Fri 10/25/96

Clearly the madness beheld in his eyes was of such magnitude that she could see no deeper, could not see the need for the nasal probe, which as before would have solved the problem in what might possibly have been a more suitable and certainly less messy manner.

Instead, she argued with herself that the madness necessitated responses of only one or two, oh and sometimes three, swift and decisive blows to the frontal part of his skull with some blunt object that happened to be within reach. Such was the case tonight when she grabbed for and claimed with the authority a laperubial flangywingget, a wooden handled black ended toilet plunger. His eyes widened in a primordial fear of toilets and washrooms as she raised the plunger to strike him. In one cat like motion, she had missed and by accident severely plunged him. His scream muffled slightly by the plunger, his wail of torment not unlike the sound of a walrus after chum, his ignored cries of agony seeped throughout reality, and all this while he spun wildly in the undulating plunger dance of insanity. Pointy wood stick going every which way at once, he danced with pointy toes and pointy outstreched arms and fingers, also pointy, the plunger leading his internal demon orchestra like a possessed baton in the hands of a conductor long without the barriers of mere sanity.

The dance finished when all good mad plunger dances finish, and he lay down exhausted and bloody. The stumps of his feet extruded white broken bits of bone, not unlike broken ticktacks in rasberry jello, and his fingers, bent at odd and pointy angles, grasped at fiendish goblins only he and a few others could see. He grinned and breathed heavily, his blood ladened saliva creating giant pink spit bubbles through his broken teeth, and the woman jumped gleefully and tore the plunger from his face. It was only as his brain was being plunged from his nostrils that he screamed and grasped for it with all his bent and broken limbs, as if to put it back. But it was gone along with his chance like all good things. Gone like the leaves in winter, gone like the ink of a favorite pen, gone like the toe nail which had remained black for so long now lost in the grass of a friendly barefoot volley ball game of cricket.

She opened wide her toothy maw and began chewing on his brain while the rubbery mass was still attached to the plunger. He moaned and went to the bathroom, and then came back and windmilled his arms wildly in a last blind effort to regain his brain, and came into violent contact with the plunger handle, and much to her horror, he reverse plunged his brain into her mouth where it shot up into her sinus cavities, effectively filling them. The sinus cavities.

She tried to scream, but his brain took up all the space she would use for sucking air. Using the quick thinking possessed by those whose life have nothing in common with the world around them, she turned to the wall and battered her head against it time after time until her skull broke like the crispy shell of a poached egg. She took the upper skull pieces off and laid them carefully on the counter. Then she ripped out her own brain and tossed it aside like used facial tissue, and reached far down into her skull cavity (which was NOT filled) and quickly pulled. His brain, stuck in her inner sinus cavity (effectively filling it), was pulled free. She smiled contentedly and let it fill her empty skull while she replaced the fragmented skull pieces.

In the meantime he had found her brain and was busily stuffing it into his nose with a used q-tip until nothing was left but a bit of gray slime running from one badly abused nostril. He had remembered the old song, though, as taught by the ancient ones.

"Out goes the brain, in goes the rain.
Be the nostril man boy, make a gray brain toy.
Oh waddle in thine murky ooze, because without a brain, you always lose.
All that which you hold far, all that you have put in a jar.
And lest we forget sticky tar, mention of natty gabble go tills bar."

Oh , yes, he remembered and sang it well. So well, in fact, that she joined in. Together they consummated their evening by eating not one, but both of the others eyes in a ritual ordered by poking red hot wire into their respective eyeballs until the sizzling slowed to near silence, and then pulling the wires out and sucking off the cooked eye tissues stuck to the wire. By blinking they would provide extra juices for the cooking, and as usual, the great gods of eyeball sucking pranced the happy eyeball dance in both of their inner dance floors.


Copyright (C) 1996 by Scot Ranney

"Oh 'tis the scurby waddle which perbs the
slippant vumlop, or say the clig mullert."

Mambo Scrambe
est 1995, copyright © TM