Prologue – St. Mattheus Passion Sets the Tone
My my… how you’ve changed… those misshapen eyes, those tear-stained mouths, I barely recognized you. You seem to lack structure, lustre, life in general. Out of focus again… “Kommt, ihr tochter, helft mir klagen”, I cried.
Part I – S.O.S
“Save our somethings”, I heard him cry out from the depths below. “And what exactly do you expect me to do about it?” I hollered back at no one in particular before returning to my lunch which had been expertly laid out in technicolour reams of red and gold. “More rump blubber please”, I gestured at the waiter out of the corner of my mouth. I ate, paid, quickly masturbated into a jar and left the establishment.
Ten weeks later I received a short congratulatory note informing me of the “birth” of a “beautiful baby girl”. I gathered from their curt customary style that I should report immediately to the nearest poor-office depot and collect the item in person. I realized that I had not an ounce of cash on my personality and that meant holding up the neighbours’ wife for ransom again, but since violent extortion was out of the question I resorted to the age-old tactic of knocking on the front door. Their eldest son opened it and greeted me cordially, only to inform me that his parents were out pimping (local speak for “working down at the office”). I seized the opportunity and pulled a fast one on him – quick as lightning I unbuttoned his soul and discharged the remaining corpuscular cells until I thought I had enough to go on.
I hurried down to the depot only to be greeted at the entrance by a monstrous half-life of a man. He told me he delivered babies for living and had done so for the past twenty-five years. It wasn’t the sort of thing one did in ones spare time and yet I knew some who practised it as a hobby of sorts. I collected the foetus, which was small enough to fit into a matchbox and smelled my way back to the bus stop, from where I caught the one-four-nine back to my flat.
Running back up the stairs I tripped and fell, the matchbox slipped out of my pocket and was crushed, along with its contents, under the weight of my sordid flab and bone. Well, there goes my experiment I thought to myself. Might as well get back to work and tell them that something’s happened. Had a light supper and headed down to the local land-fill (local speak for “cultural centre”).
Part II – The Cultural Centre
At the landfill we receive small doses of putrefying eggs with bits of burnt plastic and glass mixed in, smelling like the remains of tomorrow. Just my cup of tea. Merry Christmas Mrs. Groundbreaking Ideas of the Past and how are you today? “Oh, I’m Just fine Dr. Preposterous”, she answered back out of a tiny orifice buried deep inside her frontal lobe. The sound it made was like a rasping high pitched squeak, not so much a voice as a testament to our latest advances in science and literature. Culture, in other words, is no more than the never-ending stream of noxious fumes emitted by those obscure transmitters of desire down at the leisure centre.
I popped down to Tesco’s to chill-out for a while and exchange notes with the local groceries. Every little helps. They had midgets working on the tills today; their upper bodies had been cleverly grafted onto swivel chairs so that in fact they had no need of legs at all. I wholly approve of technological advancements, particularly ones that benefit society at large, but personally I had no need for midgets on wheels. I left the place in abrupt disgust, only to run amok at the shopping centre next door. I was subsequently arrested and deported back to real life.
Part III – The End
The end.
Written by Jon Acker
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