Stories of Intrigue

Into oblivious.

By Daniel | January 8, 2008

How The West Was Lost

The sky cracked open like nuts and down fell the biggest and the wettest nut-stuff this world hast seen: Rain. Rain reigning over this world… Zoid reigning over this City. People, née, Zoid-Heads, roamed this city like leperously cancerous saskwatches, eyes blaizing out a yellow colour so red that they look like a thumb-nail painting of Hell’s Kitchen. Hunger brewed, mouthes gaped and watered like Frenche toílettes, blood-vanes pumped and pumped: ready for that hit… that oneway ticket to the Zoid Zone.

The ticket-master sat in a chair of the finest leathers and red twine. Laughing like a jakyll-hyena half-breed of the ages. Rivers of shivers flow thru all whom hear his name. His name a noose to cook a goose and any other beauty-bird. His name: Angelo.

Its’ going to take an epic Man to topple this toldem-pole of discusting naredowelling. Epic like a mothers’ love. Epic like Gods’ Green earth. Epic like Dragonhart, as voiced by Shawn Connery.

—

Epic like SNICKT.

Wolferine stood atop his motourcycle with binoculers to his eye. The situation was d’yer. He had to make it strait.

“This is a Turd City situation” said he to the night airs.

Wolferine untyed his beards and felt fury like eagles fly thru his being. He came down from whenst perch he came and mounted his motourbike. Pedal to the medal.

—

But the Zoid-Heads clogged the streets like a Yokozuna-artery. No room to breath; no room for elbow grease; no room for a man to sit and enjoy eating apple. Wolferine put down his head and attempted to wheelie thru these living zombies but the Zoidians were to numourous, to plentiful. Each one grabing and clawing like a monster with grabing claws. SNICKT!! Out come the claws and off go the heads.

He puts his right claw in; he puts his right claw out; he puts his right claw in and kills them all about. One Zoid-Head remain’d on the street. He lumbered tall and bulked like so many Frankestine’s passed. He looked at Wolferine and said “Yur deghd an I vill be breengy deth uponst yu.” His accent was one of smashed potatos.

Wolferine lept and crash’d down upunst the Zoidian. He pumbled him. Into oblivious.

Wolferine said “forget it Bud, your done for” said Wolferine

—

Angelo sat in his leather’d chair and overlooked to the dismembered street b’low. His brows furrowed further and farther down his Mutumbo-like face. He stood quick and rapidly and ascended to his armory closet. Guns; safety off. Bullettes ready and willing to tear flesh like Slash tears thru “Sweet Children of Mind”. A gun in his green-snake leather boots; a gun in his fated ‘Guitar Done’ t-shirt; a silverbulleted gun for each of his bone-infested fists. “The only thing better then a gun is a better gun” said Angelo to hisself as he stood unafraid, awaiting for his Future.

—

Wolferine burst thru the door of Angelo and Angelo ansered thusly with a raining of bullets so unmagnanimous that the nightbirds stopped there hooping and hollaring in a showing of beautful respects. Wolferine was shot once many time. To many times. Three many times. For many times. He was was riddled and knew not the anser.

Angelo laughed his jackyll-hyena laugh and called upon his butler. His night of dag-nasty violence and blood smattering needed a soundtract. He commanded his boombox be turned on with the BassBoost turned to the furthest right.

“Make it jam; make it groove like Roseanne’s Theme” declared Angelo. The butler responded in kind as Semisonic’s hit single “Closing Time” came snaking its’ way thru the speaker holes like a genie to grant three death-wishes.

But as the guitars distortioned and the drums hit the back-beat with a whallop Wolferine was uponst his feet and disheading the butler! The butlers’ body was in shock and stayed standing on it’s feet untill Wolferine Johnny-Caged it into fatality.

Wolferine stood, butler-head in hand. “I killed him; he got away” Wolferine philosophised. “No near-mortal hasth the brain powers to comprehand these terrifying horrers I am to unleash on thou.”

Angelo walked calm and collective to Wolferine. “You fancy you’reself a man of honor and peace. You’re vanity and self-esteem stinks of the ancient fart. I kill, you kill; wheres’ the diffrence? I demon, you demon, all of us: demon.”

“Your breath scents of cow demure” scoweled Wolferine as he chest-punched Angelo in the stomache. He planted a boot to Angelos’ face but Angelo layed calm still.

“We’re talking about you’re soul here, Wolferine” intoned Angelo.

“I don’t give a dang about that thang” barked Wolferine!!! as he SNICKT his claws thru Angelos’ two eyes. “The Dead Store called. Your dead. No refunds. Cash only. No shirt, no shoes: your dead.”

Wolferine had mission accomplished his goal but yet Angelos’ words haunted in his mind. What is man? Why do he do the things he do? Is there “good” and “evil”? Wolferine had no ansers imperticular. He looked back at Angelos’ deadened body as he exited: Angelos’ LA Gear jumpsuit shimmered like dimons under the Northern Lights. Transcendent. “Beauty in ugly situations” wandered Wolferine to himself.

He had won but what was lost? He had not the ansers.

He walked home with his butt between his legs.

Topics: By: Daniel, Wolferine | No Comments »

Jonothon Voit, a Walking Cocktail. A Walktail.

By jon | November 26, 2007

Jonothon Voit expounded into the bar. It was a ramshackle place, known for its Rampant. 2 rouchnecks were shooting pool. One ball. Two ball. Three balls, four. Setting the table for Madness. The poolballs danced aboudst the table like jay-walking Africans. Jonothon could have hastled those guys like the King of Bel Air; but the time was not right. He only wanted to whet his wistle. If I may, Jonothon Voit was a “drunkaholic”, if I may say so myself. He cracked the Webster knot on his tie and proclaimed the bartend. “Bartender, will you dig my grave. Make it shallow, so that I may feel the rain.” The bartender: a man who was 50 years old. The glass: A tall-boy. The drink: Vodca on the Rokks. Gay guys: Home with the flue. Bartender knew his good tastes. Jonothon said, “Start a tab.” The Bartender knew what that means. He pulled the tab; out came the sweetest cocktail. He stuck in a celery, and Bosh: there was Jonothon Voit’s drink of choosing: Beyonce in a Blue Dress. “On the house, just like you like it. $10.00.”

Jonothon Voit reached into his suit, giv’n to him by the Italian Job, and pulled forth a $10. “Keep the tab. I’ve a date with Lady Pool,” he strolled. He said up to the pool table. “Heyyo, ladies and germs. What’s youare game?????” The one rouchneck snotted his nose at him. “1-ball. Finders keepers, on the house, Jokers Wild.”

High steaks, thought Jonothon. Suddenly, he remembered. 10 years ago the first rouchneck got a large knife and played Tiddlywinks with his moms face and guts. At the same time this was happening 10 years ago, the other rouchneck smoked a bong and was glad. “Keep forgetting this stuff. Gotta get an Opod one of these days.”, he mummered as he grabbed the guy by a head as a man would thusly grasp a Final Four basketball he got at the Pizza Hot. Dribble, Drabble, Head in a metal wall. The other guy (the guy’s friend) ran away, escaping the badlam like moth to a flame. Jonothon Voit chased after him, but; before he did: He paid his tap. “The oldest tip in the book, from the days of your: Yore drink tasted bogus. There’s a school to attend, and I highly recommend, you call 1-800-BARTEND.”

With a sound and a fury, Jonothon Voit was gone, like a plastic fork beneathst the Chalupas.

Topics: By: Jon | 1 Comment »