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Day 10: Celebrity Skins and Celebrex Skeins

futureccapeMy companion, the time travelling impending man and my somewhat benefactor, all a slurn and divermlent in his acaborience, desmerviated his absalobulent morbrianisms, transbundulently aplex me, chestwise. And thus, our brovariance was reduced to the .2% threshold, giving us intercepticon’s quotient.

We nodded to one another, clear on what to do next.

The ancient military figure, his blue uniform and loaded metallic projectile cannon connoting a local constabulary’s association, his squawking sentient shoulder squid reaming off numerical codes of deeds and misdeeds done and misdone by men and mismen in the deluminations of the prurient nocturnal shroud of gloomy tenebritude, obscured by the billowing contents of a sky-container a-packed with overcastness and cloud. Aye, ’twas night, ’twas night. ‘Twas the grim and gamboling herd of woolen habermen, half plundering wayfarers looting through the starless mirk, and shandaloofing ponst the meloncholy moor of tractless, vast and hollow space itself, abode of the moon, loom of the black cloak of wonders and dreams.

What sky that a feather on its wing is not a thousand upon a thousand darknesses, a filament of conducive light-vacuum, that in its shimmerless clastical frenzy, doth blurt asunder the verb of luminance, vocably disfiguring the taught visage of all murmuring sparticles of light, light, light. The sun a shrunken despot of a threadbare palace, enmirked now by the passage of the dusk, the drought of her golden rivers, the dried scar of her once blue lake, a feint of sullen expanse, drifting in a moorless sea of desolation.

And lo, we itinerants two, our preamble but a fleeting speech freshly spoke, and our destiny in witless doubt, now lay in darkness in some ancient epoch. Our lambency of forethought dimly illuminating it’s own lack of agency, as the candle shows in flickering relief the fading wax that by increments immeasurably small, imperceptibly evanesces away, eating itself all the while. Now, upon this grim and ancient surface our bodies in mute contemplation lay, my slithering now complete, the constable and his ensigns, his metal fagments and his fibrous vegetable fabric sheath, hued blue like the whale’s back, now summons forth his compatriots. His phalanx of hoplites summoned to form the square, and we the barbarian army against which their shields will tilt, and their spears will lash.

What hope have we? We two so far out of time, out of place, I a body unseemly to the eyes, yes, to the true and real eyes of man? Of a man so unlike myself as to me like the flatworm is to him, so shaped and rigid, trapped in its form, dependant on vision, aye, vision! And its sweet taste just fresh on my lips is now drunk and spent. To see again, to see again!

My contemplation phase struck me by suprise. It comes, like zebliant dispersal, every 21 days. By place-mat treaty, no man, feman, or genitalsless unman can be made captive within a week of his contemplation phase, his “conties”.

“Did you just, was that just your conties?” my companion implied heavily with a few gesticulations and words.

“Yes. How did you know? I thought i was able to camoflage my conties fairly well? I trained to go into a default mode of saying “my name a-borat” over and over, thus passing myself off as a likable and funny individual who has participated in the popular entertianmet of the day, and remembered a line from it.”

“You certainly repeated that phrase, but you also did something else.” His brow seemed to grow heavier, and his head smelled distinctly tilted in one direction. I followed the demonstrative scent across the room.

“What hath I wrought? What works!?” The wave of guilt struck me like a tree with a lamp. For there, at my slunt grabblers, was the freshly vivisected, dismembered, and reassembled neo-corpse, of a Galgravolt. A galgravolt that, until before my Conties, had been a police man.”

“How did that happen?”

my companion paused, then deigned to fracture the air with his voice, “You reverted to a maker. During your conties, you became a maker.”


“I saw it with my own eyes!”


“No, don’t introvert now! It’s true, i saw it, i saw it! YOu reverted to a MAKER!”

I refused to belve such superstitious concepts as makers and g-spot orgasms, or felt tipped japanese grandparents. I REFUSE to participate in heresy. And yet…. there before me lay the galgravoltian fact. And as I always say, a fact is like a wool brick. It has no real capacity to hurt anyone, but it’s nonetheless unpleasant, but routinely given as a birthday present. ONly this present confronted my entire belief set, a set that I had not yet removed from its original packaging. All my original beliefs remained, pristine, in alphabetical order, unmarred by any wool bricks of truth. Until today.

“But if this galgravolt is real.. and you didnt’ create it.. then… i must have…”

“THen the legends are true.”

To be continued… on this website, and on oscillator spike.

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