Thunder Pickle
You must first of all be very very afraid. The end times raise up the willy shivers in all manner of man. A thunder and lightening time is the end time and a time of stinking doom stinks. Stinks of sulfur and old rancid yaller Lard! If you are having a yard sale when the end times come, you are surely fucked. If you are merely digging old encrusted turds out of your butt, you are still surely fucked. If you happen to be old stuffy Fergy Gussie Shitmeal and you just happen to be munching on an old time Noah's Ark animal cracker and NOT thinking impure thoughts, which would be thoughts of anything at all, frankly, THEN you might not be fucked. But then, looking at such a one's life, the life of an old stuffy Fergy Gussie Shitmeal, most of us would say-- what a fucked life. What a dismal shitbag of an existence. But you would be wrong! Wrong! For the eye of eternity sees very differently, and what appears to us to be fucked might be a distinct blessing, and vice verse. And that kind of throws the status of the END TIME (fucked or not?) into a kind of ambiguity (fucked or not?). But what all men agree upon is that there can't be an end time until there has been a Thunder Pickle. And most of us understand, because it seems obvious when you think about it, that if a Thunder Tuna arrives, a Thunder Pickle must not be far behind.
One day, in one part of the world, and it happened to be in the USA, a Thunder Tuna arrived. One day. A man's head got ripped off. One day. Other people were scared because they saw some glassy dead fish eyes looking at them. They didn't know what it meant. See, if they'd known that that business of glassy dead fish eyes intruding into their most private places, like the places where they buried their dead, and the places where they hid their knives and silenced pistols, meant the advent of Thunder Tuna, THEN and only then would they have known that the Thunder Pickle might well follow, and that THEN and only then but certainly THEN, the world would end. In a manner of speaking. And it would be too too late to rush out and buy up the last moldy old boxes of Noah's Ark animal crackers and start shoving them up the mutts and down the butts because it would be TOO LATE. Then.
Amos Drah was pulling his knife out of a pretty girl's belly. She was dead. He'd held the knife in her until she stopped moaning and crying and wiggling. Because the woman was naked, all that wiggling did Amos a power of good. He sure did like that sort of thing! She was about the ninth or tenth gal he'd slain, in just that manner, out behind the barn. He'd lost count. He could count the graves, he guessed. Yeah, after he'd fucked this one and buried her (but not too soon-- oh no, he liked them to get ripe) he'd count up all the graves, if he could find them all, and see how many he'd done. Whatever the number was, he knew it would not be enough. It could never be enough. It astounded him that he'd gotten away with it for so long. And he wasn't even known to munch Noah's Ark animal crackers. Little did he know, then, that in only a few moments he would be blasted to bits by the wallop of a Thunder Pickle.
In a far corner of the world a man rolled a dead filipina into a ditch. He'd had his way with her. He was satisfied. What a body! What a fuck! Now that he'd scratched that itch, he'd have time to review his portfolio in more detail. He figured he had enough, had done well enough, not only to treat himself to a snuff/necro experience, but to buy himself a vintage sports car when he got back to the good old UK. He kind of hankered for a Jag SS-100. He got back in his rented jeep and started following the rutted trail back into what would pass for civilization, feeling secure and quite superior. Noah's Ark animal crackers were the farthest things from his mind. The Thunder Tuna had just ripped a man's head off, but far away, and he knew nothing of that. And if he had known, he would not have known what to make of it. THUNDER PICKLE!!!!
In another part of the world a fellow did things that were not really comprehensible, even to himself. The sluggish flow continued, mostly undisturbed by the advent of the Thunder Tuna. Who knew and who cared?
The TP was a green meanie from hell. It had warts all over its body. It was made of tough stuff. It smelled and tasted of the bigass pickles we bought in the local Biograph while The Blob rolled around and ate stuff up. But the TP was big. It was kind of a miracle. It was a kind of anomaly, of the kind that crops up now and again. Wham! It hit the Earth, our fair mother, some say, dead on and raised up a shock wave that blasted everything alive into smithereens instantly. And at that instant it really didn't matter whether you were the Pope of Rome or a serial killer. Everything got fucked.
After a great many years The Mighty One noticed something like a big green wee-wee sticking out of the planet. It looked silly and obscene. The MO decided that would not do. He had made that shit, and declared it good. Can't have some stupid thing like that going on.
The MO made it go away.
One might argue that this was the greatest and wisest thing the MO ever did. He made it go away! Something ugly and stupid and utterly destrictive came about, and for once, for ONCE! the Mighty One made it go away! Who can say why the MO did that? When a malignancy sprouted somewhere up the ass of that Old Stuffy Fergy Shitmeal, and turned that blighted and blasted life into a symphony of pain, why, that particular ugly and stupid thing didn't go away, despite all the Noah's Ark animal crackers consumed over a ghastly lifespan. The darned Thunder Pickle brought more relief than the MO ever dished out in a month of Sundays. Thanks to the Thunder Pickle, lots and lots of pain and grief and suffering went away! In a flash! It was over! A genocide in Africa was over! A bayonet never found the intestines of a little girl who bent over her murdered mother and wept, and you can thank the Thunder Pickle! You can't thank the MO, thank you.
But the ways of the MO are not our ways. And it
really didn't matter that much anyway, as far as the MO was concerned.
Because there was a place that never went away, a special place where
life could go on, in a fashion, Thunder Pickle or no Thunder Pickle:
hell. All those who had been blasted by the Thunder Pickle promptly woke
up in hell. Hell was the Mighty One's "hole card"-- heh, heh, and no
Thunder Pickle was going to touch that!