Posted by NL on February 07, 20010 at 11:37:01:
Thunder Tuna
Edweird Magog was a bit of a survivalist, a bit of a do-it-yourselfer, a bit of a weather/meteorology buff, a bit of a cannibal, a bit of a necrophile, and a bit of a mad dog. All who knew him tried very hard to avoid him. Alas, one could not always do that as he had at times a tendency to throw himself in your face. Just the other day he accosted a total stranger and asked him "What time was it?". The stranger shat down his pant leg and into his boot. He had that effect on people, Edweird did. For a long, long, fruitless period of Edweird's life he labored to construct the house of his dreams. He did that on a barren hillside on which he had created an acre of level ground by tenaciously shoveling at the durable earth with his claws and his teeth. And when that ground was flat he erected a pup tent not much larger than his porta-potty, and in that tent he lived while he cast enormous concret blocks that he man-handled by himself slowly into position to form the external walls. That process alone took years. When those walls were tall enough to keep out the morbid eyes of his neighbors, he crawled up a rope ladder, over the top and down the other side, for he eschewed both doors and windows, and began to scrape out a cellar which would serve him as a butchery, a dungeon, a storm shelter, a bomb shelter, a den, a playroom, a poolroom, an abatoir, and a place to relax. That alone took many years. But a time came when he felled the noble ash and oak and beech to make pilings and flooring and such, and finally a roof, after a very long time had elapsed, and that roof enclosed it all. By means that confounded everyone he managed to furnish his house with all manner of good thing: a loveseat, a flush toilet, a hottub, a TV, and a kitchen full of cleavers and knives and slicers and dicers and ricers and pots and tubs and kettles and spoons and things no man knew the proper name of, much less the use. This process did not take too long, compared to all the other processes that had gone before.
"Ahhhhh", he sighed, "At last I am well-furnished!" And he turned on the TV.
The weatherman had swirling eyes, one much larger than the other! He screamed and cursed and called us all names! Seems like there was a hard rain a gwine to fall! Edweird loved that shit. Oh boy! Mother Nature gonna put the whoop on us! Yes, a noreaster by sow-wester propelled by a offshoot of a jetstream from hell would descend! A monster blast of subhuman arctic cold would shoot down from the top, and a swampy maisma of moisture would shoot up from the bottom, and they would meet above our heads-- much to our sorrow! The weatherman had to be resuscitated at that point. He was all out of breath. Was it the judgement of God? One thing would follow another. Edweird popped another top. He slopped his favorite beer, BLAZTZ, the Old Kentucky Brew! Oh the song went all weird and he loved it: BLATZTZ BLATZTZ fuck yo' ass! That brew be good fer yew! Fuck yo' ass and raise yo' glass, that BLATZTZ be good fo' yew! Tonic! Oh, so swell! To be at home at last and drowning in BLATZTZ, the beer you'd drown in if you had to drown in beer! And the weather was gonna get WILD! The weatherman picked himself up off the floor and drew lines in the air, lines of flame, farflung, and named the various dooms to come: rain, thunder rain, sleet and thunder sleet, and snow and thunder snow-- and by the great crested walloon, there was at least one chance in 66,317 that that thunder snow would be followed by THUNDER TUNA! The weatherman's crazed eyes spat fire and he died on the spot. You don't often get a forecast like that. It was one for the books. Edweird thanked his lucky stars that he lived in such times as these and called upon his training as a survivalist. He would need a lot more beer and something to eat and something to fuck. Actually, those latter two things could be one and the same thing.
Edweird got out of his house, by some means unknown, and found his neighbor, the hot divorcee Lassie Buttcheek puttering in her garden among the deadly nightshade. "Hi there Miz Buttcheek! Please allow me to introduce myself! I am your new neighbor, Edweird Magog! But please call me Eddie!"
Lassie gave Eddie a keen, hard look-- kill him now or poison him later? She said, "Oh, gosh, you must be the gentleman who's spent the last twenty-seven years building that peculiar house with no doors and no windows. How DO you get in and out of that thing?"
That was all the introduction Eddie needed. He went for his gun, an old Ruger .44 and shot Lassie Buttcheek between her ample tits. Seemed like there would be enough meat on those bones to keep him busy for a long time. And the sky was darkling already, and the first whisperings of the coming horror were rising about him.
Later, as the wind beat upon his walls, as
one might suppose, Eddie screwed Lassie's dead body, down in his
basement. He'd already cut off her head and her arms and stored those
parts in his freezer. If the power went out, as it likely would, no
matter, because he liked dead things and dead things were frankly best
when they looked and smelled dead. BLATZTZ wasn't really a dead thing,
but it smelled like a dead thing, and tasted sort of like a dead thing
liquified in carbonated water and that was why he liked that beer so
much, above all other brands. He wondered, momentarily sated, what
might be going on outside. His house was so strong! He had built so
well! He really felt that nothing could touch him. And now that he
thought about it, he realized that he'd made a mistake. How could you
enjoy a real storm if you couldn't even see it or hear it? Where was
the thrill in an impregnable position? For all he knew, it could be
thunder-sleeting already. Or nothing might be happening outside! The
weatherman might have been a mere crazy person! Eddie HATED crazy
people! Well, he would soon fix that. He picked up a stone mason's
chisel, went up to his living room, up from the basement where he taken
his neighbor lady's body (nice body) and picked a spot near the TV
where he began to tap at the concrete blocks that formed his sturdy
wall. He'd just chisel out some of the mortar and make a little slit
through which he could see something of the outside world and maybe
even get a little draft from the winds howling outside. The weather
completely dominated the TV. On all channels you saw deserted streets,
ice, snow, sleet, rain, and flashes of lightning. But all that might be
fake, a lie broadcast by the fascist corporate media, designed to scare
people into submission. Eddie hated submissive people! He'd see about
that. Chink, chink, he tapped and he tapped. He really had built well,
but at last he got a little cranny open into the outside world. He put
his eye to the narrow opening. All he could see was another eye, a big,
cold, glassy eye, staring back at him.
And then, somehow, his head got ripped off.