Toronto Breakfast Vestments

Writhing in explanatory torments, my cramped dwelling all crowded with loquacious horrors, i endured the meandering, almost wife-like, explanation of what task i was to perform and how that task related to the moon. Ah the moon, white mooney circular moonly moon. When bemooned, the man dreameth. Or so the bards constantly shouted from the bard-drome.

I could sense a weakening of the Ixtx elucidation field, wide enough for a man to crawl through. And yet, manners dictated that i patiently wait, even unto death, until they completed their punitive enlightenment. I had but one chance.

“Beep beep”, i beeped.

And with that, the room fell silent. The Ixtx explanation chamber loudly resounded with a chasmic silence. Freedom.

“I’ll do it. UNder one condition,” i spoke, quickly and loudly, taking on breaths to allow any resumption of the interminable account of the various categories of moon-related sentiments, who created them, exemplars of their exemplars, “that you deliver your explanation into the anus of a chrono-boy, that he might excrete a small brown synopsis. You may answer only with a single word, or I will enter voidslumber, never to awaken.”

It was a risky bluff, as i actually wasnt’ feeling particularly sleepy, and infact, as they well knew, had just awoken from whatever form of torpor they had subjected me to to bring me to this unfamiliar and medium-scale, rent controlled locale. Still, i was a good bluffer. Or shaver. I don’t remember which. I hope its bluffer. Psyche. I was bluffing there; i did remember which. It was shaver.

“Agreed,” they agreed agreeably. With a clap of their flaps they summoned a short pants-man from a heretofore unguessed pants closet in one of the green smelling corners of the room. He held in his slacks a chrono-boy, nude from the waist down, and wriggling gleefully as though perceiving all this weird science fiction type randomness as a fun game, or one of those bears that tickles kids after eating their parents. He had no idea what was to come.

In moments the Ixtx were upon him, pressing hard their elucidation trunks deep into the anoid chamber of the buttocks sector of the boy. His face conformed to a new topography, ridged and furrowed with the geomancy of pain. But within moments, the explanation had ended. The ixtx tale, compressed in time, all of its eons into a single 90 minute intrusion, was now done. All that remained was for the time-lad to condense it. This would take forever. Probably longer than the explanation would have. Actually, on second thought, it was really the one element of the plan that made the whole plan worse than the problem it was devised to thwart. But i guess that’s what they call a win-win situation. I guessed wrong. But i didnt’ know that at the time. I mean, at this time. Since this is the present, i am saying that i am both simultaenously aware and unaware that i dont’ know what ‘win win situation” means and how it is applied. It was at that moment that i realized that cognitive dissonance was forming a freudian-lloydian revisionary pulse, and my oraton was its origin. OPening my mouth to release the dissonant cognition from my body, it careened out into the sky, striking the large sphere we call the moon, ol’ moonly, or sometimes, the retired uncle. Uncle moon. Now, the Late uncle Moon, deceased.

the ixtx spoke: “this is basically what we were saying we wanted to avoid.” the irony. At that very moment, a greatly encapsulated precis of the entire timeparadoxical situation plooped out of the chrono-boy’s anus, into my lap. An ironic brown reminder of my own pre-destined failure, and a nugget of hope that, through the clearly formerly unsuccessful means of travelling back in time and trying to prevent this from happening (as the ixtx had just failed to succesfully do), i could succeed most triumphantly. I only had one question.

“Where is your time lute, Ixtx, for i have to travel through a time riff. Get it? Rift.” Nothing. “Lute style.”

to be continued…