he remembered something his father had once told him:
"Son, when you grow up, would you be the saviour of the broken, the beaten and
those with godawful taste in music?' His father had always been prone to non sequitur after the third whisky or so.
He chanced a dreary look beyond the window. It was still raining cats and dogs outside, of course.
Every once in a while, Barcelona
was like that. Blood and animal cries filled the streets and his heart with sorrow. Suddenly, his 600 GET just wasn't so tasty anymore. "Excuse me, waitress," he called, "
as he proceeded to sit in despair at the scene before him. He got so mad that he smacked his plate off of the table and left. He would figure out what caused this travesty if it was the last thing he did. However, he first called...
his one and only friend in the entire world,
( ・-・) 'sup
. Mr Eyes picked up the phone after four rings, greeting him with
a comment so vulgar and obscene that Satan, a truck driver, and a sailor looked on in horror at such words.
How Satan came to be employed as a truck driver and a sailor is a story for another time.
After a brief exchange of insults, the two gentlemen agreed to
fart on their respective mothers and
got arrested. In jail they
languished and lamented for weeks until, by a bizarre stroke of luck,
they got released. Turns out you can only be jailed for so long when the worst crime they can pin on you is Conspiracy to Break Wind on a Family Member. Who knew?
( ・-・) The Shadow knows.
" said the schizophrenic,
It was about this time the author realized he had completely gone astray and, for the sake of passable literature, probably ought never write and drink in the near future. Halfway to inebriated forgetfulness, however, and anxious to hammer out a somewhat logical plot before blacking out entirely, he trudged on. His efforts were admirable at the least - really quite astounding at the most, given his vodka-induced stupor.
We at the Gutenberg Project are therefore proud to present the work salvaged from the wreckage of that long and tiresome night.
Chapter 4: It's Always Sunny In Venice
Mr Gray was not having a good evening. His best
jockstrap snapped, cheapest condoms
were sold out, and his Thai masseuse
inserted
her cock into his rectum without even the common courtesy to give him a reacharound. He wasn't too sure whether the female pronoun still applied in this case, either. And to top it all off,
Venice was still a rather shitty place to live.
Super Mario
, in short, wasn't feeling super at all today.
Yet, the neko-android still decided to
try to sell enough magazine subscriptions to win a pizza party. This attempt was met with
ubiquitous disinterest.
The depressed Venetians were all
blind
drunk, alone in their own apartments, wishing they
had felt instead of thought, and become tanasinn.
But it was not to be. Their combined powers of loneliness, however, turned out to be the source of power for
Italian Power Metal bands, who used that power to power their power-hungry amplifiers in order to show their audiences (with their strange insistence on attending concerts in powers of two) the power of RAWK. Powerfully.
It was totally rad, but
Islam has infused, absorbed, supplanted and dialoged with
a pig's anus
to such a degree that it is no longer of any relevance to this story.
The insignificant machinations of the poor wretched Venetians were about to be overshadowed entirely by
Dr. Robotnik's
elbow.
In fact, it was around this time that Dr. Robotnik's elbow, Eddie, had gained awareness of itself and begun its journey of criticizing others. He had buried himself deep into the sunset sandbox of his childhood days, the cold wet sand tickling his nerve endings, when he felt a soft, fleshy sensation that was unmistakably the warm cheek of Venice.
Mr. Gray
didn't even begin to
What did /a/ think of True Tears? shughive
care about questions like "
He was too busy plotting how to become an Earl and have a flavor of tea named after him.
Unfortunately for Mr Gray,
the predicament of such magnitude he found himself accost,
with thoughts that could only be described ( as per the words of James Goldstein III, writer for the Dallas Autismal Times) as "the most sadistic, violent, and erotic thoughts since..."
[the rest of the comment was omitted by order of
In any case, the trap was set. And who better to trip it than the man himself - the one whom all those years before had
lost himself in fantasy and lost sight of his true self.
Yes, years ago, this man had woven together an elaborate narrative in which he himself had posed as various characters, including a Panda, Beady Eyes, Chairman George Bush CXXVIII, George Bush CXXIX, Ran-tan-tan, the sexy nurse from pokemon, Franz Kafka, Lord "Cat Fanny" Catfannerkins, Robopa, Deequn, Clonepa, Grandpa, Arf, the great sky loli, Tristan, Claire, Reimu, Marisa, Gerald Jay Sussman, Roger Ebert, Dr. Robotnik, Snorlax, Sonic the Hedgehog, Knuckles the Echidna, Phil Collins, Takakazu Abe, Masaki Michishita, Porky Pig, Captain Gay Sparkle, Doctor Fujiwara, Mr. DQN Short Novel, DQN-kun, Woll Smoth, Wool Smooth, Sean Connery, Charles, Daddy Cool, Smug Fathead, PenPen, IsIs, Mike, the terminator, Richard M. Stallman, St. Shii DCLXVI, Marie Antoinette, Ms. Cho, a young man of Nordic descent, Aphrodite, Super Mario, the neko-android, Eddie the elbow, and of course, Mr. Gray himself.
But now Mr. Gray was about finally realize the madness in which he had been living. In his final dying moments after stumbling upon his own trap, all would become clear: he and these characters had been one and the same all along.
But just as Mr. Gray was about to stumble into his own trap,
his evil twin brother
wished him a happy St. Patrick's Day. Momentarily distracted, Mr. Gray
took a run for it and
somehow ended up in Timbuktu. The
Malian Empire had waned, but the Timbuktu-to-Bamako rail line was
the same it had always been. That is to say; shitty and in terrible condition.
It wasn't the only thing that was shitty and in terrible condition, as
Mr Gray's mental health was in a similar state. Without a
parasol to keep him from the rain, the drops smacking his bald head through the roofless train brought back terrible memories of
his young life on the pigeon farm, where
his parents raised him as a pigeon, keeping him in a tiny cage and feeding him breadcrumbs. Even today, he occasionally
ate stale bread from a stainless steel bowl, while feeling rather self-conscious. Alas, said bowl―a family heirloom―was nowhere to be found among his luggage.
Suddenly, accompanied by wailing and gnashing of teeth, the train screeched to a halt
as the driver had nodded off at the controls and slumped forward at an unfortunate angle.
The passengers slowly looked up from the personal worlds into which they had each retreated and wearily eyed each other warily. Nobody moved, all waiting for somebody else to do their thinking for them. Finally a rugged man on his way to the Bamako salt mines stood up and said,
"I'm tired of these motherfucking people on this motherfucking train!" He then proceeded to
go back to doing his sudoku, looking somewhat self-concious. His outcry prompted
Mr. Gray to open the emergency window
, which caused a rogue stream of wind to whisk his sunglasses straight into the sky.
"Penis!" he swore.
His sunglasses flew away unheeding. They were about to begin a voyage of discovery, in which
the not-so-glorious god of
lolis in the sky would battle
with her own feelings of inadequacy. You see, even though she successfully annexed Poland,
she still secretly wished to have breasts. Thus, upon discovering Mr. Gray's sunglasses,
she took out her frustration on them by
Mr Gray was not aware of these events transpiring; he was
a penis.
connoisseur, well known for
the lengthy reviews of not-so-lengthy phalluses he regularly publishes on his tumblr.
Eventually, everyone's
thoughts and train carriages simultaneously derailed and everything floated off into space, causing
Mr Gray to wonder what had happened to gravity.
He poked his head out the window to investigate, and saw that the cause of this madness was
the great sky loli, whose bold fashion statement of twisted sunglassery had thrown the universe into chaos.
"Oh no!" lamented
the Bamakonian salt miner, "I've been doing this sudoku upside-down!"
Naturally, the
rest of Mr. Gray's night proceeded in rather the same manner as always.
That is to say, he began by pouring himself a glass of
piss
-poor quality Latvian wine and
was emanating strongly from between Dr. Robotnik's buttocks, along with a peculiar sound.
These were - of course - obvious signs of an upcoming momentous GET. However unlikely it may seem,
( ・-・) 700GE-- well, poo.
said Beady Eyes, narrowly missing the GET and leaving it open for none other than the mysterious masked assassin Arf, who said,