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Compos Mentis









com•pos men•tis [kòmpəss méntiss] adj
having full control of ones mind; sane

































































A Bullshit setting….


Imagine there is no country. Oh, wait a second. My apologies. I can’t use that. That has been said before. So imagine there is no longer much of a country left. Nuclear warfare has taken us out. It left us, America, with maybe a quarter of our original existence. With diminutive luck, due to the massive altitude and magnitude of the explosions and the rainstorms that followed, America was showered in intensely localized concentrations allowing for a 25% survival rate. Corpses of ash and brittle bone are strewn about the country and no one bothered to clean it up. The rest of the warfare was internal and evident by scattered cadavers of fleshy parts of bone, tissue and ligament. Skulls were halved by boulder sized mauls wielded by dejected nerds that no longer had their pass times of casting internet role playing spells on disappointed 3rd graders. Torsos were shattered by the pitiless fascists who resented themselves for acting defenseless in the only opportunity to make their point that they will ever see. Maxillas were separated from mandibles by the bare hands of steroid freaks that could no longer please crowds with body sculpting. As you might guess, society has collapsed and anarchy surfaced. Well, maybe not quite entirely, let us just say we’ve lowered our standards.
You see it was no longer required that we urinate in a specific area, or refrain from speaking random vulgarities or committing disruptive, violent or reckless acts. The people could get naked wherever they liked or do whatever they wanted with the charred, lifeless bodies scattered everywhere. One could punch anyone they wanted, or remove any item from anyone’s possession as they pleased. The best part of it was, money didn’t mean a god damned thing. It lost all of its value and importance and no one gave a shit about it. People seemed to like smearing their fecal matter on Benjamin Franklin in particular. Imagine everything you know that should be handled with care, or regarded as priority, or worried about at all, one day just disappeared.
A third-world country has committed a cruel genocide, destroying our fixtures and devouring the souls of our survivors. But you see, they still lost the war. America still stood, not as it once was, but it was still there. Still in tact with the very same shallow morals and petty priorities that our adversaries detested. America had its own idea of the travesty that ensued. Their major concern was with the things they were stripped of once money lost its value, not with the deaths of its people or its patriotism. Without law, without order, without a reason to rebuild what was once a beautiful country, humans were stripped of their routines. You see, this was the real travesty, this was now the public concern, this was now the talk of the town or what would have been the major topic of the media had it not become defunct.
The people could no longer log into their MySpace accounts! They could no longer download any Itunes! Oh god! The shopping malls were closed! Forcing the Americans to face up to their closets for a selection as to how one may cover up his or her genitalia, the people were culturally devestated! Coffee shops remained open, but the population couldn’t remember why they ever frequented them! The virtual social scene had died, and with it, the social scene. And with the social scene’s absence, procreation suffered. The spastic dances and devious dialogue once used to unite two mates became an obsolete practice. The nuclear fallout depraved the man and woman of sterility and libido. With the humility of procreation aside, the other favorite American pass time, television, was still in tact. However, most of the creative minds were destroyed and each channel, even the news, was merely an eternity of episodic repetition, forcing us to find other ways to entertain each other and ourselves.


The Bullshit characters….


Before he devised his escape plan, Swagman recollected the outrageous events that led him to the wrong side of the steel bars. Wincing at himself in the mirror, stroking his goatee and running his fingers through his greasy black mane, he remembered the crowd’s berating of him when he refused participation in the event where the deviants were coring out each other’s assholes with meat cleavers. Swagman’s hands wandered down to his privates where he held them protectively as though in the presence of a man in coke bottle glasses, or in the presence of a mini-van owner, or in the presence of a priest. He closed his eyes and then recalled the way the people looked at him when he wouldn’t fling the severed cock at the dislodged vagina of a 78 year old bible saleslady that was stapled on wall of a high school gymnasium.

Swagman gathered himself and observed the slovenly guard leaned against the tiled walls of the said psychiatric facility. He compiled in his head a list of possible distractions. A distraction that could lure the guard within a reachable distance through the steel bars with his back turned. Swagman thought of dropping his trousers and sucking in some air with his fudge pot to release an inaudible crepitation that would launch the guard into a spastic fit somehow pinning his back to the cage allowing for access to his neck and thereafter his keys. Immediately after, he thought of the beating he would receive that would resemble the consequences of fondling himself while the guard was eating. The ward had a zero-tolerance policy for meat flashing and farting. Swagman was forced to think deeper. While contemplating his next move he squatted in front of the rusting tin bucket full of murky piss water that they were kind enough to leave in there. Inside it was a muddy blue rag and he balled it up into his hands and squeezed the water from it. Then he tightly gripped the sloppy mess into his fist and lurched carefully toward the cell as closely and quietly as possible. The guard was faced away, apparently preoccupied with a woman in another cell picking at her scabbed Koolaid cup.
“Stop raiding the cockpit! Stop stuffing the jam pot! Stop coring your cony!” he continued on and on. Swagman checked the signals, wound up with a concentrated stretch of the arm and lugged the filthy rag hitting the guard square in the jaw. The sound was like that of puke slapping concrete and queued Swagman’s cellmates into riotous outbursts. But it wasn’t enough to lure the guard’s irate attention away from Swagman who was poised and ready to make his next move.
When the angry guard approached the cell, he began fumbling through his keys. The last time he did this he beat Swagman senseless for a remark made on his effeminate facial hair. After that particular beating, Swagman vowed never to compare a man’s stache to an unshaven pubic region ever again. While the guard was fumbling through his keys, Swagman began to simulate the symptoms of a great fear deeper than a beating could incite. Mind you, Swagman’s appearance is that of an Italian gang sweeper, not a qualing crybaby who was never picked for the kickball team. His dark greasy hair he kept slicked back and had enormous chops that made him resemble an angry work of medieval art. His biceps and triceps were the kind you’d see in a muscle fitness magazine but were always hidden by his sport coats. Seeing him wide eyed and shivering at the shoulders, the guard was alerted enough to peer slowly behind him just enough to become a fatal mistake. Swagman reached through the poles and began to strangle him with a tight grip around the thick neck of the guard who began a series of hacks that would retire his duty. It took maybe sixty seconds before the guard was unconscious, or dead, and for Swagman to guide his head down using the cell bar. With the guard lowered to his knees, the keys were now within Swagman’s reach. He was now a free man.

Swagman strutted along the corridor of cells with a rather irritating new confidence. The cellmates, all of which were much more sane than those of the free, taunted him as he walked by. He eventually reached a the cell of a completely naked man who was crouched down open legged, pawing at his privates.
“Hey. Grape Nuts. Mind covering yourself up there?”
“Fuuuccckkk yoooouuuu” the man said. Swagman just chuckled and resumed his tour. He came across another miserable individual who kept sniffing his own armpits and picking at the creeping cruds on his scrotum through his trousers. Swagman observed in disgust for a mere moment and resumed once more. In the next cell he found a docile man seated quietly in the back of the cell.
“State your name, ugly.”
The young man stood up shaking his head and approached Swagman. He was a particularly ghastly looking individual. His enormous head and face clad with bumps coupled with his bug eyes made him look like a bulging grocery bag with two eggs adhered to it. He had an unnaturally large rotted yellow tooth that jotted from his mouth that looked like a caricature of SpongeBob.
“What’s the matter? Don’t you talk?”
The kid could only murmur a response.
“Come on then, Buttertooth. Today is your lucky day.” said Swagman, sifting through the large ring of keys. Buttertooth gracefully followed behind. Wherever Swagman went from there on, this odd looking chubby boy would be following from behind.
The next character they found had barely survived the turmoil of adolescence and did nothing but look frightened and eat potato chips. He had a duffel bag full of bags of potato chips of which he said he relied upon to calm his nerves. Beneath one of those yellow and red kid caps with the helicopter thingie atop of it, he wore clothes suitable for the church. He seemed a dissembling little individual with his ageless face of a space alien.
“What is your name, little fellah?”
“Conrad.”
“Excuse me?”
“Conrad Jones.”
“Conrad Jones? Your folks must have hated you.”
The young man stared at Swagman blankly just as Buttertooth did.
“It sounds like a Tribal name of some sort. Like ‘Pees in Soda’ or something.”
“Actually, its Old German.”
“No, its Tribal.” Swagman said elbowing Buttertooth who stood dumbly beside him. “Its nice when someone can think for himself.”
Conrad reached for a fresh bag of potato chips and studied Swagman who was studying him right back.
“I think I’ll call you Late For Dinner. You like that name?”
“No.”
“Great.”

Swagman released Late For Dinner and he led them both out of the facility for reasons I will later explain. Swagman was exhausted and more fervently so; hungry. He was too damn hungry himself to give a damn whether or not the two stumble bums behind him were. Vehicles took a rather utilitarian role after the war and the days of gaudy cars with glitzy features were now just a baneful reference of the past. They were no longer parked in order -- you could find them practically anywhere, most with the keys dangling from the ignition. The tricky part was finding one with gasoline. By the time the war ended, there were approximately 2.3 million more cars than there were people so for awhile it wasn’t at all difficult to find one in working order. Swagman lured them into a Honda Accord and drove them to his old house.
The house was rosy and quaint, not something you would normally find an Itallian mobster living in. The three of them walked in and Swagman instructed the other two to remain where he could see them in the living room. He then retreated to the kitchen and opened the refridgerator that responded with a warm gust of putrid air from all the spoils within. Swagman swiftly closed the door and let out a long sigh through flapping lips like a butcher knife to a basketball.
“Wonderful. Who gets electric around here anyways?”
He then proceeded to the liquor cabinet, to the items that actually improve with age. As he removed a bottle of Ardeg from the cabinet, he noticed Buttertooth behind him, peering at him with curiosity.
“I’m going to my bed. You boys behave yourself.”

Swagman stripped down to his skivvies and laid in bed drinking from the bottle and smoking the butt of a cigar that he’d left behind before everything happened. Meanwhile, downstairs, Buttertooth and Late For Dinner were sniffing around like bored house pets and eventually wound up raiding the liquor cabinet as one held the chair for the other that stood upon it. Buttertooth came crashing down catching two bottles with his belly, giggling, then the two of them retreated back to the living room. For a couple hours they passed the bottle back and forth. At that point Buttertooth introduced his clasping, nasally voice.
“Wow. So you do talk.”
“I do talk.”
“Where are you from?”
“Where are you from?”
“I asked you first.”
“I asked you first.”
“Stop repeating me!” demanded Late For Dinner
“Only after you stop saying what I was gonna say!” replied Buttertooth.
“What?”
“There you go.”
“Yes sir.”
“You can say that again.”
Late For Dinner gawped blankly across the table.
“But I didn’t say anything.”
“Well don’t say it again if you want to.”
“Say what again?”
“That we are liberals.”
“Of course.”
“Of course.”

Meanwhile Swagman was laying in bed watching 5 o clock news reruns on and off while studying the cracks in his ceiling that he knew like the back of his dick. He’d guzzled his whiskey an hour ago but continued to reach for it, like a reformed smoker who reached for a pack of cigarettes that wasn’t there. When he grew tired of the ceiling and the bottle, he fixated on the television which included a news report about a group of teenage boys in 2038 caught on camera setting a church on fire.
“I don’t believe this.” Swagman mumbled to himself. “Disgusting.” He stirred uncomfortably for a moment beneath his sheets.
“Cameras in a church….that is… !hiccup!….despicable. What in the hell is the world coming to?”
The next report was of a blind man causing an uproar because a local library wouldn’t let his seeing eye dog inside. Swagman squinted with bewilderment and disapproval and quickly disregarded the report. The commercial break was one of all new commercials, mostly musical. There was one of a bunch of little Chinese men gripping their private parts and hobbling around chanting rhyming sing song about Oreos and Chips Ahoy cookies---followed by a man with air fresheners in his hands as he shook his hips and paraded around with his mouth parted crookedly like swollen vagina lips. Then another one about Klondike bars where a Mr.Rogers-esque man with a microphone walked around in the 60 second segment asking different little high pitched furry creatures what they would do for a Klondike bar. Before any of the muppets could answer each time an enormous obese lady with glasses and a boy cut would interrupt by destroying part of the set with her enormous appendages and speaking over them.
The first time she kicked through the background of a blue sky with clouds and came up close to the screen with her fist balled tightly next to her face and explained that she would:
“Castrate six men with a ratchet pruner!”
The second time Mr. Rogers asked, she ripped the playground backdrop apart with her bare hands and approached the screen up close with her fist and snarled nose once again:
“I’d stick a baby in a microwave!”
The third time around she came crawling out from under the set and swatted all the little muppets away and returned up close once more.
“I’d smother my own grandmother in her sleep!”
“I’d stick my face in a blender!”
“I’d give a hum job to a beehive!”
“I’d invite a Jehovah’s Witness into my house!”


Swagman had enough and reached for the flipper to power it off. From down below he heard thuds and laughter and sighed to himself.
“Fuck..now what?”
When he made it downstairs, he found Late For Dinner on his feet, bent over with the propeller of his cap before the keester of Buttertooth who displayed a strenuous expression on his face. By the smell of the room, Buttertooth had been stabbing the air with his trouser chuffs evidently for hours. Swagman’s pity, tarnished with disgust, incited him to start throwing priceless articles from his wicker cabinet in a maddening desperation to end the gastronomical shenanigans. He threw glass plates, wash rags, butter knives, brandy snifters, and porcelain cruets.
“Hey, second hand smoking is bad for you.” he said to them who were now wounded with cuts and bruises.
“Close the fucking lunchbox and listen up boys. We’re moving out.”


Buttertooth wisened up and fell back into sobering silence. Meanwhile Late For Dinner was grilling Swagman from the back seat as to what his plans for them were.
“Now you just sit tight there and…..AH! FUCK!” Swagman thrashed the break petal with a violent heel and swirved out of the way of a neckless troll the shape of a barrel who stared him down from the middle of the road. The vehicle spun out and nailed a pole along the side of the street, but luckily remained operable. Swagman launched himself from the car furiously and struck the fear of God into his docile, unharmed company, and charged toward the man in the road who remained as still as the car now was.
“YOU FUCKING COCKSUCKING SHEEP SHAGGIN PIECE OF FUCKIN SHIT! YOU COULD HAVE HAD ME KILLED! I AM GOING TO CUT YOUR BALLS OFF YOU DICKY LICKIN LACKANOOKIE!” The two in the car exchange looks and Swagman threw his arms down in a fit of frustration. “FOCK!!!!!”
The sight of a pissed off Swagman was intimidating enough for the man to invite his buddy over who emerged from behind a tree. He was a huge steroid taking mutant with arms bigger than that of Swagman’s and had a very thick, disturbing vein that popped out of the left side of his neck. He had a slight tick that was evident every few seconds or so, that he would gasp in a short breath of air and blink. Next to him stood a grotbag butch hag with a painter’s cap and an exaggeratedly serious look on her face.
“Ok boys.” Swagman said with his fists on his waist. “You have 5 seconds to explain yourselves before I bump one of you off and smear the scours on the bitch to lube her for a face fuck!”
“Give us the boy.” said the steroid freak guy. The neckless troll was closing in on the vehicle examining Late For Dinner who was curled into a ball in the backseat. Buttertooth and Late For Dinner remained frozen in their seats, wide-eyed, faced forward, slightly quiverring.
“He appears unharmed, Boss.”
“Your five seconds are up.” said Swag reaching for the switchblade he kept in his suit jacket.
“Give us the boy and we’ll let you live.”
“Excuse me?” asked Swagman. The man’s eyes began to bug out as he swaggered about like a crack headed bouncy ball. Then he began choking on a sentence, most likely a threat…
“I will take you down….rrrmmm…like…tai whore….go..down…..”
“I don’t recall ever giving anyone the option to have my life.”
Suddenly the man began to shake madly and groan as though he was soon to pass and the scag beside him withdrew a syringe from her pocket book and plunged it directly into his surging, distended neck vein.
“….RRRRR…YYYYYYEEEESSSSSSSS!” he yowled. Swagman observed him puzzled until he heard the sound of the engine restarting. Buttertooth waved him over and Swagman ran for it. He leaped into the car, shifted in reverse, running over the troll man, hit it again forward, and backward, and forward.
CLINK!
CLANK!
CLUNK!
Swagman maliciously mangled the corpse to the sound of a wooden crate of jelly fish in a meat grinder until it began to swish like his grandmother gargling water. Once the satisfactory of this sound reached Swagman’s ears, he shifted once more and gunned her. Late for dinner, who had sat still previously for a mile down the road, suddenly, in a fit of rage, slapped the rear window with his hands and exclaimed:
“Dad!!!”
Swagman kept driving as he turned around to jeer at him who watched his father’s marred up body disappear into the distance.
“Son,” Swagman said with a grin. “Buck up. You’re acting like a fucking child.”
Late For Dinner said nothing, and returned to a normal backseat position, whimpering. He wasn’t but 14 years old. Buttertooth began to whistle Taps.
“Knock it off.” said Swagman.


They ran the vehicle roughly 30 more miles to the east before it ran out of gas. Stepping out of the car to stretch and aquaint themselves with the new surroundings, they found a man seated in the middle of a nearby street reading a news paper.

“Hey! You there!” called out a hungry and exhausted Swagman. “Where can I get some food around here?”
“Well,” the man said still eyeballing his paper as though looking for something new to read, “There are still some rations at the church over there. But most of it has been picked through by the squall pissers that drink on the front steps and aim at each other.”
“Have you ever heard the expression; Made to order?”
“Why yes I have.” the man replied, rising to his feet. He pulled up his tattered trousers and replaced the manhole.
“Half a mile that way,” he said pointing further into the east, “when you pass the university, you will see Melonoma’s Tanning Bed. Take a left at that street and Chucky’s Got Cheese will come up on your right….I believe theres an Eli Cole’s across the street but they are permanently closed. Five minutes if you boys are walking.”
“And its….in tact?” asked Late For Dinner, who was scarfing down another fresh bag. Just where in the hell did he find all these chips anyhow? Where did he get them?
“Oh you can’t miss it. There is a huge statue of a fat guy with a stupid grin and saucer raised above his head. His testicles run down to his knees…damn kids and their putty…”
“Right. One more question.” Swagman announced with a disgusted look. He let Late For Dinner have the floor for this one.
“Excuse me sir but um….”
“Yes, what is it kid?” he asked impatiently.
“Don’t you wipe?”
“Wipe? Wipe what?”
“Yeah. Wipe. I mean wipe…your…self. Don‘t you wipe yourself?”
“Your asshole, nodgecock.” Swagman intervened.
“Wipe…heh” he snarled “Wipe for who?”
“Forget it, nothing, I was just..”
“__For you?!” He became aggressive, leaned forward, florid in the face, fists tightened.
Late For Dinner restarted the jitters and resheathed his bag of chips.
“Forget about it. Get in the car.” Swagman asked of him sternly pointing to another car….one with a giant pig with giant letters spelling WURST painted on it’s ass.

Once they were all in the car and buckled up, the man, still in the street made a crude jesture with his forearms and howled loudly.
“WIPE THIS YOU FUCKING____AHHHHH!!!”
BANG!
THRASH!
CLUNK!
SCREEEEEEECHHHH!!!!!
Swagman laughed wickedly and sped for the informative part of the man’s final words.
“Why do you like running people over so much?” asked Late For Dinner in the back.
“You sure ask a lot of questions kid.”
“I do?”
“Yes. Too damn many. Life is full of questions. Hell I have a lot of questions. Like where do old men find those silly little hats with the ridiculously large bills on them? Why do boogers regenerate a few seconds after you pick them? Why do Chinese people always smell like Chinese food and why do Mexicans smell like their food?”
“Mr. Swagman. You….”
“Careful….”
“Are a very…”
Swagman angrily peered behind him into the gaping holes of Late For Dinner’s gentle, scared, child like eyes. Buttertooth crassly turned around too, to observe him.
“…nice man.”
“Quiet now, both of you” said Swagman pulling over. “Don’t say a thing.” he reaffirmed exiting the car. The two followed him to a woman who was walking down the street.
“Hey! EEEEEYYYYY! LUCI!”
The woman turned and squinted Swagman into recognition. No dice.
“Who are you?” she asked as he approached.
“Who am I?! Heh..heh..that’s funny.”
“Look asshole, don’t come up to me pretending to know___”
“What the hell happened to you? What are those ugly fucklings behind you?” he said eyeballing her offspring that stood behind her in staircase succession.
“These are my three children.”
“Ew..Err..sorry…..well, that explains what happened.”
“Happened to what?”
“Your Manchesters. They are even smaller.”
Luci turned to leave. Meanwhile Buttertooth was running around peering into manholes and Late For Dinner was following close behind, warily replacing the lids with an eye out for local authorities. Eventually he comes to Swagman’s side and observes Luci with a cautious eye.

“God. They are like fucking manicottis.”
“Is there a reason you are staring at my breasts?”
“Lung warts….”
“Cut it out!!”
“So what are you doing here at the university?”
“What do you think, asshole. I’m attending classes here.”
“With your children?”
“A lot has changed around here, but the difficulty in finding a baby sitter has not.”
Swagman chuckled and sluffed off Late For Dinners timorous elbowing.
“B…baby..baby…sitter?! W…what the hell is that?”
“Someone that sits on your baby til you get back, little man. Luci, listen, I didn’t come here to heckle you. I’m actually just up here to grab a bite at Chucky’s Cheese.” This summoned a long incredulous expression across Luci’s face.
“Yeah, good luck with that.”
“So what are you taking? What does a university have to offer anyways in these dark times?”
“You’d be surprised.” she said.
“I’ll bet. How about No cell phones in movie theatres For Blacks? Antisemitism For Jews? Hatred for Beginners? Huh? Advanced Fascism? Take that one? Elegant Communism? Eh?”
Luci begins tearing up and swinging her handbag around aimlessly, nearly knocking two of her little ones over.
“STOP IT!!! STOP MAKING FUN OF ME! YOU ALWAYS MOCK ME.”
“By Godfrey! What is this person! “ exclaimed Late For Dinner
Swagman stood proudly and smugly. “There really is no graceful way to explain a woman, little man. Unless you’re asking me, ahahaha!”
“A woah..man?”
“Yes a woman. The avenue to the lateral lambada. Think of a magazine. When you pick one up, how much time do you spend interested before you put it down?”
“Well,” Late For Dinner said blinking and gathering his thoughts from the ground. “Around fifteen minutes I gather….”
“Women always call themselves open books. But normally, they act abnormally because they are actually, periodicals.”
“Periodicals, got it.”
Luci made some kind of curtsy, slugged one of her kids with the open palm to the back of his head, and back handed another to the mouth. Because they were laughing. The four of them made off.

“EY! BUTTERBALL! READY TO ROLL?!!”
Buttertooth came running and the three of them got into the car once more and headed straight for Chucky’s Cheese down the street. The place was in complete ruin. Colorful, empty bags full of spoiled sundries were littered everywhere, construction partitions were scattered all over, most of them half broken. The pavement was covered in broken glass and no longer suitable for a vehicle’s tires. They parked far off and walked up to the electronic podium that insisted it was open for business with its flashing lights and electronically spoken catch phrases, solicitations and advertisements.

The Almighty was gay and afraid!
This is why a bucket of greasy chicken can change your blood pressure and God cannot!
Want to get washed like a car?
Go to your local concentration camp!
Do your tits look and feel like McDonald’s hamburger buns?
No catsup on our couches you pubescent fucks!
Are you tired of your marriage, but still yearn for that special something to last forever?
Try a sample of our new product. French’s Deli Mustard. One stain, no more pain!
Did you get Prego and forget the spaghetti?
Squeeze a strange man out of your ass and call a phony for help with our team of Abortion Abolitionists.

say whaaaa….?

Has the financial burden of obesity got you down? Can’t see your cock?
Try hitting a person named Jim, and shooting a heroine.
Have you caught your parents having sex?
Frequent our 24 hour Lens Crafters location, stationed in Utah.
No tits? No ass? No problem!
Call 1800FACELIFT to get your sample jelly and free playgirl now!

….ummm…

You have a problem with immature advertisement, bitch?

ok…hold it…

Meet me at recess by the slide!
Tired of being the result of promiscuity?
Contact me and your mother. By appointment only.
Bi-racials need not apply.

Swagman, rolled his shoulders backwards and a uncharacteristic childlike smile tainted his face.
“Oh boy,” he said lamely. “I love these things. These touch screen little things. Guys, what do you want to eat?” he asked while pushing various buttons. The machine seized its random gibberish and got right down to business, lighting up the selections and blinking in various spots.

“Welcome to Chucky’s Cheese! Would you like to try an order of our new stewed prunes and rice pilaf?”
“Gross,” said Swagman. “They have the niggers in a snowstorm. You like those, Buttertooth? Lets see what else they have.”
Swagman started pushing buttons and the machine ignored everyone of them as though it were alive and being gently probed by a curious baby.
“Alright, alright, I know what I want….I want…”
“Would you like to try an order of angels on horseback?”
“No, I would like….”
“Would you like to try an order of roll mops on tapa?”
“No. Would you please let me finish?”
“Please go ahead with your order.”
“I would like___”
“Would you like to try our new non-alcoholic dopplebock?”
“NO! I DON’T WANT ANY….DOPPLE…WHATEVER IT IS. I JUST WANT THE FUCKING KICKSHAW ON BATARD!”
The machine paused, whistled wheezingly like a busy computer operating to it’s max.
“God…finally….and I would like…”
“Would you like to try an egg wash croissant?”
“Fuh…fuh…” Swagman thrashed the machine with an open palm. “You fucking thing! Fock!”
BANG!
THRASH!
BOOM!
“JUST GIVE ME SOME FUCKING FOOD!”
“Sir.” the machine said in its extraterrestrial intonation.
“Aw, don’t you sir me now! don‘t you sir me!” Swagman warned with a balled up fist wound behind him and a murderous face.
“Sir.”
“Don’t!”
“Sir.”
“Stop it!”
“Sir. Sir. Sir” it repeated as though it were forestalled by upcoming sentences.
Swagman began hobbling around infuriately kicking and pounding things. Buttertooth began to mimick his behavior and Late For Dinner approached the machine to try and reason with it.
He pushed a button.
“Would you like to try a focaccia?”
“See? See?” Swagman said charging back up to it. That probably isn’t even an item on the menu. Its probably not even food!”
“Well, actually,” Late For Dinner corrected him, “it’s a round, flat Italian bread flavored with olive oil, salt and various herbs.”
“Don’t get all encyclopedic on me now, stop acting like Britanica’s bitch and get some food out of this cock sucking thing!”
“Fuck you!” the machine belted out suddenly, in a new high pitched voice of automated disgust.
“Excuse me?”
“Fuck you! Fuckin jerk!” the machine cried.

Buttertooth called out from the back, unwarranted, outside of character, in a large black man’s voice.
“AW HAIL NAW! THIS PLACE IS GOIN UP! FLOCK MY GLOCK, BEEYATCH!”

Perhaps it was some kind of terret’s reaction from a botched upbringing, like that fat ugly kid in the Butterfly Effect. In fact, he looked a lot like him. Nevertheless, Swagman was still in the heated argument with the machine, bludgeoning it with various scraps from the ground. The machine had minimized itself to just four phrases by this time, four insults.
“Fuck you!”
“Fuckin Jerk!”
“Eat Shit!”
“You’re an asshole!”
And it continually cycled through them as Swagman heaved various plastic cups and rocks and partitions at it. Late For Dinner stood away with his eyes closed, hands cupped over his ears, once again quiverring with fear.
“What what what, what is this? Some kind of mutinous prank for all the years of oppression over mistreated fast food workers or some bullshit? Fuck this! And fuck you!” Swagman scorned.
“Fuck you!” the machine said once more.
“No….FUCK….YOU!!!” he said diving out of the way of the 125mph speed of the car piloted by the addlebrained recluse known as Buttertooth. This one worked. The pole of which the podium stood bent backwards and most of the glass and plastic shattered out of the wheezing apparatus, sparks flew out and the voice drew itself to slow motion before finally phasing out completely. Swagman’s bloodshot eyes, gyrating with a deep sinister desire, turned slowly to Late For Dinner.

“Listen Carefully. You are going to calmly set down that bag of chips and take two steps away from it.”
Late For Dinner ignored him.
“Give me…” the suspense could cut glass “…the fucking potato chips.”
“No.”
“Give them to me. Now.”
“No!!”
Swagman took two and a half steps forward before Late For Dinner lunged at him.
“NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!” he cried in horror with his legs wound tightly around Swagman’s shoulders. He began beating the skull in of Swagman who roared in protest and surprise, with his gentle effeminate fists. Before Swagman could use his arms to separate the legs from his shoulders, Late For Dinner, was gnawing on the skull of him through his tossled hair. Swagman lifted him ten feet and began charging at him, angry, rolling up his sleeves. Late For Dinner was flopping around on the ground like a dying fish, snapping his teeth for bites of air like an docile canine tormented by children. Swagman couldn’t hit him, whether it was out of compassion or fear, he didn’t know. Buttertooth dove at Late For Dinner and began to wrestle with one of his spastic legs.
“Down boy.” said Swagman turning for the car. “We’ll find another way.”
Late For Dinner, brushed himself off and headed for the car too as though nothing had happened.


In a world without the influence of the media or the guidance of God, in a world taken over by the crazies, morphodites and drag queens, the three resumed their search for something to eat. Swagman knew what authorities that still existed, would not cease their search for him. Even in a country as corrupt as America now was, surely, a prison break wouldn’t be forgiven or forgotten easily.

“Fucking Christ….” Swagman said peering into the rear view. “The cops!”
“W…well, what are you waiting for? Pull over!” Late For Dinner demanded.
“What? Are you fucking kidding me?”
“They’re the police!! You better pull over right now!”
“Not a chance.” Swagman said increasing the speed to a nauseating 120mph. The cops, with their flashing lights and piercing roars had no trouble catching up. Rather than following the procedure that Swagman grew familiar with when he knew he’d been fucked, the cops swirved over to the right and sped up until they were perpendicular. There were seven of them packed in there with silver badges, black uniforms and matching Mounties with huge brims. Huge green puffs of smoke belted from all four windows, inside you could easily see them tussling around playfully like grade schoolers. Swagman turned back and forth, observing them as much as he could with an eye still on the road. Suddenly, they were presented with a pressed ham smearing its self on the window of the police cruiser. Buttertooth pulled out a camera and took and picture and smiled about like a giddy tourist on a tour bus. Late For Dinner was overcome by the high speeds and kept his eyes closed, closely adhering his back to the seat. Swagman smiled and gave them a thumbs up. The cops in the back smiled and thumbed back before high fiving each other and continuing on. Minutes later, another vehicle came into vicinity from the rear. A sudden pelt struck the tire of the vehicle and the three of them spun out. Before they knew it the three of them were…..



….tied up in zany torturelites when they reached full cognizance. Through fuzzy eyes they could see a man dialing a telephone number slowly from a little book on a table. He also wore a security getup, though with his smooth, characterless face, thick glasses, pot belly and residing chin, he looked out of place and more like the night guard of a pork and bean factory. Nevertheless, he was a guard, making a phone call that he appeared nervous about,
“Ehh….sorry to wake you. I know its late. Yes, I know, I’m sorry. Ehhh…can I please have a word with ehhh….Joey. Yes, I know, its nearly midnight and I’m sorry. I just needed to talk to him really quickly. Could you please…ehhhh….get him for me? Of course. I know its his bedtime. Yes. Ehhhhh….I’m sorry. Yes. Yes. I know…..Well, I was calling for…ehhhh…I just called……ehhhhh” he peered around the room nervously. “I wanted to talk to him because I wanted….ehhh….some….ehhhhhhhhhhagh….some sex….” his eyes widened as he separated the phone from his face as though it was now something he should be afraid of. That very moment, he became aware of Swagman’s consciousness and peeping and he belined for a corner of the room where he removed a compact contraption from an end table. He aimed it at a large screen in the center of the room and pushed a few buttons and raced out.

The television began to blare out a blasphemous jingle with lyrics and untuned guitar.

“I’LL BE THERE FOORRR YOUUUUU….I’LL BE THERRREE FOOOOAAAR YOOOOOO. YOU’LL BE THERE FOR MEEE TOOOOO.”
“How hospitable…” grumbled Swagman. “Psst! Hey! Swash Bucket! Wake up! Wake up you god damn shit spigot! Psst!”
Late For Dinner awoke to the sound of Swagman trying to wake Buttertooth who was positioned next to him in the contraption.
“Swagman, what is this awful sound?”
“Just ignore it. Or you will suffer.”
“But what is it?”
Buttertooth swiftly rose up in his seat.
“They’re Friends! That there is Joey, Ross, Chandler.”
“And..and who are those woah-mans?”
“God damn it, I said ignore it! Lay back down! Close your eyes, ignore the sound.”
“I CAN’T! I CAN’T PLUG MY EARS!” Late For Dinner began to weep…yet again…

Meanwhile the show commenced. The man named Ross was in the background fondling the genitals of a monkey that sat on its back. Chandler was having a sit down conversation with a ghastly stick figured woman that resembled a scarecrow.
“Honey, I can’t pay your bills, or reach your vulva, so I think we should break up.”
“That sounds like a great idea! Should we tell Feebee?”
“No baby. Not if you still want to get your leather stretched!”
The sound of faux laughter filled the room, loud voices of the obese and dimwitted giving it their very best.
“Heh Heh Heh Heh HEH EHE EH EH HEH HEH HEHEHE”
The already unbearable noise intensified louder and louder until all three of them were scrunched into little balls of tortured humanity. Suddenly the noise stopped, the television flipped off and the contraption they were detained in relocated itself to a hidden lower room. In the room was a long table with several chairs containing four twelve year old boys with crew cuts. They were all carrying on laughing about the old culture, shrunk into their adult sized suits smoking cigars and sipping sparkly juleps.
“Ahh….” one of them rose. “And what have we here?”
“These are the survivors of the entrails of yesteryears.”
“Survivors you call them? These three ‘men‘ are nothing but mere shadows of the annihilation that persecuted the scum suckers of our previous culture.”
“Sir? What do you mean by previous culture?”
“Lesson time. You see these laggardly grunts are our ancestors. As shameful as that sounds, these morsoles of men are what our entire country as we know it used to consist of.”
“Let us go before I break through this fucking thing and blow off your whenny-megs with my Mr. Deringer!”
“Oh my, he is feisty!” said one man.
“Do not be alarmed. They may have survived the quadrangle contraption full of has-been thespians, but they are no match for us.”
“When I get out of this thing, I will teach you what its like to drink through your dicks you miserable bunch of miscreants!”
While Buttertooth and Late For Dinner were beaming holes through Swagman, silently begging him to shut his trap, Swagman struggled his way out of the contraption and rose to his feet. The perverted security guard entered the room abruptly thereafter and aimed his little contraption toward the ceiling where it was imaginably in the direction of that sinister TV.
“Hold it right there. We can do this the hard way. Or the easy way.”
Swagman luridly took a step forward with a threatening sneer. The guard hit the button.
“I’LL BEE THEERRREEE FOOOORR YOOOOOOOOU!” it blared and stifled itsself.
Swagman’s eyes widened, he gasped, and withdrew his step, turned to look down at his seat as though it were never there before, and then cooperatively reseated.

“Once upon a time” the punk kid resumed. “A country took its self down. You see the process was quite stern and swift and self destructive. Government was avaricious, or in lament terms” he stuck his fingers up like antennas “Greedy. The country was run by a bunch of hedonistic autocrats who cared of nothing but their voluptuous call girls, an atrociously boring activity called golf and their nose candy. Their primary interest was in their armed forces so that their created paradise would never face threat. They raised the cost of everything, imparted their wisdom to the entrepenuers, or otherwise forced them to sell their respective companies to foreigners, thus plummeting the employment rate to staggering numbers leaving the working man to be buttfucked and drug hungry. Long story short, they made the rich richer and left everyone else in the country with a mere choice. You can suck cocks for crank until your shot or put in prison, or you can join the military.”
“I’ve had about enough of your intellectual gobbledygook. What does any of this have to do with me? Or these two morons?” Swagman said pointing to Late For Dinner who in return; shooshed him.
“I’m trying to listen to what these gentleman have to say. Do you mind being quiet over there?”
“You little…”
“Silence! The young man is entitled to learn, is he not?”
Swagman sighed in surrender and leaned back into his chair, cross armed.

“The people of this generation actually tried raising their own children!”
The suited children behind the standing kid upstarted a hum of unenthusiastic laughter, another stood up and offered his chair and they exchanged the floor. Late For Dinner, now free from restraint, reached for a bag of chips from his duffel and watched with undivided attention.

“The whole fucking country began to rot like a god damn orange! And it all started from the upbringing. In the early 1900s, if a kid spat in the house or called his mother a cunt or something like that, daddy would beat him within two inches of his life. These abused children grew up to become the diplomatic abolitionists who heroically ended slavery! After that well, the fruits just began to fall off the wagon with every little bump in the road.” the children began to clap and the kid reseated.

Another arose.

“What the children needed were simple little ass beatings. But people were no longer allowed to raise their kids in the effective methods of old! No sirs and mams. This feebleminded country began to preseverate on everything a mother and father had done! No longer able to strike sense into their children with physical force, they had no choice but to breed a bunch of little assholes.”

“Assholes who….eventually enlist in the military…or give hum jobs to truck drivers for smack….” Late For Dinner said with the nods of a new understanding.

The last child arose.

“So with 99% of the country armed with guns and 1% with the power, the country illogically declared war on the rest of the world. And now what you see is what you get. Now the four of us are in power. There is no Big Apple. No memorials. No flags. No due process. No arbitration among founding fathers. No chief of justice. No court. No justice. Its just the four of us now! WEEEEEE!!!”

The four punks arose and began to parade around, lighting sparklers, firing off noisy bullet-less guns, and carrying on like grandchildren before suppertime. This was their chance to escape, so Swagman gathered his two companions and wandered off for the nearest door. Inside the three of them found a studio-like setting with a dark jungle full of young actors and actresses in some kind of B-movie/snuff film. There was a young woman hugging a Hello Kitty backpack and scurrying away from a hatchet wielding midget that sang after her.
“I’LLLL BEEE THEEERREEE FOOOORRR YOOOOOO!”
Meanwhile the director was seated in a small chair mumbling to himself soft “yes”s as the young actress pointlessly removed various helpful items such as pistols, flashlights and walkie talkies and heaving them out of the set to prolong the travesty. A rather enticed Buttertooth stood still avidly watching with balled up fists until Swagman grabbed him by the back of his collar and dragged him into the precarious atmosphere of the hall leading to the next room. There they found paint splattered walls with a banner reading
‘’We’ve run out of things to rap about.”

Beneath it were several African American gentleman with flat tops, gold chains and microphones who were singing and dancing a mixture of the juba and break dance. Two of them simulated the sounds of drums and the other sang a little ditty.
“Shit to do, while you be wiping yo ass. Shit you can do while u wiping yo ass. The shit to be done while wiping yo ass OH HAIL NAW. YOU GOT SHIT ON YO THUMBS MUTHAFUCKAH!”

The three of them merely ignored the spectacle and retreated to yet another room. Another studio. Thesbian doctors were hovered over a patient on a blood soaked gurney with little silver tools. They were concentrated and silent until one of them cried out.
“WAIT! NO! DON’T!!! AWWWW!!!”
The three of them fell back with squinted eyes and wrinkled noses as though they all just lost a large poker hand. Two of them moaned and groaned but with smiles and the third spoil sport was so pissed off at the glowing nose of the patient that he angrily knocked over the gurney where bones clanked onto the floor and he took his stethoscope, broke it over his knee and hurled into a nearby wastebasket.

The next room was the most disturbing of all. It was yet another long table, but this time filled up with seated men in their late 20s, early 30s. Above them on a banister was a huge numerical sign celebrating the decade starting 1990. They were all nattering amongst each other in churlish, mischievous ways while passing along antiquated compact disks wrapped in impossible cellophane wrapping. Over maniacal jollity in the form of machine gun laughter, they took turns trying to open the disks with various devices such as scissors, wire clippers, miracle knives, replica swords, and blow torches. They were wounding themselves in the process, and the manifestation of gushing blood, severed fingers, and contorted limbs pervaded the room.

Finally, the light of day seized them and now free; Swagman simply chose a direction and followed it. Late For Dinner and Buttertooth, as you might have guessed, shambled behind after him. They crept through many alleyways littered with brazen folks, forsaken construction sites, mucky grass fields, and gravel downhill paths leading to various safe houses and community rest areas, all beneath the polluted scuds of smoke that hovered in the air and a merciless sun that scorched them through their clothes. They agreed to sit and rest at once of those rest areas that featured a shiny new paper stand with something Swagman never expected to see, based on the tittle-prattle from the guys at lockup. And son of a bitch, if it weren’t Swagman himself, embodied on the front page in his typical tooth gnashing guise. In the article beneath it, he is accused of propositioning a woman near the university for what they called penilingus.
“Apart from her spastic handbag behavior, this whole damn thing is fabricated. I don’t believe this. Even the newspaper is all lies now!”
Swagman’s life started to resemble a black and white detective story for the old man’s crapper and he detested the congruently constructed mishmash of paths life had chosen for him outside of the slammer. With the two jerk offs laggardly following from behind, he stopped suddenly and turned to Buttertooth, who seemed, for the most part, a mollycoddled someone belonging to a lineage of some sort.
“Where do you live?” he asked of Buttertooth--who, after a few dozen wrong turns over another couple hours of walking, led them to his grandmother’s house.

It was a tin-roofed shack with a porch clad with overhanging gables and a pilaster flanked front entry. It appeared as though, for imaginably a high cost, someone in the area rebuilt her diminished home with whatever scraps lay about in the ruin surrounding it. The inside was more colonial with its paint chipped balconets and the semi-cylindrical ceiling that drooped from water damage. The whole place smelled like canned spoils and cat piss and the stench mingled out as far as the street up front.

Inside, Buttertooth’s grandmother and a young anorexic looking African American were seated on the couch hand in hand watching an episode of the Jefferson’s with the volume of the television at an excruciating volume. They both rose to cordially greet the three of them who let themselves in.
“Dilligas! You fat piece of shit! What in the hell are you doing back here?”
Swagman smiled amusingly at Buttertooth. “Dilligas? Are you going to just stand there and take that from your own grandmother, Dilligas?”
“What do you suggest he do?” Late For Dinner asked modestly.
“Punch her in the mouth and ask the brother here what he is doing in the house!”
With that said aloud, Swagman lured himself over to a large stockpile of relatively new looking books and mumbled to himself “Hehe, Dilligas…” and then decided that he needed to start somewhere. He then retreated to the porch, his head last, winking as he exited.

The African fellow asked kindly that they be seated and offered them something to drink. Grandma went upstairs to avoid further interaction with Gifford who she thought had died a terrible death.
“Yes, that would be great. What do you have?”
“What do you want?” the man asked.
“Well, do you have any fruit punch?”
“No. I don’t have no fruit punch boy, what do you want to drink?”
“Well, what do you have?”
“Man, I ain’t got shit. What you want to drink.”
“That’s ok. I didn’t want shit.” Late For Dinner said in his most tangible manner.
“You getting smart boy?”
“What?! No…I just___”
“What you want to drink then? Damn!”
“Well, what do you have?”
“DAMN you boy! I axed you what you wanted to drink!”
“But I told you…I wanted…”
“But I ain’t got no damn fruit punch! I got some beer, some water, some uhh..some milk…some juice…some water…uhh, but I ain’t got no ice!”
“Juice will be fine.”
“Aight. Ain’t got no damn punch though, damn!”
“That’s fine. Juice is fine.”

Fifteen minutes later the man returned with two pastel colored cups full of warm hazy water. Wearing half the clothes he left with, stripped down to a wife beater and tropical designed boxer shorts that intermittently slid from his bony hips, his eyes were bloodshot and his walk became a crawl of glacial speed.
“Here yall go.”
“Thank you kindly, sir.”

With that, the two kids sat on the couch, sipping their water watching this palavering crack fiend reeling around, tottering his words as he preached to them about how he heard a prophet the other day speak to him in tongue and the methods of which he was able to interpret it. He led them into the thought process of how one may find god if they opened the right receptors with recreational drugs, as he himself hobbled about tripping on cords and sniffing crank from his long decrepit fingernails. Swagman meanwhile was skimming through a short novel about cannibalistic savages that smoke pot out of the dead infants that didn’t survive the inbreeding. After hurling that one away in disgust, he brushed off the dust from a collection of mystery novels starring felines. You know the kind I’m talking about. We’ve all seen them on the best seller racks(For example, The Cat That Played Piano.) Apparently, that particular author had survived and continued his long line of mystery novels, but had grown quite decadant over the years. Swagman shuffled through the various books, stacking them by his side.
The Cat That Had Three Testicles.
The Cat That Loved Asian Porno.
The Cat That Preferred Jiff Over Skippy.
The Cat That Studied Podiatry.
The Cat That Killed The High Priest of Paphos.
The Cat Who Lured Its Pray With Almond Roca.

Once he stammered and sweared through the pitiful selections, he began to shuffle through old war literary classics that dealt with post-apocalyptic warfare. The noises from within were of random uproars of the doped up and agitated Blackman and they proved to be quite a distraction for a light reader.

“Ah yes,” said Late For Dinner. “Martin Luther King Day. Isn’t that the national holiday celebrated by whites by staying inside all day?”
“Son. You’re falling behind. Way behind. Did you marry young?”
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind.” was all he replied as he began a rabid search for his cocaine stash that was oblivious to him, hidden up his own arse. Even with his convulsive hobbling and unsightly state of nudity, and the fact that the joy flakes were sprinkling from his keester every time he took a couple steps, he couldn’t find his own stash except for what had fallen to the floor. Through this madness, Late For Dinner was recalling an article he himself once read, that involved how the primates of the 1700 though 2017, addressed each other with the peculiar prefix involving different shades of color. An English man was referred to as white. An African, like this man, was referred to as a black man. Other colors were used as well, such as yellow and sand, but on a much less frequent basis. These colors were assigned merely to distinguish one race from another, even though it was quite clear by the very appearance of most individuals. With such a recollection, Late For Dinner was able to make a little sense out of the chattering tea cups of this man’s nonsensical blathering.

After the crack fiend was finished crawling around, dragging he knees along the carpet that he snorted from, he reached for a Bible and plopped himself down in between an attentive Late For Dinner and a rather lethargic Buttertooth. He picked through the pages with his snaky tootsieroll- like fingers that dotted off dry skin the dying color of egg white. The two of them remained detained by this rambling monologist until Swagman would return.

“Here we go….physical effects of nuclear fallout. Lets see here…”
Swagman’s reading was an idea sprouted from his initial curiosity as to why everyone around him was seemingly insane and as to why they felt the need to lock him up when he did not act destructively towards the rebuilding of the country, nor serve as a hindrance to it. His suspicions grew deeper and deeper as he read on. The first symptom of radiation exposure, most commonly, is through blood and sperm tissue, causing male and female sterility and loss of appetite. Advanced exposure can lead to vomiting, hair loss, hemorrhage of the mouth and reduces mortality rate to a staggering 50%. Further exposure for those that survive leads to further elimination of the bone marrow and internal bleeding. Recovery could take years. Some however have survived as high as 1000 rems of exposure which instantaneously causes severe intestinal and metabolic problems which include diarrhea, intestinal bleeding, loss of fluids and circulatory collapse. These individuals however are walking ghosts. The mortality rate for these individuals is a mere 1%. Before one gradually dies, he or she experiences an apparent sense of well being before befalling to fever, anorexia, delirium, comas and convulsions.

So, the nuclear fallout has probably already killed off all of these sons of bitches. Swagmans life was spared due to the fact that society collapsed before he had a chance to encounter prolonged exposure. Had he not solicited those prostitutes in the midst of homeland war, more than likely he wouldn’t be learning all of this useless knowledge. His next discovery was of much more importance. He pulled an article from the newspaper that he’d procured earlier and happened to come across an article about the worst selling novel written by a Michael B Edwards about absolutely nothing. He then flipped the paper around a few times and came to the startling realization that he was the subject of every article. The subject of a dull, uninspiring novel about a man trying to find his way out of a dull, uninspiring novel.

“I will find my way out. For real. I will change the script asshole! You hear? Then I’m going to mount your skull somewhere in my billiard room! Yeah? Is that in there? Did you get that part down?”

Yes I did, har har har.

Swagman found himself beside himself, screaming at the sky as aimless as a blind man with the guise of a madman, presumably to him, the kind of behavior that landed him in the loony bin of a lunatic society. Swagman left all the books scattered on the porch and charged in to retrieve his newfound co-stars. Grandma descended the stairs right around the same time. The bible reading black man continued on to himself as Late For Dinner and Buttertooth modestly watched Swagman’s dramatic entrance.
“We’re leaving. I have some things I need to explain to you boys.”
“Where are you taking them?” asked Granny.
“Why the sudden interest?”
“I have no interest. Only embarassment.” she began dancing imbalanced within a new gown from her trashy wardrobe, shrilly lamenting the day she bore a child with the brain of a cockroach. “His father,” she said pointing to Buttertooth, “died of stupidity.”
“Is that right?” Swagman retorted uninterested.
“I cannot believe Dilligas is still alive! I imagined when he disappeared that day, it was into the mountains, where his clothes would rot off until he was a naked little stupid boy, just like his father, and would allow himself to be eaten by the animals!”
“Meanwhile you are putting pies in the oven, right? A pathetic little touch of hopefulness. Hmm? Meanwhile you are dating this anorexic little, contortionist of humanity!”
“What?” the black man stood up, setting down the bible. “Are you frontin?”
“What? If this is your idea of talking smack, I suggest that you wrap it up before I drive my fist down your throat and yank the rest of your nasty, ceiling sticker constillation teeth on the withdraw.”

Buttertooth stood up on the couch and revived his heavyset Blackman persona with this:
“Man, get the fuck up outta here with yo head lookin like a raisinet!”


Swagman pulled out his switchblade and threatened to carve fleshy cadavers out of them in the shapes of his favorite dinosaurs, before they decided it best to just let the three of them continue their journey without their protest. Swagman demanded their car, which was a beat up 2004 station wagon defying the laws of manufacturer longevity, and rolled off in pursuit of the publishing company responsible for every shinanagan leading up to that point.

“It’s fucked up guys. We’re merely characters in some sell out writer’s novel of his worst throwout ideas. There was even a picture of his punk ass on the back, smiling back at me with a Marlbro Light 100 dangling from his piehole. When I catch up to this smarmy punk, I’m going to shove his entire library of garbage so far up his ass he’ll archive it all in his skull!”
“What do you mean? You mean to say that the three of us are just…made up?”
“No, that isn’t what I’m saying” snapped Swagman in a high pitched sardonic tone. “No dip shit, everything is made up. We were locked up merely because its in the story! That bitch on the corner with her kids, made up. I knew I didn’t remember her from anywhere! And numnuts sitting on the manhole, not real. Those two ugly brutes we encountered….”
“You mean, my dad?”
“That wasn’t your daddy kid, he too, is only part of the story. Your real father is some fat guy named Clark Clagnut. He is Edwards‘ publisher.”
“Is that where we’re goin?”
“That’s where we’re goin.”

The peculiarity of the situation didn’t affect the iniquity of Swagman’s vengeance or his lethal intentions to commit unsightly corporal harm on his creators. With little or no help from his disciples, Swagman was determined to stab the entire concoction in its centricity and bump off every piece of evidence that proved it ever existed, even if it meant self eviction leading straight to the hells of literature‘s worst.

The publisher’s office was rundown, piled with a sea of unfiled, college ruled, shit stained papers. Behind the desk was a pathetic pinguid pork stump of a man stacked up by pasty rolls of flubber reaching nearly ten feet high, each with an index tab lettering the entire alphabet. It all led up to his neckless top with a hideous face that didn’t excuse his undressed indisposition.
“Perhaps, we could come back later.” offered Late For Dinner.
“No. Perhaps you CAN’T come back later.” the fat man barked.
“I need to see the file on Michael Edwards.”
“Which Michael Edwards? Michael A Edwards?”
“How many Michael Edwards’ are there exactly?” asked Swagman.
“Haammrrrmm….lets see” the fat guy said as he began to file down through his rolls with fingers greased with god know’s what. “26.”
Swagman and Late For Dinner exchanged suspicious looks and eventually shrugged off the relativity that this man has only one author with 26 initials, or 26 authors with one initial. Hell, they didn’t care. They knew what they were after.
“I would like to see the second Michael.” asked Swagman.
“You want which Michael?”
“Michael B Edwards.”
“Haaarrrmmmmeeehhaaah………”

Long pause…

“Why?”
“Could…could you just let me see the file please?” Late For Dinner said, perhaps to display a little of Swagman’s effrontery.
“Haarrrmmmmeehhhhh……ok.”

He dug through this second roll file awhile, swishy sounds were made, a horrendous odor emitted from his open legged seating position as he leaned back to dig all the way in there. Eventually, he pulled out a letter sized, slimy piece of white paper with round blotches of yellow. He began to hand it over to them, then withdrew it as though suddenly protective of the document.
“Would you like to lick the batter?” he asked.
“Disgusting…” mumbled Swagman who restrained Buttertooth who was gunning for it.
“No!” Late For Dinner cried
“What’s the matter? Don’t like the sweaty pig meat grease chip dip?”
“No!!!!” Late For Dinner exclaimed clutching to his flaked potatos.

The fat man took the piece of paper, gently clipped them with his barely distinguishable index fingers and thumbs and started from the left corner, slowly licking across the paper to the right in a passionate, closed eye and lustrous manner before handing it over.
“Gimme that god damn thing…..lets see here. He lives at the Wet Member hotel on LooseLady Ave. They take off in a hurry and the fat man waves goodbye before picking up his bowl of marshmellows and butter for lunch break. Suddenly a roaring station wagon smashes through the front door of the office and smack into the man’s boundless belly.
BOING!
ZOOM!
SMACK!

The vehicle rebounded back into a fence post across the street and left the fat man with only a mild belly ache. He got to finish his butter mellow soup and the vehicle remained operable.
“Ah, fuck him….Wet Member! Here we cum!!!!”
And they sped off.


“Tst.” Swagman snapped his lips. “Ain’t nothing but a post-apocalyptic Motel 8”

Three men walk into a bar. Or, hotel, sorry. Swagman first, he looks both ways, sees the reception desk, chooses the left. Buttertooth in behind him, looks both ways, sees a bathroom with a neat apparatus, runs for the right. Bringing up the rear is Late For Dinner, who opens the door after them and is struck by a nail spiked two by four that falls from the top of the door.
“OOOOOWWWWWW!!! AHHHHHH! HEH…HEEHHH…HEEEELP MEEE!”

He falls to his knees and a few small shots of blood gush from his head, but it wasn’t enough to kill him, and no one noticed the crashing sound, his yelps, or poor Late For Dinner’s excruciating pain.
Meanwhile Buttertooth is under dubious observation due to his childlike curiosity with the bathroom’s door device. It was a octagonal wheel that he kept spinning amusingly with his dim-witted, big tooth grin. It was a neat little contraption though, something the public should have devised years ago. Each side of the wheel contained valid messages as to the cause of one’s prolong toilet bowl occupancy, rather than the rude and suggestive rational that a mere ‘occupied‘ would suggest. Buttertooth endlessly spun the apparatus with his dirty thickset paws.

Had beer with beans this morning.
Finishing an article.
Masturbating.
Trying new way to wipe my ass.
Won‘t come out.
Waiting for cheap electronic hand dryer to actually do something to my hands.
Family with public lice.
I bury mine.

Meanwhile….

“What? Speak to me! Which room is he in? Tell me now! What are you looking at? I’m right here! I realize your more than likely the daughter of a steer, but I’m sure you understand English since you get to wear that nifty name tag ,now answer me, Cowgirl!”
“Sir!” she said
“Oh jesus__”
“EXCUSE ME SIR!” she hollered, pointing at Late For Dinner who was drying his eyes. “YOU CAN’T BRING THAT IN HERE!”
“GODFREY!” exclaimed Late For Dinner “What do you expect me to do?/”
“I don’t know sir, but you are not allowed to take that into our rooms, you will have to leave it with me.”
“It wont’ come out!”
“Well?” said Swagman “Help me pull it out.”
“W..wait….” Late For Dinner starts trekking backwards from Swagman and the receptionist who are gallantly marching toward him.
“Get him!”

Buttertooh raced over and tackles Late For Dinner to the floor and the three of them start mercilessly tugging at the termite infested board as Late For Dinner is crying out in agony. This persists for nearly 10 minutes of team work before a brittle popping sound set the board in the receptionist’s possession. She walks off with it and the three of them start knocking on doors before a team of arm and arm Scottsman and a bellhop interfere. There was also an irate and confused Chinese delivery man answering to the doors of a bunch of pranksters that kept deferring him down the hall and up the hall, while laughing like mad cats in their suites.

The Irishman were two stepping the tarantella and kicking their legs two and fro exposing their orange peel nut sacks and invading everyone’s space. They carelessly ran people over in an angry determination to disrupt the entire building with the jig. Even Swagman was no match for the atrocity of the dance and took off with the others. That was when they found the monologist bellhop. No matter what you said to him, he rotated the conversation back into that of himself.

“Where is room 104?”
“I was once looking for a room across the hall, and could you believe what I found inside? I found two jive turkeys in there completely corked up and fornicating on a tv stand!”
“Tell me where the tv guide is, please,”
“Have you caught the latest issue of Shoplifter mag? There is an article in there on faking seizures!”
“Could you please go away?”
“Once time I had this lady walking around with vaginal horseflies, scaring off the little children, and when I asked her to leave, she told me she was looking for the bathroom all along! Geez, I’ll tell ya.”
“I have a giant canchor on my ball sack and I piss cheese whiz every time after copulating with fossil urns.”
“You know man, I once tried to have sex with porcelain no smoking signs and did it ever split my dick! I have this huge scar right down the middle, here you wanna see it?”
“Sure.”

Swagman grabbed the bellhop by his throat and pinned him to the wall. He then removed the bellhops livestock from his possession and castrated him right then and there with an audience of jump roping girls in flannel skirts down the hall.



“Shit! Here they come!!!” Swagman shouted, pointing to the team of Scottsman dancers who were breaking up the jump rope fun. They retreated to room 104 and found nothing but two beds and a pile of blindo blotto on the carpet. Swagman searched around the room, Late For Dinner gently picked at his head and Buttertooth started sniffing around literally like a dog let outside.

“Whats this? A business card?”
“hmm?” Late For Dinner asked, scooching over beside him.
“Clam Smackers. Looks like some sort of night club.”
“Can we at least get some sleep first?”
“Sure. That would make perfect sense. Lets wake up, stretch our arms, take showers, retrieve our little complimentary vouchers from the front desk, enjoy a complimentary breakfast, drive all the way out to this place, get in AND FIND THAT NO ONE IS INSIDE BECAUSE ITS FUCKING DAY TIME, YOU STUPID ASS FUCK!”
“ok ok ok!! lets go!”
“Damn right, lets go. Hey, assfuck no. 2, we’re rolling out.”

“Wait! wait! wait!!”
On their way out, the receptionist chases them down and tugs on Late For Dinner’s shoulder.
“You forgot your board!!!”




Since I’m getting pretty sick and tired of writing this ludicrous story, I’m not about to say they drove to the night club. You KNOW they drove to the night club, or haven’t you been reading?

sigh

The place was crawling with all the creeping crud one could catch from a night of inequitable confrontation. Old men with long beards were sprinting around huffing Scoobydoo under garments Chance born, bunch punching whores in tight coochie cutters were running after the dribbling darts of love hanging down from crumped out etards in some kind of sexual everythingathon. It looked more like a giant ball of twitching human mass. The whole place reeked of fat lady fanny farts perceivably from the spread open female parentheses and open ass cracks of the peer queers with sideburns that looked like pubescent patches reminiscent of the adolescent soap opera known as Young And The Breastless. The entire thing was remarkably shameless. Inside there was also a metal musical and they observed the fat men on stage with wobbling cheeks and floppy sandals, hobbling around singing about booze, sex and cars while brunette whores with stanched feet on the floor, and sweaty paws in the air, tossed their ligaments around while aiming their facial spasms at penis shaped strobe lights. Something had to keep the insane from applying nail polish on their teeth and shoving beer bottles up their butt holes…and these kinds of activities were it.

Swagman lost track of Late For Dinner, Buttertooth, and the reason he entered this monstrosity in the first place. He exited, went out to the street and lit a cigarette in a staring contest with the moon.
“Thank god this isn’t real, I should be grateful. All I need to do is douse myself somehow in water. If it doesn’t smudge out my inky continuation, it can drown me out of this misery. But thank fucking christ, that I’m not real, this, this, this fucking brou ha ha everywhere isn’t real, the nuclear war never happened, and those among the living are still sane….well, relatively speaking. Couldn’t say that about the author now, could I? This is coming from a guy that says things like ‘No wonder the birds shit on our automobiles‘ and he calls himself a Scatological Contortionist. Hmph! Tell you what buddy, Scatology is more than something you can shake your rectal thermometer at. This thing stinks like shit but that’s about as close as you’ve come. But in the end, I must thank you Michael. For shining an amber warning light on how much worse the people around us could be. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have an earthy toilet to crawl into.”

And with that, Swagman bows, curtsys and exits left.

Meanwhile…….


“Give me that.”
“No, only if you give me that.”
“But I need that, to use this!”
“And I need this to use that!”
“Do I look like I give a shit?”
“Did you just say DILLIGAS?”


The boys continue on over drinks for a mere few minutes before shrugging it off. Then, Late For Dinner and Buttertooth, set down their French tickler and muff chart, and join the dance.