In another part of town, J was sussing out the Mono100 laboratory. It was cleverly disguised as a museum dedicated to the work of Margot Nilsen, who popularised the work of such obscure authors as nineteenth century wit Willard Lager and the early feminist writer Roberta Stain. J watched from across the road as lovers of literature filed into the little museum. Interestingly enough, no one came out in the hour and a half that J stood there. “Must be captivating,” thought J to himself. He decided to wander on over and have a look at this museum and see if he could find out anything about the one-hundred and one reasons he was here. He entered through a door of roughly hewn two-by-fours. There was certainly a colonial feel about the place. Wagon Wheels hung on the walls. He took a bite of one. The wooden floor creaked and groaned, shifting its weight to accommodate J’s footfall. Piles of sawdust and old saws lay disregarded in a haphazard fashion. He could see no one. A crappy little box stood near a second doorway begging for donations. J walked slowly towards it. The floor suddenly disappeared from under him, and silently, he was sucked into a vortex that drew him forever downward, down, down, down, ward, ward, ward. He lost consciousness as the heady rush of upcoming gravity destabilised his natural form. J’s body convoluted into a spaghetti-like length thirty metres long. Down... and down he went. Gradually his form receded into itself until he was his natural shape again.
He came to land with a bump. He awoke. The overbearing stench of putrid decay assailed his nostrils like a fat man with excessive anal sweat. J rose to his feet, blood spattering over his lower legs, bathing him in gently sticking waves of plasma. What greeted his eyes was something that J, in all his wildest and sickest fantasies, could not imagine. A slaughterhouse. He had come to a place of death for thousands. Torn limb from limb. Hooks hoisted the dead toward an unknown destination. Reckless carnage. Inanimate piles of disembowelled masses. It reminded him of something that might have come from the Cigar Ash Desert. Curdled pools of blood congealed across the floor. J stood in a drainage pit for the gallons of life-giving fluid that certain fanatical nurses scattered randomly across the solar system would kill for in order to save haemophile Harley riders named Butch who crashed into their hearts with a winning, brave and toothless smile, heedless of their oncoming deaths. J clambered out of the pit, doused in red glory. He crossed the floor. Loud floral-shirted men with baggy shorts and Arthur Dunger cloth hats lay in piles, mortified expressions of terror on their pasty, blood drained features. Straw hats lay next to bodies of fallen women with hiking boots and golf umbrellas. Sunglasses abounded. A genocide of tourists. “Who would have thought obscure authors deserved such sacrifice,” thought J. He gained new respect for their work and resolved to read some... one day. He strolled through the frieze of death. He expected sudden death at any moment. Hop, skipping and jumping through the pools of blood, J swooped down and snapped eight foot of intestine from a corpse who had previously worked as an extra on B-grade sci-fi films such as ‘Attack of the Killer Chewing Gum From The Mutant Radioactive Bong!’ and ‘Potato Peelers From Planet Pluto.’ He twirled the intestine around his head like a lasso, letting loose a bola of bile, shit and stomach fluids. “Rope ‘em steers boys!” he hollered. Grabbing the end of the lasso, he skipped furiously across the floor, dodging carcasses left, right and centre. “Yo! I’m in training for the next big bout, muthafucker!” Dropping his improvised rope, J fell to his knees. He grabbed a spinal cord lying on the floor and gnawed at it like a dog. He sucked the marrow out with a slurpy fierceness, feeling the jelly-like substance ooze down his throat with insidious movement. J licked his lips, stood up and looked around. The imminent death he had expected after falling into the slaughterhouse had not arrived. He’d got his cake and eaten it too. He ran to a door on the right and went through into a room full of boxes. Obviously storage. For what, he did not know. An elevator gaped open. J stepped in. The door closed and the elevator rose automatically, bearing J upward into the unknown.
The elevator stopped with a sudden halt. The doors opened and J stepped out. It was a laboratory. A balding, bespectacled man in a pink coat bent over a still between two benches. He was mumbling to himself excitedly: “Yeth. Yeth. Yeth! Yeth. Yeth. YETH! Itholated. Itholated. Itholated! Fuck Archimedeth. Itholated. Itholated. I’ve fucking gone and done it! My work completed. Fuck Urine. I am a god! With omnipotent potenthal (giggle). Women! I’ll never be laughed at again. Yeth. Yeth. YETH!” He stole a furtive look around hith laboratory, failing to notice J framed in the doorway. “Ith a nithe day to become God.” He raised a small tab to hith lipth. J launched himself across the room, slamming his feet into the man’s groin. He collapsed with a scream, clutching hith injured gentitalth. “AAAARRRRRRTTTTTHHHHHHHHHOOOOOLLLLLLEEEEE!!!!!!” J laughed nonchalantly. Ha ha ha ha hah! “Tell me how you did it! Mono100. Wow! I will be a god!” The injured man grimaced painfully, still clutching himself. “Bladderth.” “Bladderth?” “Yeth. Bladderth.” “Which part of the bladderth?” “Well we have a method of dithtilling and fermenting...” “You get that fucking piece of metal out of your mouth or I’ll do it for you, young man.” “Sorry,” he said in a now butch voice. “We have a method of distilling and combining the urine with unique spices of some very special subjects we work with.” “What... sort of special... subtexts?” “Subjects.” “Sorry, subjects.” “We find the urine of alcoholic African lepers with herpes provides us with the best ingredient in hummus. Just thought I’d tell you that. The tourists provide us with the basis for a good whack of Mono. And a bit of monk shit. I used to work for a man.... What was his name? He was a cowboy or something.” “And you were going to put that in your mouth?” “Yeah, baby.” Some zippy big band music circa 1935 burst into consciousness, and the man in the pink coat picked up a cane and began a small tap dance, a grin cast into his face as if permanent. Pretty fountains lit with pink light came into being. He brought his wide eyed smiley face to J’s and started singing ‘Hey, Let’s Kill That Guy!’ (sung to the tune of ‘Swing on a Star’).
As he did this, he performed some very fancy footwork.
Park your bike and eat à la carte Make a face and bring on a part Does the Urine mean but a fart...?
Or would you rather be a prick?
A prick is a guy with A very big nose Eyes too far apart And everyone knows Can’t hold his liquor Or even his bone
He’s a stupid fucking cunt.
Or would you like to find out the stuff That makes Mono such a wonderful blast? Or is this convoluted and dull? Or would you eat a bishop whole...?
The instrumental part came in and the man in pink did an impressively smooth dance routine, joined by two lovely ladies in tuxes, top hats and stockings with big shiny black tap shoes.
“Since when has my life been a musical?” sang J. “SINCE NOW!” said the leg kicking chorus line of twenty.
Confetti and balloons fell from the ceiling.
Sudden silence. Total darkness. A spotlight falls on J, his ruffled shirt open and his bow tie undone around his neck. He lifts the microphone to his face, saddened and starts crooning in a deep, slow tenor:
Since whennn... has my liiiiiiife been a muuusicaaaaal? Life was so much more simple... Back in the ooooooold days Back in... Fourteenth Century Tuscany... Though I never actually... liiived back then...
The impromptu musical continued for another twenty minutes. It features some stunning song and dance numbers, ending with J punching the crap out of the scientist for no other reason than providing a satisfying climax.
“What is happening to me?” J asked rhetorically as he left the museum, trusty coat hanger in hand, still in a hazy orange blur after what had occurred at the museum. The constant strain of drinking and drugs had taken its toll over the years. But he had the only Tab of Mono100, in existence, in his pocket. As he left the lab, the scientist hung from a rafter by an intestinal noose.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
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