“There’s a tiny little Italian goombah, living in your heart, screaming for gabagool.”
My physician, Dr. Grunkis, works out of an alley in Little Saigon, Seattle. He has a nurse named Jenny, and he uses an old Florsheim shoes foot x-ray. He popped that jenky thing over my chest, and it made a terrible noise as I felt burning and smelled burning chest hair.
“You can see here, there’s the problem”, Doc points randomly at the fluoroscope, and then motions his nurse for the anesthetic – a fifth of Jack and a couple swacks across the head with a tent-peg hammer.
The surgery to remove the little ENZO took 5 hours, and the sirens from cop cars pulling into the alley is what woke me up …
And that little Enzo, he just scampered into the sewers … screaming “GABAGOOL” …
Something weird is going on in Sector-19, something scary.
We’re sending out forces to investigate, but already we are receiving reports of “Wisconsin type love making” among the groblon-herders and there are concerns that the color-breasted harvel-wolves will go mad and attack random farmers planting corn.
Stories of migration and shaking, as if the Temple of the Dead Spirit has split in two and the last soldiers were killed in Scompton. No one knows why the monkey-sauce restaurants have stopped serving Danish people, or why the last Earl of Sweden is hungover and near dead in Stockholm. Xenii musketeers shower lead upon the rampart, but we’re still not sure how many “hairy Karens” are left roving those greasy streets.
We’re sending scientists and sorcerers and witches to the center of this thing. They’ll travel in tunneling ships and hoor-barges and by hyper-tube. Their equipment will be the latest in REI survival ware, with various bloob-guns and hex-grenades and a few of them “bouncing Betty’s” the kids keep talking on about. The scientists will keep notes and sketches, harboring fears of the Bishop Cycle, and the other star travelers from Mars. They’ll send word soon, and then that dread mystery will be solved.
Some people fear it’s about that new BUTT VIRUS that’s crawling up the pipes …
Sector-19 has had out of control roach-scurbing and bubbly body wash victory soap. There are dead henkel-birds all across the roads and muskrat trackers are getting lost in the subways, stepping on needles, doing the “blues” and then jumping into the train. Can’t be sure about the snake venom treatments, some people are drinking bleach mixed with sand and glass in order to expel their personal demons. Sector-19 is falling apart.
Gord-forgers, unleashing New Zealand bee-pollen bull testicle extract MAGIC, will lead the Uug-Too Tribe beyond the edge of infinity. There will be strange demons along the way, and huntress widows and old clasping freaks. The crab will settle upon the mud, as Seeg-Ruun builds his palace upon the golden mountain. But this will give way to transcendence, and Sector-19 will find peace.
I’m not a fudd or luddite: but I think both black powder AND archery should be considered when preparing for the times ahead. This makes NEITHER a good substitute for a suitable semi-automatic carbine or pistol (and the implied training and proper ammo).
