a table (a pretty good marketing idea, if I do say so myself – the only flaw is the guy that comes to empty the trash always has dandruff, so when he bends over the grab the can, flakes fall into the vegetables. Plus the can houses a small family of rats, so they can frequently be seen carrying tiny baskets and sampling the wares of the buffet). It was sitting right on top, looking mystical since the steam coming from one of the leaking warmers was floating over it. It was the cup. Oh, sorry, The Cup. Yes, It’s that important. Hypnotized, I observed Its many facets. It was a white paper Cup, approximately 12 ounces in volume. The white exterior was unsoiled save for the brown coffee stain on the rim – the drinker’s bottom lip could be seen clearly in the stain. I could see some coffee still sitting in The sideways Cup. At this point, I was able to break out of my daze, and I slowly reached for It. A hand shot from across the room and knocked mine away! Bewildered, I looked up and saw this gaunt man staring at me with sunken eyes. He told me to leave It alone. I told him to fuck himself. I reached for it again, and the same thing happened! I gave him a look, told him to stop, and reached again. Again he knocked away my hand. This happened several more times until I finally just picked up a chair and threw it at him. While he was busy slapping it away, I grabbed The Cup and ran as fast as my little legs could carry me. After I ran straight through the plate glass door, I ran and ran and ran until I got next door. There was still some coffee left! I drank it and felt empowered. I felt like I could bobsled. I felt like I could make a television out of a bushel of potatoes. I felt like I could sleep until the sun burned out. But all of these thoughts were thrown from my mind when the nasally dry cleaner into whose shop I had run started complaining about my making a mess. I looked down. There was mud everywhere. I lifted up my shoes, but they were clean. I looked at the clerk in confusion. I started to explain my case, but he was not having it. So I shook off the panic and calmly walked out through the plate-glass door.

I was full of energy. I felt like I could press license plates with my teeth. I felt like I could boil a spiderweb. I felt like I could push a ferris wheel along with a young sycamore bow that I found next to the gully. So I bolted over to the park and did some cartwheels. I squished about 10 bugs. Their families cried in sorrow. I shouted “EEEEEE” like a lemon in a cheap hotel. Many of the people at the park didn’t really care – they were elated at my ebullience.

I was awake for the next twelve days, completely happy. I hugged Charles until he developed rashes. I made amends with the asshole dog. Well, for about 25 minutes. Then I happily chased him down and shaved his tail, laughing all along. He whimpered. I laughed in response. After this, I even sold my collection of water bottles to the grocery store! I got 25 cents!!! Not the highlight of the experience, but definitely up there. I guess the highlight was when I went into the first-grade classroom at the local elementary school and wrote “doody” on the chalkboard, causing the young whippersnappers to laugh and the teacher to turn a bright crimson. Not because she was embarrassed by the word, but because she is allergic to the letter “d”. Plus she has AIDS.

So last week I took a cart from the supermarket. I was going there to buy t-shirts. Charles told me they don’t sell them there, but I ignored him and poured a bucket of water on him. There was this guy smoking a pipe with no shirt on, talking politics to no one. As I approached him he turned to me, squawked, and ordered me to have the cart. I agreed without question. I didn’t even go into the store. The man started screaming and threw himself through one of the front windows. I whistled like an asshole all the way home.

Of course when I got home, Charles berated me for having more shit to clutter the house. I scoffed at him, telling him, “Charles, we need this. Have you no vision?!” He stared at me skeptically for a moment, then asked flatly, “Why.”

“Remember that blue sweater you had a couple years ago?”

“Yeah, you spilled blue paint all over it.”

“THERE WAS A STAIN ON THE BACK.”

“Mhm. What about it?”

“I have something that can get your sweater back to normal.”

“Really. How?”

“You’re just going to have to trust me.”

“No. Tell me now.”

“You’re such a crunch patty.”

“What the fuck does that even mean?! Tell me now!” he commanded as he grabbed me by the collar.

“Well, now I can finally get the paint thinner from the store.”

Charles loosened his grip a bit. “What are you talking about?”

“We require two cans of paint thinner to get that stain out. But I can only carry one thing at a time. This cart will let me carry many things!”

“You can only carry one thing at a time.”

“That’s what I said, Crunch Patty.”

“Shut the fuck up. Just get the paint thinner.”

Without another word, I turned the cart around and went to the local hardware store, Craig’s. I went in with the cart and asked for Craig, but they told me he was dead. Had been for 12 years. When I tried to ask about how he could be dead when the store still exists, the jerk at the counter told me that the store has been there since 1947. I went “Pff,” and walked away, pushing the cart in a regal manner.

When I got down the paint aisle, I saw what I came in for: two one-gallon cans of paint thinner. As I reached for them, I stopped. Taking a closer look at the can, I turned it to the side. There it said: “Max Hat presents Paint Thinner!” Immediately I was confused. There was a picture of Max Hat under this title – apparently he’s popular for giving the thumbs up, because that’s what he was doing in the picture. Well if that didn’t take the horses saddle, I didn’t know what would. I picked up the cans, threw them to the ground, breaking them everywhere, and left in a huff to track down Max Hat, kicking the horse in the thigh on the way out.

One thing I didn’t mention before: the address of the factory was listed under the photo. So I memorized it and hopped on the bus heading in that direction (it was in the neighboring city). While on the bus I took out my harmonica and tried to comb my hair with it. I’ve never been able to master it, even after 9 years of practice. People looked at me like I was a retard. I just yelled at them, “What are you, the pizza guy? Stop looking at me!” That did the trick every time.

After getting kicked off three stops early for sneezing on people repeatedly, I found my way to the address. But there was no factory – there was just a shitty ranch-style house. I shrugged and banged on the door. After what felt like 25 seconds (it was really 7) a man answered the door. It was Max Hat. He looked like a dickhead. “Hi, can I help you?” he offered.

“You sure can, Dickhead.”

“Whoa whoa whoa, take it easy man, my name’s Max.”

“Yeah whatever Cockcranium.”

“Seriously, what do you want?”

“I’m coming about your paint thinner, Wangdome. You can’t ‘present’ it – it’s fucking paint thinner.”

He paused for a long time. “I never thought anyone would mention that… I thought it would always go unnoticed. I’m ruined!!!” He spun around and ran screaming around his house. I stood on the doorstep and heard things shattering and babies crying. The crying stopped after a couple abrupt THUDs. I didn’t think too much of it.

As I still stood there two hours later, his ugly wife came home and threw her groceries all over the lawn. She ran into the house and started arguing with him. Satisfied with the situation, I picked up a box of Diet Bagel Bites that lay at my feet and ate them raw on the long walk home. When I got there Charles had his sweater all laid out and looked really excited. He saw no paint thinner, so he sulked for the rest of the evening. I ate his bedsheets when he wasn’t looking.

There I was, standing with a hot dog in his hand, the sweat dripping off my brow and into the mustard that topped the meat. “I don’t have any more money – I just spent it on this hot dog,” I told the man with the gun.

“Bullshit! I know you have to have more.”

“If I had more money, why would I get a hot dog?” The gunman couldn’t argue with that. He decided to shrug and walk away. Meanwhile, the hot dog had gotten bored of the shenanigans and snuck off to a local pizza place to make fun of the foreigners. He had nothing to do for awhile. So he ate a pickle and called it a day. Then all of a sudden he got really sleepy and fell asleep inside of the coffee grinder. He couldn’t really do much, because the beans were added and then ground. The customers complained that the coffee tasted funny. The owner had no idea what had happened, but the customers ended up beating the shit out of him. “Teach you to fuck with my beverages!” one man said. He only had one drink. A fucking cunt of a woman came up and tried to steal it from him. As he pulled it from her grasp, the top popped off and it spilled all over her. She screamed as the hot contents spilled all over her hands and malformed breasts.

Meanwhile, I lamented the loss of my hot dog. A tear welled up in my left eye and mixed with the sweat on my face.  I shoved the bun in my mouth and chewed it slowly, thoughtfully.  Nothing could change my mind now. I set off to my house to look at my paintings.

When I arrived at the door of my house, I froze.  Out of the corner of my eye I could see the neighbor’s asshole dog watching fearfully from behind the fence.  I made a sharp motion in its direction, and it flinched and fell backwards.  I pointed and laughed, the dog blushed and moped away in defeat.  I walked in, greet Charles with a “Cheerio” and went into the basement.  I pulled the string next to the sole bare light bulb and illuminated my paintings in a haunting, truthful light.  The faces stared back.  I spit on all of them except for Mr. Wilkins.  Oh Mr. Wilkins.  He never gets spit on.  He doesn’t deserve it.  No sir.  I peed on him instead.  His grin turned to sadness as he realized that he wasn’t getting watered – he was getting peed on.  Why a painting would be happy about getting watered to begin with, I’ll never know.  Sir Francis Mikula watched in chagrin through his one good eye, and Dorothy Matthias sipped her tea as the spit soaked through her garments.  She did not even seem to notice that I had hocked the mightiest of loogies on her.  It was quite a doozy.  The other assholes looked upset, but said and did nothing, for fear of being slashed.  They’re lucky I don’t toss some paint thinner on their asses and call it a night.  But I guess I’m not really that sadistic.

In the end, I felt better.  Not because the paintings made me feel that way, but because Charles made hot dogs for dinner and I managed to steal one of them and make Charles puke the other one up by jamming a wooden spoon down his throat.

I walk into work yesterday morning and in the middle of the office is a board. Just a big piece of plywood. Nothing on it, just plain plywood. Interesting. I look around, and seeing no one there (I usually arrive at work an hour early so I can make the office coffee and pee in it, and so I can pull various other schemes that vary with the time of year), I pull a permanent black marker from my desk and run over to it. I then give that board the best handlebar mustache it has ever received. “Thank you,” it seemed to say. No wait, it actually did say that. Or so I thought at the time.

Later on, when everyone walked in all at once, I was sitting at my desk, typing a business proposal by making my right arm limp, extending my right index finger, and lifting the dead arm up with my left, dropping it on the key I wanted to press. Naturally, this method did not yield a very solid proposal, though I did accidentally type the word “buns” a few times, so not all was lost. Anyway, everyone walks in simultaneously, and I hear a collective gasp. I think someone fainted, because I felt something go THUD on the floor. Either that or it was some fat dude walking. I turned to them to see what was so shocking. They were all staring at the board – the women in horror, the men in jealousy. I donned my paper-plate mask with the eyeholes cut out and started a new business proposal. I hit the caps lock key by accident, so I ended up screaming throughout the business proposal.

Finally, the CEO came in about 15 or 20 minutes later. He demanded to know who drew the mustache. His face was as red as an angry tomato. Everyone looked around, myself included. I also shrugged. The CEO produced cleaner and paper towels from his coat. “I want that gone by tomorrow morning – I don’t care who did it, but I want it gone.” He put the products down on the table in front of the board. Obviously, I wasn’t cleaning that shit. I had better things to do, like write business proposals. So I went on my coffee break. The coffee I brewed was terrific.

Later that day, around 4, I decided it was time to get the hell out. So submitted my business proposals and left. I figured, 8 hours is 8 hours. I went home, and on the way I ran over a squirrel. Skidded to a halt, picked it up, made hot dogs out of it later that night for dinner. Charles and I both thought they were delicious. Phenomenal!

So I go into work this morning, and the mustache is still there. “Obviously,” I say aloud. I do the usual stuff. Five minutes before everyone is scheduled to walk in, my mind wanders. I think about what is going to happen when the CEO walks in and sees that mustache still there. I can see him trying to pull it off the board and stick it on his face, and when that fails, I can see him turning that shade of red again, that red that’s normally reserved for firetrucks and period blood. My morning smile sags. Then I think about his turning to me when he hears me laughing at a funny video of a pizza online. The rage fills his body, and suddenly I am reminded of the situation with the postman. I yelp in fright, realizing I have to get rid of that damn mustache before I get sent back to the hospital. I scramble from my chair and spray some cleaner on it. No dice. It won’t come off! In a panic I throw open my desk drawers in an effort to find something to clean off the ’stache. White-Out! PERFECT! I paint over the beautiful upper-lip ornament, but that just succeeds in making it white. Great.

I hear a couple doors close outside. It’s almost too late, everyone is outside!!! I grab the first thing I can find from my drawer – a pack of playing cards. “This’ll have to do,” I say to myself. I grab my stapler and rip open the box, spilling red-backed cards everywhere. I start getting very nervous. I am sweating. I grab cards at random and staple them over the mustache. The whole thing looks like shit. Cards are turned this way and that, front and back, no regard to order. I staple up the last card just as the door is opening. I collapse, panting and sweating.

Everyone walked in and went to their work, seemingly unaware that on the day prior, someone had desecrated the board. The CEO followed closely behind to see if the job had been done. He examined the board for a minute, first from a distance, then up close, then said, “Well done. Whoever cleaned this board gets my pocket change.” He rifled through his right pocket and extracted his hand, full of coins. He dropped them in front of him, and they bounced and rolled all over the place, including all over me. The feeling of the coins on my back was like an invigorating rain, and I soon regained my vigor and slithered to the market where I hid in a wicker basket until some stupid customer reached in, when I bit the hand, sending poison surging through his body.