It may stuff a hole in a quick dagger of mildly wet plume, if you may let me put it that way!!
All of this makes me feel like a furious slug.
(Note that blasphemy also seems ideal to me in many ways so I shouldn't have a problem with what I have just written in a way that seems I may have a problem with it.) Sometimes you don't plan what images you use or cutting your neck shaving but it just happens. None of this has to do with downloading the album of what the above image refers to from here or waiting for it to be properly released with full album artwork and highest kpbs possible. And now back to the nonshow.
...
..
and now back to:
Now a procedure will take place.
This is it.
And from here I will proceed with a short story draft. It really is best to read aloud. This goes for certain if you are in a space of strangers around you. In fact, given the obvious interest and adoration of this trendy and life changing blog (which such steady subject matter,) it is not a bad idea to, if you are at home, leave and go to a public space simply to read this out loud. The results will be a practice in courage and fun. On a similar note I soon plan to give a book review of "How To Lose Friends And Alienate People" by Irving D. Tressler and Quinch. Having never given a book review in my life I figured I am just as qualified for such as a homeless group judging food. Which would be more commonsense than well-fed sneebly critiques critiquing food that they eat 1/3rd a portion of. Snibs. But now,
a procedure will take place.
****************
DISTURBED in a mildly erotic way,
Chafey merged as one from two colliding plummets of street debri blown from
either direction.
***********************
Chapter two: The Eloping Antelopes of Bramble Bay
The prophecy wasn't too hard for him to fulfill.
Eight q-tips,
a package of Elephant rope,
a pulley and
three plunkets of eyebrow hair from a green eyed,hazel-haired ballerina
and the next second he's sipping a brandy thinking about how he had just fulfilled the prophecy.
Good stuff, but easy work, he thought as the semiotic bar maid squeaked on over to offer more brandy.
It mixed in with the grease quite well.
Compliments of the agency.
They had their own lounge nestled on the same corridor that housed the life-sized pinball machine.
Nobody ever escaped that.
Twelve crushed.
He sat sipping the drunkenness as it settled into the grease watching the shadow of the beautiful lime-haired bar maid recede along with the sounds of her squeaking all leaving him to chatter his thoughts internally with a background of inaudible radio transmission pulsing from the front bar.
He had to restore everbody's secrets from Section 802 before they splattered everywhere. He created worlds then sucked them up in design 706's version of the quantum vaccuum package as a demonstration to mass-market the sucker.
He custard'd culprits of the ice cream sandwich clam-hampering escapades and bagged the big one after it escaped from the city zoo but it all became so boring so quickly for him.
"I'm sorry Somp, but we're all out of elbow grease." The bar maid, on her squeaky wheels, said upon her fourth return.
Apparently he drank it all.
The brandy was useless without it, so he returned back to his office.
He heard the screams coming from the pickle room as he passed through the hallway and back to his private office.
The Styrofoam cup sat beside the photo frame of his ex-wife Mecky and his son.
Both stared back at him as he sat up straight in his chair in some meditative trance of zone-out.
The stryofoam cup wore some pathetic expression of uselessness. He wondered why he still kept that portrait of Mecky and little Jonesy Bibbins there all this time. Then he remembered, and wondered why he forgot. Beforehand, As if the styrofoam cup failed to deliver any answer, he swung his left hand in a chopping motion and swatted it from the table.
It bounced yet didn't gesture any sign of pain. Such a pathetic cup, but glorious in it's inability to perceive pain or agony.. Agony like that which occurs when he thinks of his dear Mecky.
Faint sounds could still be heard coming from the pickle room.
SOMP T. SPOMPS
Head detective
Astarabco Investigation Agency
We're better than what you'd expect!
He put his business card back into his inner pocket
The Crugar spotted ceiling, the polished ostrich desk and the Nematode clow appaulstry,
the place really had it's perks but for some reason Somp's heart had always resided at that world
that existed before being a detective.
Poor Mecky, he thought. Poor Mecky and Jonesy. They never should have taken that submarine vacation to
the Bermuda Triangle. He would have disintegrated too if he hadn't been busy on the 408 Diabetes Radish
assignment. It was either off his job and disintegrate on a family vacation or save North Carolina
from that atrocious Radish disaster. Deep inside he knew he could have spared North Carolina just for that slight chance to get back his loving Mecky.
The stryofoam cup continued to lay there.
A muffled "weeeeeeeeeeee!' was heard coming from the pickle room.
Somp stared at the wristwatch drawn around his arm in black felt tipped marker before realizing it was time for him to punch out.
**********************
Loti left in the sky bridge. Noodles hampering in the Scroggleton stem.
The disaster was averted as Chafey balanced on the radio-wire. Crossing from one building to the next.
He felt a set of eyes manifest but scrambled into the air before he was recognized.
*************
Chapter 2
How to gargle battery acid and keep promises made to baboons
A woman turned and ran.
Somp was heading back to his apartment after walking down Jorbis Street near where the steel centipede had dropped him off. There was a blur in a white dress so bright that it looked as if it were a hemlock shark pearl against the dark evening of the Thrisdaugh night.
He swore he saw a blurring jaw of jagged teeth swing against the air as this child ran off from near the front
cavern of the apartment stand.
They are still here... he reminded himself. Case 230:The Unspeakable!!!
He shuddered and tried to forget about that as he squeezed himself through the elastic proportions of the
building's entrance. Down the three fleights of stairs he unlocked the door to his room on the 6th floor and
set down his briefcase by his Victorian bedside per usual. His breath tasting moreso as elbow grease as usual that night.
He walked out to the kitchen and went to the cupboard to pull out an opened tin of elbow grease.
It's been a while since he had any.
The thick steel mainframe and durable walls provided a comforting and reasonably peaceful living environment often ignored or passed up in the likes of a setting of many books or movies. But this was real life, Somp thought, then wondered what the heck he was thinking about that for.
Elbow grease without the brandy, he thought, it causes for some unremarkable thoughts so he decided not to remark on any of them.
For the past five years he had been here doing his detective work.
He flicked on the TV after getting Betty out of her cage and going over to the Ibuson Goose feathered love couch.
Betty was his pet mouce. The antlered Mouce that Mecky had sent through the air mail as a souvenir on her way to Bermuda.
It was a last penchant from before she and Jonesy had disintegrated; A present of life and joy that waited him at the desk of the Apartment thingy after Operation 408 Diabetes Radish had been sucessfuly completed by Somp.
Now Betty was all he really had.
They both rested in front of the TV
'Everything's going great. Life is lovely. A hot air balloon landed safely today in South Venice and donations to the swift snoppling youth group were given out with joy by the generous celebrity foundation.
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