In Good Clean Blippervile

Posted by NL on October 06, 2004 at 16:53:11:

"In good clean Blipperville, where the Godly folk do dwell, only the cleanest and most pristine thoughts pass muster. There, you shall not read of any unclean thing, nor shall there be any manner of unclean thing, nor shall the unclean spirit dwell, nor shall the unclean abide, no, not ever, in the holy land that is Blipperville..."

They were happily married, having married in Blipperville. How sublime the union, and how triumphant they were, having agreed to fuck with no purpose but to quicken the eggs inside the womanly component of that marital union (as it might have been expressed in an Editorial in the
Blipperville Union Jack) and if they felt pleasure they would not think of it, nor speak of it. They were so happily married, they looked forward to keeping the anniversary of each other's death. They were not very logical. "Martha," he asked once, "will you have candles and sugar cakes? After I am gone?" She said, "I'll circle that day on the calendar, Jack my darling, and keep a piece of the funeral wreath on the dresser among my brushes. Maybe I'll light a candle, then, and sing you a little song at night, softly, softly." Enchanting thoughts! Chaste thoughts! Thoughts of two devoted dead people, a couple for all eternity, celebrating their respective deaths! But they weren't really dead-- not genuinely and precisely.

Jack thought about his wife. She was so very nice to him and cooked wholesome meals. He bragged about their mutual devotion to his co-workers in the Blipperville Bible factory, but, then, everyone bragged about the same things: devoted wife, loving children. As far as Jack could tell, and this was the one unique thing about him, nobody seemed to be looking forward to eating little sugar cakes served on little lace napkins, in a setting of devotional candles laid among their dead wive's brushes. And he didn't hear any rhapsodic thoughts on the topic of having a dead wife and lighting scented candles and singing little devotional songs on the anniversary of-- of what, really? A car wreck? A plane crash? He thought about how it might actually come about, that his adored Martha might die. It was kind of exciting to think about that, but not really pleasurable. If it had been pleasurable, he was sure, Jack was, that he would report immediately to the Big Eraser of Bad Thoughts down at the Civic Center, in the basement, to get a procedure called "brain grifting" done. God knew, there was no disgrace in that, although the generally impaired functioning that typically followed a brain grifting would probably drop him down a few pay grades. Jack decided he was only interested in the topic of death, his wife's death, in a devotional way-- sorta.

"Martha", he said, averting his eyes as Martha walked into the bedroom from the bathroom one evening-- she had just showered, and even though she had wrapped herself in a big fluffy towel he thought suddenly of trying again to make a baby; but it wasn't time for that, she would not have been in her fertile time and the act couldn't be justified at such a time-- "Martha", he asked, "how do you think you might die?" There, he blurted it out. It was out in the open. He had indeed been thinking about different varieties of death. "I mean," he said, as she turned to face him, looking very puzzled, "as a practical matter-- because, you know, you sort of brought it up." He blushed. Odd, how the topic had become tough to breach, after the sheer romance and wonderful sense of devotion he'd felt, when they were talking about the little song and the sugar cakes. Well, that was probably because, in Jack's own heart-of-hearts, he had begun to have some very specific, very graphic thoughts about how Martha might die. He'd seen a knife flashing, in the corner of his eye, for instance, a knife like his hunting knife: flash, up, flash, down, slash, up, slash, down, and a red fountain, blooming and blossoming and flowing freely. No wonder he blushed. Martha sat down beside him on their bed, letting her bath towel loosen and slip part of the way open, exposing her breasts, but absently and without any hint of any desire to arouse him. "It was just a thought," she said, "although I sort of imagined myself in our bed, with a halo of light around my head." She seemed thoughtful and frowned just a little. "You were at my side, and an angel came, a creature of holy light that hovered over me, and it reached out softly, softly, and took my hand. My spirit just sort of floated away while my body lay in the bedclothes, smiling." She smiled then, at the image in her mind. "It was so gentle, Jack, and Oh! how you cried!" Jack thought quietly, himself, for a moment. He had an erection, very obvious, even through his pajamas, and they were both embarrassed. "Hmmmm," he said. "I sort of imagined something more like..." And he slipped his hand under his pillow... "This!" He slashed Martha across her naked breasts with the hunting knife, his knife, that he had seen in his vision, and then, quickly, before Martha could even begin to scream, he cut her throat.

Jack felt fine the next morning. What great sex! He thought he might as well go to work, sort things out in his mind at the Bible factory, before making his next move. He stepped out of his house into a beautiful day, but he did notice a plume of smoke rising over the roof of the house across the street-- but the fire, if there was a fire, must have been several blocks away. That was puzzling. And then he saw the paperboy, grotesquely tumbled into a pool of blood near his toppled bike. The kid's head seemed to have exploded! And then Jack's head exploded too, as a round from a deer rifle mushroomed into and through his skull.

Jack's next door neighbor grinned, up on his roof. What great shooting! What great fun it had been, last night, to slice up his wife and children! God, he'd been bored shitless for years! But now he felt alive, really alive!

And in the burning house several blocks away lay the bodies of Mrs. Titchner's husband and son, and daughter and son-in-law, newly married in Blipperville, newly murdered in Blipperville. Mrs. Titchner never felt so fine in her life! Evil! What a grand and glorious discovery!

Yeah. Right.