by Jim Meirose.
Presented to the ever-deserving by urinal on the birthday of Bungii-Jummpo, fast goddess of knowledge; inside’n off of’n the outréstate, four ‘r five wonkeyheads from lemony melondown searched wildly through thunderstorms for matches that might catch.
If not, Melondead will down their batch.
Like watching the TV when something made sense, so. As a boy, small—eight or nine. Switch through the TV to know which shows are on, uh, oh—well, there it was, so. There’s his first Frankenstein. Watched only in slices though, ‘cause quite frightening. The bad monster-man in the big suit’s head and brains are severely damaged. He’s raging all raging to break a cell door to grip and destroy a dwarfishly gnomonal shortstaffed sub-man, who teases him through the bars; torments, mocks, laughs, an’ eh—no—much too terrifying; so, get away, turn the knob.
Off.
Much too terrifying.
Go slow to the case of low books to the left which his brother, the man, had built up on earth here in their cool life-living frontroom. Pull out the bone of the ‘cyclopedia book collection, racked out three foot long. Open at random as done always, to a word. This time this word’s—juggernaut. This word’s juggernaut. Juggernaut-t-t-t. Named after three rough-hewn holy muncher effigies hand carved every fifty-one years to take part in the world-famous Lord MisterScheives’ festival. Ten thousand pieces of wood are required to make each huge bunching wagon; a name applied to them when the great Lord still walked the earth. When complete, the tallest will be ninety-six feet tall, and will weigh more than three hundred tons. A total of forty-two wheels each measuring six feet six inches in diameter and six feet in width are required for the three bunching wagons. The cutting of the axle-logs to the required sizes required seventy-seven sawmills ranting ‘n raving simultaneously. The wheels are affixed to the principal axles on the last day of the Hot Cap festival. The exquisitely detailed decorative carvings covering the wagons are inspired by Ramada-Innly’s on-demand Breast-Beating architectural styling school. The wagons are rolled forward slowly the opening day of the festival. Thousands of devotees press in to pay homage. Since touching the bunching wagons or their pull-ropes is believed to bring prosperity, many of these odd worshipers slip and stumble under the wheels and are crushed to death; quite frightening.
No!
Much too terrifying.
Slap shut the book. Back to the TV, switch.
The big monster-man’s tabled down in a stonewalled dark dank lab, as a jerky jangling puppetlike too-skinny tall raving mad doctorman flashes wild-eyed everyway at once, while on the other side of the room’s that same dwarfishly evil gnomon of a shortstaffordshire with a bunched up back and a beard of a wackygrin, who bullied the monster-man through the cell bars before, and, there’s thunderstrikes; evil flash thunderstrikes; shadow flashes ugly loud uglier no.
Wow!
Off.
Much too frightening. Oh.
Now in the book ten templedown bishopmen perform a holy hosedown ritual, resulting in the bunching wagons’ canopies overspreading with one thousand two hundred fifty square meters of assassination-quality purely decorative cloth. Two hundred carpenters, helpers, blacksmiths, tailors, and hotrunning chain saw jugglers work tirelessly according to a strict five-thousand-day deadline. The festival kitchen cooks serve a hundred-thousand workers and devotees a day. When the work is at last complete, Franciscan monk-missionary Odoric of Pordenone’s golden image, along with her other two associated full partners, is ceremoniously brought out of the sacrosanctum of her chief home base in Peepal.
Oh.
Eh.
Calm; as an eight nine years’ child so, the mammaries being—faded bad, doh—back to the TV whose knobtwist pulls a stream to visibility. Calm. A child by the bright stream with a flower. Calm, but—no! No! The monster’s there, but—smiling now. Bending. The child gives the flower. Time. Time. In time together they throw flowers in the water. Enjoying the playing the clumsily chuckling monster-man proceeds to pick up the girl. O!
Nope.
Off. So, in the book further, Lord MisterScheives’ is associated with Lord HeyBuddy, also known as Buddy’s Ell, the one draped in golden targlobbed-down robes. The bunching wagons get dressed by sacramentified holy tailors, who’re required to make cushions the Pullers fr’ Space can come rest on. The wagons are colorfully painted with traditional designs. One very well may be likely to ask oneself repeatedly, each time slightly differently, always very differently than how other people would phrase the question, so no one can like you as you say it, as, What happens to the bunching wagons after Lord MisterScheives’ festival is finished? Wisdom acts as the bunching wagon-geneer, controlling the mind, with all thoughts.
Right?
No.
But, the monster. Back in the knob-click, TV people dressed like shadowy hoboes plunging on herdlike with forked farmspears and firesticks chugg-pumping after the terror; quite similarly to how SutraButt’s devilmen envelope the city in steamrollers and cheap tires as the great wagons roll on. All these great concepts are explained in the holy text Morgonium Texxt-Unuum—first draft only. Oh, th’ wood’s goin’ in for the fat kitchen of the MisterScheives’ temple on the same day, ‘cause the deity inside that bunching wagon in the back there, is the soul—but.
No—eh—the monster! The monster! Where’d he go?
Stop! Not now! After waving through streets the same way over and over again, flowing by and by, they got, thank God—they got him! They got the big monster-man, good. And all ended. In fire. Fire burned the whole show away. Their destroyed mill, however, was all they had, so they’d months of no bread for their trouble. No justice. But, they really ought to have known better, just as Don Valiant, on the very evening before being voluntarily hanged in surrogation for his Captain, tearfully informed Mrs. Togders that the pain of the sun setting within him had become more than he could bear.
Safe now, off the television.
Got through it.
Got through.
But the great crushing wagons rolled on through crowds of revelers; revelers dressed like shadowy hoboes, maybe going after a black suited man-monster, plunging herdlike surging up against the juggernaut, as if waving forked sharp fiery farm-tools. All riding the juggernaut wagon eh waving through a street that’s always the same, yelling, except more people-revelers surge tight around, eh, as it flows forward. Black. Forward past parked cut-down super-Lake Superior high dense wilderness achievement badges sporting dual tires. Past fifty-seven brands of black blandmash being prepared in earthen pots over low fires for Lord MisterScheives’ and only Lord MisterScheives’. For as-needed on-demand master deliverers of the finest cutting woods.
There, slowing. That’s slowing.
Bully the ThatDog. Boo.
Slowing but not stopping.
Boo bo bah ess, yelling; screaming; more and more people-revelers surge tight around, eh, surge tight around until, eh—until nothing can flow. They are too tight.
Too tight.
The man-monster drives forward nonetheless, straight into and over. Many are crushed. To death. Red everyplace. Under the juggernaut. Over the juggernaut. Inside the juggernaut. Red every witcha-way. You were warned, though. Don’t deny. So, stop whining, stop.
Juggernaut.
Oh!
Terrifying—but oh, oh. Mother is calling.
Come wash your hands dinnertime.
Past. Wind the wind, stand tall. Slam the blue book tight snap the input TV blue books living room or world all around and leave; but it is all the same the same. The flow’s in, the beachwaves roll; like living comes at you unstoppably, later, as the child would know. There are all kinds of jungles and wildernesses for wolf-children to be. So; eh a’ lemony melondown, u’ in an’ under, ‘o’ matches that might catch.
If-f-f-f. n’, Melondead will down.
You s-sure?
Yes; presented to the ever-deserving by urinal on the birthday of Bungii-Jummpo, fast goddess of knowledge.