Airstrip One
kiwifarms.net
- Joined
- Aug 12, 2024
The night was All Hallows Eve. The carved pumpkins had returned en masse from their Spring migration to Africa, where they had feasted on the bodies of those who had been killed in the numerous civil wars that plagued the continent. The breeding season was now underway. Already, the plaintive chirp of baby pumpkins could be heard emanating from some of the straw nests that garnished front porches across America. Legions of plastic skeletons, who had never known the touch of flesh against bone, gazed with empty eye sockets at the neighbouring houses, like envious proxies of their owners. Children clothed in the stereotypical attire of witches, or dressed as one of the Transformers, moved in groups from house to house, where they reaped the ample bounty of the recent candy harvest.
In the sulphurous bowels of Hell, an armada of camera drones plucked a gnomish, Chilean man, named Gonzalo Lira, from a boiling lake of Ukrainian piss, and rammed his head repeatedly against a gong that was engraved with Nickelback lyrics. As the reverberations spread throughout the Inferno and into Purgatory, the damned dutifully shuffled towards the fleet of minibuses that were to transport them to the mortal realm, where they would aimlessly wander the earth, feasting on the brains of the living and causing other related mischief. As the last of these buses departed, it became apparent that there were some who had slept through the alarm:
In Mexico, a recently-deceased man named Ethan Ralph was embarking on the third day of an epic live/deadstream. If anyone had seen fit to alert the authorities, after he had incoherently slurred, mid-sentence, into the reluctant arms of oblivion, then no formal action had been taken. As his audience continued to grow, the accumulated superchats climbed to a total that would have provoked the man, were he still alive, to rise from the Rorschach blot shart stain of his feculent gamer chair and perform the celebratory dance of the morbidly obese, while he chanted the mantra: “Tax free! Tax free!” The chat was keeping a diligent count of the number of flies that the decaying body had attracted. One of these insects, who had been named 'Hitler Fly', had gained for itself a measure of celebrity after it landed in the centre of the dead man's upper lip, where it briefly resembled a small moustache.
In Minnesota, a bearded, hollow-eyed, goblin-like creature with an emaciated physique, was crab-walking over the exposed rafters of the Tilstone Community Church. Its testes, which were encased in garish purple armour, dangled lasciviously, like a blasphemous icon.
“Here's St Nick, boys and girls!” it would occasionally cry out, in between guttural, whiskey-breath-infused mis-citations of US case law, rendered in profanity-strewn ancient Aramaic.
The adults in the congregation had formed a protective huddle around the children who appeared to be the target of the entity, as it rained down a white-powdery substance from a pair of repurposed talcum powder bottles, while the men on the outer reaches of the scrum pelted it with hymn books and hardbound copies of the New International Bible.
Nearby, in the parallel realm of Metokuria, where the battle that will decide the ultimate fate of the human race will be fought by its greatest champions, on somebody's front driveway, the Potato Lich, Jimothia, was celebrating Halloween the only way he knew how. Removing another section of vertebrae from his already greatly-reduced spine, he lovingly crumbled the nodule of bone into the boiled sweet mixture that he was stirring on the burner.
His companion – a hissing succubus who the Lich King had housebroken by correctly guessing her true name – Jadelicious – dutifully folded coloured sheets of sugar into the shape of letters, that would eventually spell out the incantation 'Buy my hats' in the sticks of seaside rock that they would hand out to trick or treaters.
The received wisdom was that most lich kings were, by and large, total cunts. Everyone agreed that Jimothia, his feral demon bride, and the delicious, vertebrae-infused boiled sweets that hypnotised all who consumed them into becoming his obedient minions, were actually alright and a credit to the undead.
Over a thousand miles away in a re-possessed storage locker, an oil painting of the aspiring brothel keeper / homeless DoorDash delivery driver, Russell Greer, was growing more and more handsome by the second.
The mouth-breathing subject of the portrait could be found nearby, loping along the side of Interstate 15, like a coyote that had come down with a particularly virulent case of mange. As Officer Peruski focused the spotlight on the creature, it froze in an open-mouthed Nosferatu pose, as if it was unaccustomed to such attention.
“That our guy?”
“Our guy was sewn together from the body parts of black men who were killed by the police while overdosing on fentanyl,” said Sergeant Gordon. “Does he remind you of any black men you've killed recently?”
“I guess that's why you earn the big bucks, sarge.” said Peruski, turning off the light. “Shall we swing by Denny's for some late-night chow?”
A haunted look clouded the face of Sergeant Gordon.
“Do you mind if we go to Arby's instead? Only the last time I went to Denny's I had some kind of post-traumatic episode. I didn't know what I'd ordered. The kids were staring at me like I was crazy. When we got home, Sheila and I had a big fight.”
“Arby's it is,” said Peruski, as he swung the car around in an illegal U-turn.
Greer had reached the Maxene Andrews Community Hall where the auditions for America's Got Talent were being held. It was an inauspicious venue for such a prestigious competition. He assumed they were keeping things on the down low in order to keep out the riff-raff.
As he entered the hall, his face, were it capable of falling, would have fallen. The disappointment boiled in his eyes. Facing him were a group of familiar monsters sitting in an open circle.
“Hello Russell, please take a seat,” said the Abomination from the Brown Lake. “Johnson, do you want to start.”
A burly man, wearing a bloodstained hockey mask, rose to his feet. From the pocket of his anorak he removed a card with a bloodied handprint on it and began to read:
“Russell, like you I used to believe that I was entitled to the attention of women. I became bitter when they repeatedly ran away from me in abject terror. The problem with going after cheerleaders is those girls have really good cardio. It hurt that, even when I was in the best shape of my life, as a result of chasing them through Cunt Grope Woods, all the way they to Stink Finger Point, they continued to spurn my advances. It took an intervention from my friends for me to realise that, when a woman is screaming and attempting to fend off your attempts to hack them to pieces with wild swings of a blunted farm implement, what they are really saying is 'No, I do not consent.'
“Just because my mother superglued a hockey mask to my face when I was five, and told me that all girls are filthy whores, doesn't mean that, as I man, shouldn't listen to and acknowledge their truth.
“Now, that group of college students who came looking for me as part of a documentary they were making on urban legends – that was implied consent. I pulled that one dude's entrails out through his asshole with a boathook.”
“My wake-up call was when I received my third cease and desist from Miley Cyrus's lawyers after I invaded her dreams,” said the paedophile janitor with garden sheers for hands, Francis Kroger.
“But I'm disabled. I need accommodations, “ pleaded Greer.
“Dude, that sucks,” said Dan, a teenage zombie who had been shotgunned in a stick-up at a 7-11.
Pausing to reattach his jaw, he continued: “You've gotta realise that attempting to sue women into going to bed with you is just plain wrong. We may be monsters. That doesn't mean we have to also be dicks.”
After Greer had stalked from the building and given it a one-star review on Yelp, the monsters gathered together in small groups, prior to heading out to various Halloween parties.
I guess he just wasn't ready to hear it,” said the 15.4 Metre Chestfeeder.
“Whoever made this coffee is the real monster,” said Finklestein's Golem.
In the sulphurous bowels of Hell, an armada of camera drones plucked a gnomish, Chilean man, named Gonzalo Lira, from a boiling lake of Ukrainian piss, and rammed his head repeatedly against a gong that was engraved with Nickelback lyrics. As the reverberations spread throughout the Inferno and into Purgatory, the damned dutifully shuffled towards the fleet of minibuses that were to transport them to the mortal realm, where they would aimlessly wander the earth, feasting on the brains of the living and causing other related mischief. As the last of these buses departed, it became apparent that there were some who had slept through the alarm:
In Mexico, a recently-deceased man named Ethan Ralph was embarking on the third day of an epic live/deadstream. If anyone had seen fit to alert the authorities, after he had incoherently slurred, mid-sentence, into the reluctant arms of oblivion, then no formal action had been taken. As his audience continued to grow, the accumulated superchats climbed to a total that would have provoked the man, were he still alive, to rise from the Rorschach blot shart stain of his feculent gamer chair and perform the celebratory dance of the morbidly obese, while he chanted the mantra: “Tax free! Tax free!” The chat was keeping a diligent count of the number of flies that the decaying body had attracted. One of these insects, who had been named 'Hitler Fly', had gained for itself a measure of celebrity after it landed in the centre of the dead man's upper lip, where it briefly resembled a small moustache.
In Minnesota, a bearded, hollow-eyed, goblin-like creature with an emaciated physique, was crab-walking over the exposed rafters of the Tilstone Community Church. Its testes, which were encased in garish purple armour, dangled lasciviously, like a blasphemous icon.
“Here's St Nick, boys and girls!” it would occasionally cry out, in between guttural, whiskey-breath-infused mis-citations of US case law, rendered in profanity-strewn ancient Aramaic.
The adults in the congregation had formed a protective huddle around the children who appeared to be the target of the entity, as it rained down a white-powdery substance from a pair of repurposed talcum powder bottles, while the men on the outer reaches of the scrum pelted it with hymn books and hardbound copies of the New International Bible.
Nearby, in the parallel realm of Metokuria, where the battle that will decide the ultimate fate of the human race will be fought by its greatest champions, on somebody's front driveway, the Potato Lich, Jimothia, was celebrating Halloween the only way he knew how. Removing another section of vertebrae from his already greatly-reduced spine, he lovingly crumbled the nodule of bone into the boiled sweet mixture that he was stirring on the burner.
His companion – a hissing succubus who the Lich King had housebroken by correctly guessing her true name – Jadelicious – dutifully folded coloured sheets of sugar into the shape of letters, that would eventually spell out the incantation 'Buy my hats' in the sticks of seaside rock that they would hand out to trick or treaters.
The received wisdom was that most lich kings were, by and large, total cunts. Everyone agreed that Jimothia, his feral demon bride, and the delicious, vertebrae-infused boiled sweets that hypnotised all who consumed them into becoming his obedient minions, were actually alright and a credit to the undead.
Over a thousand miles away in a re-possessed storage locker, an oil painting of the aspiring brothel keeper / homeless DoorDash delivery driver, Russell Greer, was growing more and more handsome by the second.
The mouth-breathing subject of the portrait could be found nearby, loping along the side of Interstate 15, like a coyote that had come down with a particularly virulent case of mange. As Officer Peruski focused the spotlight on the creature, it froze in an open-mouthed Nosferatu pose, as if it was unaccustomed to such attention.
“That our guy?”
“Our guy was sewn together from the body parts of black men who were killed by the police while overdosing on fentanyl,” said Sergeant Gordon. “Does he remind you of any black men you've killed recently?”
“I guess that's why you earn the big bucks, sarge.” said Peruski, turning off the light. “Shall we swing by Denny's for some late-night chow?”
A haunted look clouded the face of Sergeant Gordon.
“Do you mind if we go to Arby's instead? Only the last time I went to Denny's I had some kind of post-traumatic episode. I didn't know what I'd ordered. The kids were staring at me like I was crazy. When we got home, Sheila and I had a big fight.”
“Arby's it is,” said Peruski, as he swung the car around in an illegal U-turn.
Greer had reached the Maxene Andrews Community Hall where the auditions for America's Got Talent were being held. It was an inauspicious venue for such a prestigious competition. He assumed they were keeping things on the down low in order to keep out the riff-raff.
As he entered the hall, his face, were it capable of falling, would have fallen. The disappointment boiled in his eyes. Facing him were a group of familiar monsters sitting in an open circle.
“Hello Russell, please take a seat,” said the Abomination from the Brown Lake. “Johnson, do you want to start.”
A burly man, wearing a bloodstained hockey mask, rose to his feet. From the pocket of his anorak he removed a card with a bloodied handprint on it and began to read:
“Russell, like you I used to believe that I was entitled to the attention of women. I became bitter when they repeatedly ran away from me in abject terror. The problem with going after cheerleaders is those girls have really good cardio. It hurt that, even when I was in the best shape of my life, as a result of chasing them through Cunt Grope Woods, all the way they to Stink Finger Point, they continued to spurn my advances. It took an intervention from my friends for me to realise that, when a woman is screaming and attempting to fend off your attempts to hack them to pieces with wild swings of a blunted farm implement, what they are really saying is 'No, I do not consent.'
“Just because my mother superglued a hockey mask to my face when I was five, and told me that all girls are filthy whores, doesn't mean that, as I man, shouldn't listen to and acknowledge their truth.
“Now, that group of college students who came looking for me as part of a documentary they were making on urban legends – that was implied consent. I pulled that one dude's entrails out through his asshole with a boathook.”
“My wake-up call was when I received my third cease and desist from Miley Cyrus's lawyers after I invaded her dreams,” said the paedophile janitor with garden sheers for hands, Francis Kroger.
“But I'm disabled. I need accommodations, “ pleaded Greer.
“Dude, that sucks,” said Dan, a teenage zombie who had been shotgunned in a stick-up at a 7-11.
Pausing to reattach his jaw, he continued: “You've gotta realise that attempting to sue women into going to bed with you is just plain wrong. We may be monsters. That doesn't mean we have to also be dicks.”
After Greer had stalked from the building and given it a one-star review on Yelp, the monsters gathered together in small groups, prior to heading out to various Halloween parties.
I guess he just wasn't ready to hear it,” said the 15.4 Metre Chestfeeder.
“Whoever made this coffee is the real monster,” said Finklestein's Golem.
