Irving; A tale of the One Hundred and Forty Second Fastest Gun in the West

Due to a series of unfortunate incidents far too embarassing to relate here, Irving rode into town on the back of a limping cow. It had taken him the better part of a day just to travel the five miles from Lexing's camp, but he had accomplished it. However, it was truly amazing how one could get saddle sore without ever using a saddle.

He dismounted with a flourish, trying to win back some dignity, and actually accomplished the feat with some degree of grace. But, alas, no one was watching.

Irving sighed, ran his hands over the ivory handle of Colt, and began his bow legged saunter in the direction of Mitzy's saloon. Ole Mitzy Barton had been a showgirl of some renown back in her hay day. It was said that President Zachary Taylor had once come to see her show and had actually made a pass at her. Then his wife, Hillary Rodham Taylor, had found out about it and spirited him out of town and back to the white house before he got an urge to see the Gennifer Flowers pottery show. Good old Mitzy. She could spin a yarn or two.

Irving pushed through the swinging doors and was instantly greeted by the familiar sight of old Dinny Claymore pulling the peel off of a yellow oblong fruit.

"Now that's a bonanza!" Irving stated, pointing at the fruit.

"For the sixtieth time, Irving, it's a dead blamed banana. Ta ain't no 'z' anywhere in the name!" Dinny scowled at him.

"I know that you old codger!" Irving replied laughing and making a mental note about the 'z'. "Where's Mitzy?"

"She's a hidin' upstairs. Seems there's a rumor that the rifleman is comin' ta town this afternoon and she don't want no part of it."

"The rifleman eh? He a bad character?"

"You don't mess with the rifleman, Irving. He's killed more people than Mitzy's liver and onions."

"Well what's he comin' to Ford Taurus City for? Cain't be nothin' here fer him."

"Well...his sister's marryin Jeb Watley, and the rifleman aims to stop it."

"What the Sam Hell for? Watley's a do gooder and an apple shiner. Who wouldn't want him in their family?"
"That's just it, Irving. The last apple he polished, he gave to his father in law to be. The rifleman's dad. It had a worm in it. Now the rifleman has sworn vengeance against Watley and promised to stop this wedding."

"Well Ima gonna stop HIM. Somebody's gotta protect the do gooders in this town!"

"You're gonna get your fool head blown off, Irving. You can't stand up to the rifleman when he's meaner, tougher, and uglier than you. That's right. He's even uglier than YOU."

"So? That's how the west was won! People standin' up for each other and such!"

Dinny sighed. "Irving, the west ain't been won yet! For the love of God, what goes on in that melon of yours anyway?"

Irving shot what was supposed to be a menacing glance at Dinny, but it came out looking constipated. "Dinny Claymore, you just remember that Alamo down there in Louisiana! The west was won right there!"

Dinny was preparing to educate Irving yet again when the saloon doors burst open, admitting a disheveled Jeb Watley."He's here! The rifleman is here! He's a comin' down main street!"

"Don't you fret now, Jeb," Irving said. "I'll take care of this varmint and defend your honor."

"But Irving! Everyone knows you're the one hundred forty second fastest gun in the west!! How are you gonna take him?"

"He's the rifleman right? How long do you think it would take to draw a dead blamed rifle from a holster, Jeb? You think I can't take him?"

Jeb blinked at him. He was torn between trying to save Irving's life or using him as a distraction while he rode out of town. After some debate he chose the former.

"Irving. When have you ever seen someone holster a rifle in their pants? He's already got it drawn you nimwit."

Just then came a roar from outside.

"I'M LOOKING FOR JEBEDIAH WATLEY!" The Rifleman yelled.

Irving, still contemplating Jeb's words, acted more on instinct than on common sense. He got to his feet, put his hand on his ivory holster and strolled out the saloon doors. Right away, he saw him. Decked in a serape and crookedly wearing a sombrero, the rifleman stood in the street casting his gaze up and down the building fronts.

"You'll have to get by me first," Irving squeeked in his best tough guy voice.The rifleman looked him over.

"Irving Pumpernickel? You gotta be foolin' right?"

"So you've heard of me? Pretty impressive considering what a big valley this is. Well...are you gonna ride back where you came from, or are we gonna get to fightin?"

The rifleman threw his head back and laughed. Irving's gaze darkened, and his tunnel vision, such as it was, narrowed in on the rifleman. He gripped the ivory handle of the colt and yanked upward out of the holster. It was one of the more awkward moments in gunslinger history. A piece of Irving's leather holster had looped itself around the Colt's hammer and when he pulled the gun out, unknown to Irving, the hammer cocked itself back. Now on hair trigger, the gun, having been yanked too fast from the holster, rose high so that it was aiming a good six feet above the rifleman. In his over excited state, Irving never took aim. He just bumped the trigger and the Colt bucked in his hand.

Somewhere across the street, a window shattered.

Somewhere else, a cow mooed.

And the rifleman laughed even harder.

"Tarnation!" Irving yelled, forgetting about his gun for a second and grabbing for his face. "I got gun smoke in my eyes!" Irving began rubbing his eyes and dancing back and forth from one foot to the other.

And the rifleman laughed even harder.

By this point, the rifle lay forgotten on the road as the rifleman clutched his belly and his eyes bulged from his head. He was howling uncontrollably, unable to catch his breath.

Meanwhile, Irving had dropped his colt and was splashing water in his eyes from a nearby barrel. Dinny Claymore and Jeb Watley poked their heads out of the saloon to see what was going on. They were just in time to see the rifleman fall to the earth, wheezing and clutching his chest as laughter still bubbled out of him. A wet spot began spreading on his dungarees, but the rifleman kept laughing.

And that's how he died. Hands clutching his chest, eyes bulging from below his sombrero, urine dripping from his trailworn dungarees, the rifleman's heart just stopped.

The citizens of Ford Taurus City still recognized Irving as the one hundred forty second fastest gun in the west, but when it came to rifles, no one could best him.

(The moral of the story? No matter what era she existed in, that Hillary Rodham was one heck of a ballbreaker)

Mr. Saturday Night Special

A Night in the Life of Yours Truly

Left: I had the misfortune of running into “Suzette” here at the Arlington Heights Playboy Club. What made it unfortunate was that I was quite inebriated and am now apparently engaged to the chipper fellow pictured. It could be worse, of course. He DOES shave his legs.

by Cheese

It’s Saturday night. A time when a young man’s fancy turns to his pants, or more pointedly, what’s in his pants. Now, I am no longer “young” by most definitions, but I am not quite knocking on death’s door either. I can hear the calling of the frothy mug. I feel the desirable tug of a night spent painting the town. I can taste the freedom of neon lights, gorgeous women, beer nuts, and endless testosterone. So I call my closest friend Mike, grab my fedora, and start driving towards the Arlington Heights Playboy Club.

It’s been years since I’ve set foot in the club. I figured by now there were new employees and I resemble the picture of myself on the wall less than ever, so the lifetime ban imposed on me will be much harder to enforce. Plus, of course, there’s the fedora. No one recognizes you when you’re wearing a fedora, right?

Mike is waiting for me at the entrance. He’s a large man wearing a Hawaiian shirt and ballhugger jeans that would make Steve Perry blush. His heavy brow gives him a look of authority that his comical pompadour all but erases. He’s an excellent drinking buddy because no matter how many beers you put away, he never starts looking like an attractive woman. Or an attractive man for that matter.

Without a word needing to be spoken between us, we pay the cover charge and enter. It takes seconds for all the old familiar sights and smells to overwhelm me. The red brick interior. The plush velvet carpet. The odor of beer, sweat, crisp dollars, and loneliness. I felt right at home. Until........

“Umm, dude,” Mike whispers, his unibrow furrowed in consternation. “Is this some kind of a joke?”

Walking towards us is a pair of “bunnies”, or scantily clad club employees. The one on the left is 300 lbs bone dry, 350 soaking wet I’m sure. The one on the right has a mustache and talks like my uncle Ed. Both of them have Mike and I stopped in our tracks, hands still on wallets, the phantom taste of that first beer still flirting with our tongues.

“Hi fellows,” the buffalo says. “Care to buy a lady a drink?”

“Where do we get the lady?” Mike asks, always as smooth as good bourbon.

“Look no further,” the mustache says, and actually wiggles his hairy ass at me.

I hear Mike make a wretching sound beside me, and move to take action. “Um, we haven’t been here in years. Since when did they start hiring guys as bunnies?” I ask.

“Title IX buddy,” the mustache replies. “It’s not just for women’s athletics, you know?”

“Err, OK,” Mike says. “What’s with the blob here?”

“I prefer metabollicly challenged,” the brontosaurus says. “The American’s with disabilities act covers morbid obesity and ensures that I have the right to work here. Get enlightened gentlemen! Look around!” And with that the “bunnies” moved off.

Sure enough, Mike and I looked around and really took in the employee pool for the first time. There were midgets, crossdressers, siamese twins, amputees, malformed faces, and people in wheelchairs. The only person not represented among the “bunnies” was hot women. We started to back up towards the door.

“I wouldn’t do it fellas,” said a whispering voice. We turned to find an old man huddled over an oak table in the corner. “I tried leaving once like you all. The freaks all came to my house the next morning and screamed about enlightenment in my front yard until every neighbor on my street was sure I hated all the handicapped, crossdressers, and retards on the planet. To this day no one talks to me. My advice would be to go get a beer or three. Pretend to enjoy yourself. Then leave at closing time.”

So we drank. And drank. Then drank a little more. With each one, we were SURE the bunnies would begin to look appealing. Short of that, we hoped for an alcohol induced coma to allow us the opportunity to escape.

Neither occurred of course. We got blitheringly drunk, pretended to have the time of our lives, puked our heads off in the surprisingly clean white porcelain of the club’s restroom then blacked out. Sunday morning we awoke, heads throbbing, in a king sized bed. Mike was spooning with the mustache, and I was tightly holding my Suzette. (see above)

This Saturday, Mike and I are going to watch M*A*S*H* reruns in my living room and drink water. If we feel really crazy, we’re going to go the library and check out books on Title IX and the Americans with Disabilities act. It’s time to write our Congressmen.

Sometime in the Distant Future.... (Episodes-3&4 Just added!)

~by numbsain

T. Interesting... fascinating... very unusual... I think you had better come look at this, Moron"

M. What is it now, Tampax?

T. No, not now, 4000 years in the past. I'm not sure exactly but it appears to be a document recorded using crude binary code and transmitted electronically.

M. Can you make out what it says?

T. It will take me 2.7 minutes to decipher and another 4.3 nanoseconds to transcribe. Shall I proceed?

M. Very well, but hurry.

T. Working on it. This animate blob has a very disturbing appearance, it seems to be a life form. Corporeal carbon based. Extremely primitive.

M. Is it aware of our presence?

T. Unlikely. Even if it did have the mental capacity to perceive us, it would have no way of understanding what it was sensing.

M. What is it doing?

T. It seems to be activating an electron manipulating device with its appendages by closing circuits which produce small changes in the radiated output of this light emitting substrate as well as changes to the electronic document I am attempting to decipher. Let me archive search this activity... give me a nanosecond.

M. Be quick Tampax I haven't got all second.

T. Here it is: that is a human being, a primitive life form that once inhabited the third planet of this star, the one we presently occupy, and it is inputting data into a device called a computer.

M. But why would such a creature be involved in so specific an activity? Shouldn't it be scurrying around trying to absorb sustenance from its environment?

T. My guess is that it is entering data into this communication bulletin for global broadcast. These bulletins are called "Blogs." They are transmitted for a variety of communication purposes. This ones purpose is "humor."

M. Humor? Was that not the method by which ancient life forms prevented self destruction and were able to delay their extinction for several generations longer than was expected?

T. Yes. By incorporating humor into their thoughts, they evolved to a point where they came very close to crossing the dimensional barriers which confined them to limited durations and delayed the process of physical decay.

M. But only a few of these beings actually succeeded in producing and transmitting humor of that magnitude. Check the archives let's see if the data matches

T. Look at that! This blog is entitled "Goldmind's Unwind" and that is the title of the blog that survived the longest and almost allowed this life form to cross over the dimensional barrier.

M. Incredible! what is it doing now Tampax?

T. I do not know Moron but there seems to be a correlation between our thought transmissions and the data it is inputting.

M. What? Are you sure?

T. I'm going to configure that device to directly translate in real time.

M. What will this tell us?

T. !!... Repeat.

M. What will this tell us?

T. Repeat again!!!!

M. Is there a malfunction with your bioreceptors Tampax? That is the second repetition you've requested.

T. Don't you see it!?

M. What is that? There it just did it again!!

T. Testing... Testing 1... 2... 3... Most alarming. How could this be?

M. I don't know, but it is perfectly tracking our thoughts... look at that. It did it again! ...every time. What is it doing with the data?

T. Entering it into this humor blog!

M. Do you mean to say this life form is somehow tracking our thoughts and entering it into this blog for the purpose of humor!!??

T. Yes, Moron and it is transmitting everything we are saying all across this planet to others of its kind 4000 years ago!!!

M. There are others listening to what we are saying and it is humor to them?

T. Yes.

M. Tampax, do you realize what this means?

T. They are laughing at us!

M. Those horrible primitive beasts!

T. How dare they! Do they have any idea how superior we are to them?! Of all the unmitigated audacity. I hate these creatures! Stop it! Stop mocking me!

M. Quick Tampax, Encrypt our thoughts so they can't make fun of us anymore!

T. Right away, Moron. Just one more nanosecond... there!

#. (*)_^&%*(()_ˆ¨¥†©˙

fl. ∆˙¬˙©ƒ∂Í∆¬…æ

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This concludes our broadcast of "Tampax & Moron—Jokes from the Distant Future"
Pyscho-interdimensionally channeled and recorded by Numbsain of Goldminds Unwind: The Blog that almost saved the Human Race.

-Numbsain

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The Continued Adventures of Tampax and Moron—Jokes from the Distant Future"

M. What's the matter Tampax? Why so glum?

T. Glum? Is that not an emotion? We are highly evolved light beings. We do not have emotions. And I resent you implying that I do, Moron.

M. I did not imply that you had emotions Tampax, but you've been moping around this enclosure for minutes now, ever since those silly carbon based humans made a total mockery of us.

T. Moping? I beg your pardon Moron, but I do not mope. And they did not make a total mockery of us. It was a partial mockery.

M. No, I'm afraid not Tampax, it was a total mockery. Did you see the way the corners of its sustenance receptacle were turned up slightly and it kept making the hukking sound? Those were indicators of a response to humor, Tampax. They thought we were hilarious.

T. You're lying Moron!

M. No. Tampax, I wish I were. Another nanosecond or two and that human being might have been rolling on the floor with laughter. It might have been in tears in fact. You really tickled its funny bone.

T. What? Me? Are you trying to be insensitive? I mean, not that I care because I am far too advanced to feel pride or shame or embarrassment or any of the other human being emotions.

M. Ah, I see you've been studying them too. Yes these emotions seem to be the most intriguing of their qualities... From a research standpoint that is.

T. Oh don't bullshit me Moron you know you find it a little more than intriguing, you big... presenter of a false impression of ones self for the purpose of bolsteri—

M. Phony? I believe is the word you are looking for.

T. So what if it is? You ARE a big phony Moron because you think you are so great but you are not. Don't even talk to me Moron. I hate you.

M. Oh come now Tampax, I saw you eyeing those seratonin ports in that human's brain. I saw your visual cortex become flushed with neurons in anticipation of the humans dopamine receptors being rewarded.

T. It must have been so... pleasurable.

SUDDENLY, A PAIR OF FELLOW LIGHT BEINGS MATERIALIZE BEFORE TAMPAX AND MORON...

B. Greetings Moron and Tampax.

M. Who are you?

P. We are Pepsi and Blistex, we were sent by the Controller Mega-Gulp to intervene.

T. Intervene? But why, we have done nothing wrong. We were ju—

M. Forget it, Tampax. We can't weasel our way out of this, they know what we've done. Go ahead terminate us. Once we've had a taste of it, we'll never stop trying to get it. We knew the risk we were taking but it was worth it, wasn't it Tampax?

T. Huh? ...What...

M. WASN'T IT TAMPAX?

T. Uh... Oh! Yes! it was worth it. We knew we would be caught but we loved doing it so much that we said "This will be worth it" and it was.

B. Why?

P. Blistex NO!

Will Blistex and Pepsi succumb to the temptation of human emotions or will they terminate Moron and Tampax as they were sent to do? Find out next time on:
The Adventures of Tampax, Moron, Blistex & Pepsi—Renegade Jokes of the Distant Future... Oops!

~Numbsain


*****************************************************

The Adventures of
TAMPAX & MORON—JOKES FROM THE DISTANT FUTURE
Episode 3—Tampax & Moron Go Corporeal

T: Well, here we are Moron... Highly evolved light beings ... pure intellect... completely free of emotion...

M: That we are, Tampax, that we are.

T: ...Our existence is unbelievably boring, Moron.

M: That it is, Tampax, that it is

T: I have been wondering, Moron...

M: Wondering is a futile activity... but I suppose, what else have you got to do.

T: What is it like to be corporeal, to have emotions, to...

M: Procreate?

T: What do you mean? What is Procreate?

M: Well Tampax, long, long ago, in a time land forgot, life forms merged their physical bodies in order to procreate, conceive and bear offspring. When they did, they would experience a physical reward.

T: Intriguing! ...But I doubt I would be affected.

M: I'm sure you would not.

T: ...Why not, Moron?

M: Because we are far too advanced for such base pursuits.

T: We are not THAT advanced.... But I suppose you are right. It would be so... base.

M: Oh yes, terribly base.

T: (sigh)

M: Indeed.

T: Moron, I want to be corporeal! Just once! Can we Moron? Please?

M: Hmm, it would broaden our scope of understanding.

T: We must choose hosts!

M: I have already chosen them.

T: You have?!

M: Yes, I anticipated this and already arranged it. For your host I have chosen a female designated: "Angelina Jolie" and for myself, I chose a perfect specimen, one that was both intelligent and physically endowed so that I may experience corporeality to its fullest. It is the one called Numbsain.

T: Wait a nanosecond Moron, I will be Angelina Jolie and you will be Numbsain? That is very humorous. Why would Angelina Jolie procreate with Numbsain? She is WAY out of his league...

M: Look, do you want to do this or not Tampax?

T: YES!

M: Alright then, let us commence.

(A FEW BRIEF FLASHES OF LIGHT LATER)

M: How do you "feel" Tampax?

T: Oh my! This is a most unusual Moron! I can feel the urges you spoke of...

M: Uh... Tampax? Why are you grinding your center portion into mine? Are you trying to occupy the same physical space as me?

T: I do not know Moron, It is an instinctive reflex. I will try to control it...

M: No! That is okay Tampax. You may continue if it is, as you say, "an instinctive reflex" You should see yourself though Tampax. Your appearance seems to reveal your thoughts. Here, look into this reflective surface.

T: That is me?! How shocking! Those facial expressions are so embarrassing.

M: How ironic, you were never this turned on as a light being.

T: I am not "turned on," Moron! You speak of me as if I were a tawdry "red" light of Earth's "Amsterdam" region or a "Psychodelicate" "black" light of Earth's "Hippy" era.

M: I see you have studied these creatures quite extensively. And the term is "psychodelic."

T: Well you seem to be well versed yourself Moron. In any case, I do not wish to endure any more of this humiliation. Remove me from this corporeal host.

M: Oh alright.

(A FEW BRIEF FLASHES OF LIGHT LATER)

M: Well, that was VERY intriguing, don't you think Tampax? Especially the part when you...

T: I do not wish to discuss it Moron!

(To be continued)

****************************************************************************************

The Adventures of
TAMPAX, MORON, PEPSI & BLISTEX—JOKES FROM THE DISTANT FUTURE
Episode 4: Pepsi & Blistex Come Out

Pepsi: Greetings Tampax and Moron.

Tampax: Where have you two been? I noticed your enclosures were vacant.

Blistex: We... uh... had to step out... for some... reason...

Moron: What "reason" pray tell?

P: Uh... what Blistex meant to say was, we were conducting research.

B: Yes! Research! That is what we were doing! So you see, there is no need to suspect...

P: Enough, Blistex! Do not oversell it.

B: Oh no, I was just...

P: Blistex!!

T: Let Blistex speak. This sounds interesting.

P: IT WAS NOT INTERESTING! It was boring research, let it go, Tampax!

M: There is no need to escalate our thought projections, Pepsi. We are all advanced light beings here.

T: Some more advanced than others.

B: Excuse me? Just what are you insinuating, Tampon?

T: My designation is "TAMPAX" not "Tampon," BEESWAX!

P: Hey, hey, hey! No need for intentionally assigning erroneous designations, Tampax. Besides, Blistex and I are clearly the more advanced light beings.

M: The void you are, PAP SMEAR! Tampax and I make you two look like a couple of human beings.

B: How did you know about the human beings? Did you see us occupying them?

P: Oh Blistex you guileless buffoon, will you please shut up?!

T: AHA! So you were occupying human forms TOO!

M: SHUT UP, TAMPAX!!!

T: Oops! I, er, uh, meant the TWO of you...

B: Pepsi, they did it too! Did you hear that?

P: Blistex you blabber-brain, do you ever shut up?

M: ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT ENOUGH OF THIS! So we were all occupying human beings. Get over it. perhaps we should share what we have learned from the experience. Tampax and I occupied Angelina Jolie and Numbsain and experienced animal drives first hand. Which human beings did you two occupy?

B: We chose numbsains fellow bloggers Goldmind and Cheese. And we too were unable to control our base instinctive urges to procreate...

T: WHAT!?

M: Are you serious?!

P: Oh, Blistex, you idiot... Ix-nay on the ocreation-pray!

B: What?

T: Psha-ha-ha-ha! AHA-HA-HA-HA!!

M: HA-HA-HA Hey Tampax, they are fancy light beings! HA-HA-HA! Dainty little chandelier lights! HOO-HOO-HO-HO-HA-HA-HEE-HEE!! How sweet!

B: What are you laughing about?

T: HEE-HEE-HEE-HEE HA-HA-HA-HA!!

(to be continued)

The Peculiar Tale of Old Man Cravetts

Old man Cravetts was a crochety old geezer. Used to sit on his front porch and crochet everything from doilies and douche bag cozies to donut pillows and cat scrotum warmers. Now, since he was older than night time, Cravetts was feared and hated by the neighborhood children. Even so, he’d always try to crochet things for them as they rode by on their bikes throwing things at him he’d previously crocheted for them. “Ya know I try to be nice to those kids and they just don’t appreciate me,” he laménted as he cut into another bolt of heavy metal print fabric. “Maybe this Lars Ulrich afghan will get their attention.” He muttered cheerily to himself.

One blistery autumn morning, Cravetts strolled out onto his front porch for another day of yarn wasting when there on his front lawn was little Bobby Youngonion lying unconscious and covered with blisters. “Now don’t lie to me you little wrapped scallion, I know you’re not unconscious and what are you doing all wrapped up in that blister pack? You want me to ship you off over fed-ex?” That was a little joke Cravetts often made because his over-fed ex wife used to eat children.

Well, Bobby was conscious, but barely, for when he removed the bubble packing from the boy he noticed he was covered with second degree burns! “Oh my gizzards” shouted Cravetts, “what happened to you boy?” “Ow,” bobby moaned, signaling for him to douse him with cool distilled water to prevent infection and then to call the local paramedics by twitching his left pinky. But Cravetts ignored Bobby’s instructions. “I’d better take you inside, slather you with butter, wrap you up in fabric bandages, nurse you back to health and raise you as my own son!” said Cravetts. “Oh god please no! Just shoot me now, you insane old coot” indicated Bobby by widening his right eye and then fainting.

Several painful weeks later on October 31st, while Cravetts took an epsom salts bath to sooth his painful muscles from hoisting the boy up to change his bandages three times a day, Bobby drifted into consciousness and managed to stumble out of bed and make his way to the front door. Still wrapped from head to toe in bandages, the boy stumbled out the door and down the street toward the “safe” neighborhood where all his friends were trick or treating gayly.

“Hey where ya been Youngonion!” one of his friends shouted. “Nice costume,” he added, but Bobby was beside himself from the pain and continued hobbling toward his home. When he arrived, his mother was waiting on the front step furious. “Where have you been for the past three weeks young man?” she shrieked wickedly. Bobby started to explain but thought his mother would see that he was critically burned and call the paramedics. But she did not because it was HALLOWEEN and so, instead of caring for his raw painful infected skin, she started beating him mercilessly as any good mother would do to a boy with healthy skin after being gone for so long. Then she shoved him up the stairs and into his room where he screamed in agony all night. “Oh be quiet up there you big phony” his mother yelled, never realizing her son was on the verge of death. Finally at 2:00 a.m., his raw infected body gave out and death mercifully came to Bobby Youngonion on Halloween night.

How he got burned in the first place and why a cat would need a scrotum warmer remains a mystery to this day. Oh yeah and that crotchety old geezer was a mystery too.

~numbsain

The Not So Scary Tale of the Possessed Kapok Tree

Within the fiery catacombs of hell, there once lived seven tremendously evil demons. For sport, they would spin their heads around backwards, elongate their pierced tongues, speak drunken gibberish, or dance counterclockwise around horned beasts while chanting cryptic Latin phrases.

Eternity is a long time so, despite their playful activities, the seven demons soon became bored. Eventually, the demons worked up the courage to approach Old Scratch himself—Satan—to ask permission to leave Hell in order to temporarily dwell in the space/time dimension of mortal man.

“Okay,” whispered Lucifer menacingly, while playing Solitaire. So the seven demons left Hades through a spiral portal to reach the human dimension. Soon, they arrived in a remote forest in the central Amazon Basin between the Negro and Japura Rivers, the two main tributaries of the Amazon. The Amana Reserve contains spectacular and untouched biodiversity with the highest concentration of the endangered Amazonian manatees in the whole Amazon Basin. The complex also supports river dolphins, black caimans, anacondas, jaguars, black uakari monkeys, harpy eagles, and a host of plant and freshwater wildlife.

Impatient and hungry, the demons were determined to possess a soul immediately. Not having acclimated their devil pupils to the intense solar light emanating from the rainforest, the demons inadvertently entered a Kapok Tree. So, the Kapok Tree became possessed.

Not long after, the animals indigenous to the rain forest noticed slight changes in the personality of the Kapok Tree. Irrespective of external weather conditions, the tree swayed left, right, backwards, or clockwise. Later, it began to secrete sap from its numerous pores. It began to shed limbs, which fell to the ground with thunderous explosions. Finally, it shed its leaves even though this was unseasonable.

After three weeks, having exhausted their repertoire of tricks, the demons became bored once again and made the journey back to Hell. And there they remain to this day. OR DO THEY? Bwaaaaahaaahaaaaa!!!!

~Goldmind