Posted by NL on April 04, 2005 at 15:07:48:
Revelations-- Part 5
Part of the agony of being me, of being Chuck Woe, is not only the embarrassing family history, of having all those mass-murderers and serial killers and war criminals among your ancestors, but also the cruel inability to tell a wholesome lie. I can't lie. The truth dwells in me always, and I am always hurting someone's feelings and I am always awash in madness, death, horror, emptiness, and the darkness, darkness-- the darkness with no end nor beginning. As the song says, why don't we close all of our eyes together, and then we will see where we all come from. And then we will see where we all shall go. Max Woe was a wholesome fellow, as wholesome as a fellow can be. And see where it got him? He awoke on his back, gazing at the darkness above, while a fresh dogpile pressed against his back, between his shoulder blades. That made sense, for Slobber, that good dog, had been so frightened, he'd defecated on the spot. But now it seemed that the crowd was gone, and the streetlights shone, and as Max sat up, he saw lights on in all the houses. Only a few minutes had passed since the strange events had begun, and now he knew all of his neighbors would be in front of their tvs again, watching the last moments of the Mr. Goombah show, as Mr. Goombah (America's Favorite Funny Jew), dressed in drag as Carmen Miranda, masturbated into a potted plant of some sort and warbled our National Anthem. But things would never be the same for Max. He'd murdered two of the most sexy and beautiful scantily clad big-breasted Space Babes he'd ever seen or imagined, enjoying every moment of it, and he knew at last what really transpired between Humdinga, the wife of his loins, and that Mr. Foooms-- the secret of the Aluminum Vibrating Teeth had been revealed, and that, my friends, was the end of innocence, the end of model aircraft dreams and the beginning of the end. There were no lights on in Max's house, but he could just barely see Slobber peeking out at him through a partially opened window. And just next door, at Mr. Foooms's a light was on in the back, probably the bedroom. So they liked to SEE each other! Max knew what he wanted to do. He seemed to have unnatural strength and vigor, just like a sex-slayer, and he attacked the steel post that supported his mailbox, pulling it right out of the ground. With the edge of his hand he whacked off the mail receptacle and took the steel post with him to his garage. It didn't take him long to attach a McCoy .60 Redhead and fuel tank to one end. It didn't take long at all for him to to take an eight inch length of stainless steel bar stock he'd been saving and grind and polish it into a propellor-like slicing and cutting tool and fasten same to the potent model engine in lieu of prop. Heh. Heh. And then he headed for Mr. Foooms's front door, where he paused for a moment. Yes, you could hear the vibrating from inside, but faintly, faintly. The sweaty beasts must be sated and drifting into sleep already. So he knelt on the little porch, attached a nine volt battery with clips to the Redhead's glowplug, flipped the "prop" and was gratified to hear that wonderful and distincitive falsetto roar! Ten-Thousand RPM! Fifteen-Thousand RPM! Lean it out! Smell the nitro! Twenty-Thousand RPM! And then, kick down the door, charge into the house, quickly blast through the bedroom door, and slice and dice, going for the throats, the eyes, the boobs, the guts, ha ha ha those teeth would never vibrate again, and Humdinga sure looked a lot better all cut up and dead and bloody. The valiant McCoy .60 bogged down in guts at last, so Max stuffed his murder weapon into Humdinga's shredded abdominal cavity and walked the short distance home, to his garage. They found him there the next morning, dead, with his face thrust into a basin of Fokker Red nitrate dope, and many rags still reeking of toluene and banana oil told the tale of a binge of sorts, before the death plunge. I think he was just trying to get back to the Asshole Plain, so he could fuck the beautiful dead bodies he'd created earlier in the evening. God Speed, Mr. Max Woe, of Skankyville, USA, Earth, The Universe! God Speed! (Editor's Note: What the fuck does it mean, anyway, to say godspeed? Lightspeed? Say that, and you've said something an editor can grasp, but that other thing-- no, no, it makes no sense...)
And so, that Comic Book ends! And so now we must flash fast forward a billion years, to a time in the future when end time signs are coming thick and fast, and it seems the end of days must be at hand! A billion years! Into the future. And I just don't comprehend at all how someone could say, hey, you crazy bastard, you can't have a comic book from a billion years in the future! And I say, why not? My distant descendant, Dr. Dick Woe, left it to me in his will. And you say, NO NO NO! Time doesn't work like that! And I look at you like a fellow who just can't grasp what could be illogical about anything I've said-- indeed, I don't see a problem. I remember a time when, in 1969 I backed a '63 Ford pickup into the side of a brand new '73 Chrysler. It's the same principle! What's your problem? By the way, I found this comic book where I found all the others, in a chickweed patch, in a vacant lot, not so very far from where I live, next to a dead body. It was the freshly murdered scantily clad body of a women who lived in our neighborhood in 1955. She was sprawled on her back, gazing sightlessly at the void above. She had been stabbed in her ample left tit, right through the cup of her plain white bra, and then in her lower abdomen, and the knife had been left there, sticking out of her intestines. I shivered, then, in all my fibers. I gathered up the comic books because I felt they might be of value, and so they were. I did so hurriedly because Mrs. Wamplethruster (yes, I recognized her, having lived in that neighborhood since about 1973) seemed to have been VERY recently murdered, and I felt that the killer must be close by-- very close by indeed! That sort of thing would give anyone the willy shivers, so I am not ashamed. And then, later, in my garage, as I sniffed at a sturdy red shoprag soaked in paint thinner, I understood the great significance of those documents, and decided that in fact an Angel had left them there, for me to find, and that I would shortly become the important leader of a great mass movement, just as soon as I created, this, my record, of what I read, in those comic books, fetched from the chickweed patch, so long ago.