by Jim Meirose.
Dr. Toby VanDer-Uncle dried the last fork off his after dinner washing job, draped the towel off of the drainrack, and moved toward his big LiftyBoy reclinering TV viewing seat, hoping upon hope that a fine TV program would distract him from the bitterly-hot, but thankfully fading, disappointment—and also tinged with some light anger—that his patient, SandMe, had pretty much done everything possible to look unelectable during the five-minute tirade she unleashed over incumbent mayor Vicki Poole a few days back at the weekly city council meeting, but—no need to go over and over that yet one more time. Dr. Toby took the TV remote in his hand with a flourish, swiveled around, jabbed the on button, and the sudden hot bright off the eighty-four incher came around, grabbed him back down in the LiftyBoy that leaned him back, picked up his feet, and—quickly, he tuned up the channels ‘til he hit smack dab in a hot cycling commercial break, and it felt so good—after all the day’d done to him—that in mere instants the weekly show that set him up for the week to come, but, that—that is not pertinent—he sank into his personally private secret-right now—which technique he’d always advised the maximally stressed of his patient base to do—and, here it came it came over him; the massively domed barechested show host SecondLouie Raceyonnne Crashbang, thankfully yes, yes, took over the day from Dr. VanDer-Uncle thankfully, so very thankfully, Hell—and thankfully welcome, yes, to yet another episode of Bruisemasters! This week, live and direct from the Regional SuperMax General Purpose Regional Punishment Center in Black Crag Nembraskatoon, okay, great; great, the doctor set back and let it take him to where those of you tuning in for the first time are, so, jus’ let me play catchup. Bruisemasters pits the most powerful punchers to be found ‘cross the penal system against each other in a competition to see which of them can punch hardest, and sharpest, into a volunteer human punching bag’s back—this being measured by waiting to see how large, over the required number of days, the resultant bruise on the subject’s back will become. The puncher who delivers to their subject the largest bruise as measured in simple inches high, and wide, will go on to the next round, and be immune from further punishment. Those whose bruises do not measure up, will be pitted against each other in intense and immediate face-to-face barechested slugfest elimination rounds—the rules of which will be explained to you later, before that takes place. But now, let me introduce to you the contestants for the single largest bruise from a single blow event. Measurement. Come on out, kids—Dr. VanDer-Uncle perked up in anticipation of finding which three of the large field of Bruisemaster contestants had not been eliminated in last week’s episode, as he had missed the big slugfest last time—hey, here’s BigPunch McSister who took the top spot last week and, let’s also welcome back Big Jon Blackout, who survived that round also, and, McGanglion Dello-Beatinyouassiani—my God, just look at those massive hands—where, ah shit no, must relax, ah shit, missed the names, what’d they say, sorry, but I just had to say it again, McGanglion, shit; pay attention now, my private lonely-lone now; now, breathe deep slow real really slow okay now here we are, watch and listen—here and now—okay I’m caught up to things now, so, our fourth contestant tonight, new to the show, please a big hand for Big Warlow Glysander—an odd duck, who, while being also from the Black Crag SuperMax, hails from the other side of the fence, so to speak, being a member of the SuperMax back-office administrative staff. Let’s take a moment for you, Mr. Glysander, to tell the viewing audience something of yourself, and how you came to mount Bruisemaster’s stage tonight.
Okay, calm down, but Sure, SecondLouie. First, I’d like to say how honored I am to be here tonight. And that I am ranked up against these three hulking examples of hard-punching excellence. I’ve been a fan of your show since the very first episode—ah, but it’s behind us now. I don’t know how, really, but something about it pulled me in gradually, limb by limb, I would say—but, I think, in answer to your question, I don’t really have an answer, and I think that I don’t have one that nails it down hard that I need to be here—eek—what’s done is done, and’s not that I want to, but, that I need to—plus; it may in fact be the will of God that I be here, and, you know full well, SecondLouie, that accepting the will of God without question is somewhat of a definition of the holy word, faith. If I carry the fight tonight, then, as the great poem I wrote back-bedinion says so bluntly; I must suffer today for my faith, because I’m Percy. I’m Percy. I’m Percy. And, I suffer for my name, because I’m Faith. Yes, I’m Faith.
All right, Warlow, that’s all truly inspiring, and I am sure there are young viewers out there who will for the rest of their lives remember where they were when you answered this question on live TV tonight, ah, of course they will know, by all that’s hot Willy! In front of the TV they will have been. That’s a clue. Where else, but—that aside, let’s make way for this week’s voluntary human punching bags. Come on out, men! From left to right, say your names, current occupations, and outline your most severe aggressive tendencies.
My name’s Manny Squan, and I’m anger, when the talk gets hot. In private life I’m a professional rollerball.
D’Andre Quiteawide here, night shift man when it gets nasty, she Burns’ Spittoons.
Hulk “the man” Barnburnette, legal policeman. Somewhile’s lip-biter.
I’m Harvestly Sludgenick, top boy off‘n Gruber’s.
Good! So, let’s get right into it. Human punching bags, line up over there, shirts and shoes off, policies in place, grip the bars and straighten up, you know the drill; the drill you know, the you know, the drill; know the drill ehh, ‘hen BigPunch McSister stepped up slamming a rockfulla’ knuckle in the pad of Mr. Squan then; and longstory’s shortening down further as McGanglion Dello-Beatinyouassiani stomped hard into D’Andre’s soft leftback, before Big John Blackout slammed one deep to Barnburnette’s leftsided ribcage—like I told that–then, the round finished down with Glysander giving Harvestly Sludgenick a devastating sledgeblow right ‘tween hi’ blades—that SandMe—sometimes, you got to walk away ‘n let them win’s, the better. Yah so, so, sometimes. Sometimes you got to back off, SandMe, I told her—sometimes you got to let them win a few points—Glysander went in then—then later hit hard and get twice the points back. Or, thrice the points, or ten times, or totally make them back off—went in for the win, and—they will. in time, turn tail and run. Yes! Back off, turn tail, and run, and run, and back off, what’s that? Oh, so what about D’Andre? Did’e turn tail on the TV—what why who’re thos’ lovers all kissing—‘s nothing to do with beatings ‘n backings, uh, what show? What why, where’s a’ shit, my back’s killing me; where’s the show, what show, my show?
God damn!
No. Yes.
God damn, the time! The time!
Straight down-up the shit LiftyBoy’s downslam!
Crap.
Shit! Missed the whole show again today!
Oh well, rise, go, pop a few, get down, so up, to hit the bed ‘n forget.
Thus. And, so the Psychologist typically went.