Previously: http://4-ch.net/dqn/kareha.pl/1310158763/
Let the fun times continue!
Prologue: The Death of
Naturally, Tharsh was forgetting about the GSL's innate ability to
spontaneously
combust, when she suddenly burst into flames. "Well, crap," thought Tharsh.
The spontaneous combustion of the GSL caused
the monitors
, that is to say, the small tribe of monitor lizards living nearby, to unhatch. They quickly formed protective layers of eggshell around their bodies to avoid getting scorched.
In a distant land, the nefarious Comfy Couch felt a tingling beneath his cushions. Robuana, whose power was still latent within the depths of the evil couch's folds, sensed that his brothers the monitor lizards had finally hatched. Perhaps there was still hope...
The comfy couch ignored the tingling and continued sofaing on toward his destination.
Back in the Land of Fingers, a fire was now spreading through
Tharsh's heart (metaphorically speaking). His
ass
had pimples.
Even these pimples had pimples. And these ass pimple pimples were, at this very moment,
getting carbuncles.
"Ow," he said.
Then,
proceeding to
some pretty good advice that he saw on TV last night the best thing to do was
to see a medical professional. So off he went to see his chiropractor, to fix what could only have been caused by subluxations.
As it happens, this chiropractor was none other than Mr Gray, making an unexpected return. After taking one glance at Tharsh's pimple pimple carbuncles,
he said "Ew. You need to see a dermatologist, dude. Also, you might want to put on a clean shirt, because they're gonna be taking pictures of you for the medical journals."
Tharsh swallowed his pride and
half a liter of semen, in order to improve the smell of his breath. He then
fished in his pockets for
his verification code.
"Fuck," he exclaimed upon finding it. "I wasn't expecting that!"
And by "that," Tharsh was referring to
the fact that his captcha was "tharsh". As the reader may or may not recall, Tharsh was originally born of a particularly interesting captcha. Thus
Tharsh remembered his true origins. No longer was he slave to the king of impudence. The power of captcha coursed through his body, and with a horrifying roar heard across the galaxy, Tharsh's original self siezed control from the impudent platypus. The mental change was reflected by a physical change, and Tharsh began to grow. He was transforming into a grotesque and terrifying platypus-mecha-hybrid version of his original human form, power armor and toast crumbs included!
"WHARRRGARBL! Toast for breakfast!" he cried, reciting his infamous catchphrase. If the GSL hadn't spontaneously combusted, she would have looked on and beamed with pride.
Thankfully, the GSL had had herself cloned a few days prior, just in case she happened to explode. But something had gone wrong! Her clone
did not have a delicious flat chest. Rather, she had developed a delicious somewhat-busty chest (B cup) and thus could hardly be called a loli, despite being otherwise identical to the GSL.
This enabled her to make a bit of money starring in teen porn videos on the side, though, so she got a lot more media exposure out of the cloning mishap.
As it happens,
it wasn't.
And so it came to be that
many things did come to pass. For verily, events were eventuating as swiftly as ever, and time stoppeth for no man, not even for Great Sky Loli clones. Indeed, the only one it doth stop for is the maid at the Scarlet Devil Mansion, who does not appear in this story and never will. But I digress.
Tharsh inhaled deeply and quizzically. Something smelled like poop.
Meanwhile, in the Turquoise Angel Mansion, a maid by the name of
Youka Naebi （八日萎日）
was pouring highly concentrated sodium hydroxide solution into one of the toilets, whose drain seemed to have been infested by some squeeky parasitic creatures. As usual, she did her work very slowly but with great care and precision.
Naebi's mistress was up to no good;
she started making trouble in my neighborhood.
We got in one little fight and my mom got scared, and said
"You're moving in with your auntie and uncle in Bel-Air."
Luckily, this was >>274's only appearance in this story, and so Naebi merely waved goodbye and wished him well in his new home.
She then convinced her mistress to come back home before it got too dark.
After all, there was a grand tea party to prepare for -
and the Hatter would certainly be there.
Her mistress was certainly looking forward to the Hatter's gift of new headgear. After all, the old popular saying rang just as true today: hatters gonna hat.
CHAPTER 3 + 4i: Partially Imaginary Tea Party ON DRUGS
>>279 decided "I am going to have a tea party!" Preparations were now underway with the help of General Andrés Rodríguez Pedotti, who ensured only the finest teas and raw cocaine would be available for the guests.
As the bell tolled noon, the first guests arrived: the
Cuntaluffigus and the
bourgeois elite, followed by
the multicoloured platypi and pink elephants. After them came a veritable horde of
pastel-colored talking cartoon ponies
who were promptly denied entry and beat up by the bouncers outside.
"Just a goddamn minute," said one of the pastel-colored talking cartoon ponies. "Are we real or are we hallucinations? Because if we're the latter, you can't keep us ou--" Then all the pastel-colored talking cartoon ponies vanished in a puff of logic.
Meanwhile inside the hall housing the party, waiters and waitresses were
hallucinating pastel-colored talking cartoon ponies. Or maybe the ponies were real. With all the raw cocaine at the party, who can say? Perhaps the pastel-colored talking cartoon ponies were hallucinating the waiters and waitresses. "Damn straight," said one of the ponies, her pupils the size of caraway seeds, a thin line of blood streaming down from her left nostril, which bore a white ring of powder. "This is some good shit, I tell you what."
Suddenly a gigantic apelike nigger burst in and started bludgeoning them with his massive jungle-dick.
His dick tasted of reeds swaying on the golden summer banks of our imaginary childhoods.
Ah, the days of strawberries and cream eaten while sitting by the creek on our nan's estate in the Dorset countryside, while grandad used to tell us stories of his first motorcar.
It was a 2001 Opel Corsa that he bought used. Granddad was not an early adopter. Nor was he
"If nothing is real, then everything is real," we concluded meaninglessly, sipping our steaming cup of Bohemian Berry Bouquet and doing another line.
"Ah, but do not so quickly discount your memories." General Andrés Rodríguez Pedotti said, reclining in an impossibly admonishing leather seat. Illegible badges filled his broad chest.
"The dichotomy of true or false is a trap," he continued. "One quickly realizes that such polarities are as meaningless as the ridiculous names of these teas." The general sipped on Simmering Cinnamon Soufflé. "If you have any memory or vision, true, imagined or drug-induced, it must have some significance. It is only up to each individual to deduce the meaning within various contexts."
We stared, not understanding, but entranced by the General's luxurious lecture.
"Follow the clues. A symbol gains meaning not from any objective source, but from its relative connection, presentation and appearance within the work it is presented."
interested in British brands. No sir, steering wheels on the left had always been good enough for him. A shame that he also never liked to drive on the left-hand side ... then, at his funeral in the autumn of 2002,
inane.
interested in British brands. No sir, a steering wheel on the left had always been good enough for him. A shame that he also never liked to drive on the left-hand side ... then, at his funeral in the autumn of 2002,
the timeline began to spiral in on itself like the cord on grandmother's phone.
grandpa rose from his coffin, appearing only to us. Nobody else could see him. He walked straight up to us and we could not move. We simply stared in horror as he said, "The tea is splitting. The narrative is splitting. There is no real thread. Nobody can piece together this novel...except perhaps...gray..."
In one horrifying moment we realized that grandpa was the General. Their lectures were simultaneous. Which thread to follow?
Mr. Gray awoke with a start. He had not hat a single paying customer since Tharsh, all those weeks ago. The recently enacted laws against pseudoscientific advertisements had been hard on chiropractors, who were now reduced to claims like "We'll listen to your complaints, then move your spine around until you either don't feel pain anymore or start to hemorrhage to death. It's very rarely both."
After sipping his strong black coffee sweetened with nothing but a >>300GET, he examined his strange feelings of déjà vu. Memories of the countryside in Dorset, a place he had never been to ... or indeed had existed since the short but extremely violent Anglo-Corean war of mid-September 1993. Clearly something needed to be done, and so he walked out into the
restaurant where Tharsh, Grandpa, and The General were arguing about which thread they were in. The pastel-colored talking cartoon ponies were beginning to look bored, and the drugs had run out some time ago.
"We can't stop here!" shouted Grandpa. "This is bat country!"
"No, it's rabbit country," said Beady Eyes, who had been hiding under a table all this time.
"It's duck season," said Tharsh.
"your silly," said the General.
"Your silly WHAT?" said the ponies.
"I need a drink," said the butler.
And then they all engaged in
a rousing game of Spin the Pickle, that quickly devolved into
a boring game of Spin the Pickle.
Speaking of which, who should burst in at that moment but
the Minute Earth Shota
, armed with a
treaty on gentrification and a
rather overripe banana. He thrust his banana into
the mouth of some sperg ranting about quotation marks to shut him up.
Every single guest attending the tea party
had a severe case of irritable bowel syndrome.
To relieve it, Pepto-Bismol was handed out.
However, every bottle had expired in the year
before it was issued, which did nothing at all to help everyone's explosive diarrhea.
Fortunately, everybody was too strung out on cocaine to really care anymore about the thin layer of shit that was beginning to flood the room.
Mr Gray's imaginary friend
had some fresher Pepto-Bismol but he was waiting for more people to demand it, so that he could sell it at a higher price. He was very cunning, as imaginary friends go.
Of course, the Pepto-Bismol itself was also imaginary.
Alas, the entire party descended into a drug fueled scene of chaos,
and they began an attempt to summon Vizier Maximus Schlong from the 69th circle of Hell.
But Vizier Maximus Schlong was not available at the moment, so they settled for his little brother Minimus Dingus.
Unfortunately, Minimus Dingus was known for his extreme bouts of rage fueled by jealousy towards his better-appreciated brother.
So instead, his twin sisters suddenly made an appearance.
The two of them sat down at a table and were served a cup of green tea and a tab of LSD each. They displayed delicate ladylike manners, which one wouldn't expect of denizens of the 69th circle of Hell.
The younger of the two sisters - better known as
Scanty, distracted her sister Kneesocks for a moment, then put both tabs of LSD in her sister's tea. Because that's just how demons are.
Meanwhile, outside in the garden, two
lunatics realized the necessity for reconstruction of their lives.
"Helen and I are going right after breakfast to see real estate agents about getting us a tenant, and Helen is going to purchase some cotton stockings. She still persists in sticking to the letter of her oath not to wear silk stockings until Daddy is home and well," said
After that an old Shaolin monk that was walking inside the garden said: follow the trips >>333
But nobody was listening. They were too busy
attempting to disprove the Riemann hypothesis. Unfortunately, they lacked