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The last chuckle of head fell from the stump of fungal growth in Psychoville central, creating a massive clog of pubic hair in the sinkhole of metaphysics. The gods lodged a formal complaint to the relevant authorities, claiming that this action was no fair to existentialists that believe in self-flagellation before their breakfast shot of morphine.
Swarms of jaded monks abseiled into windows of Bland Façade, owned by the fascist corporate arse-licking greed-infested nasties of Socialist Inc. Pty Ltd.
“I gave Yul Brynner his first drag behind the shelter shed,” claimed every shopfront with antagonistic sincerity. This served as a catalyst for the pacifist riots in the aforementioned tee-totaller communities in Psychoville.
“GET THAT FISH OFF THERE, BOY!” yelled the Pastor of Muppets.
“L.A. punk?” queried the lone jerk held captive in Trak Penitentiary, eating his own shit with bottomless joy.
“Dig me out of this compounded childhood pain!” scrawled Germy with the blood of his own wrist.
“Those refresher towlettes at Kentucky Fried...” he continued, “...are more fragrant and contain a lot more bacteria-killing chemicals than the ones from Red Rooster.”
Little did the frightened beyond belief “take - him - not - me - god - please - don’t - let - me - die - you - bastard - my - sister’s - real - cheap” Germy realise that just behind him crept one of the biggest pastries known to man. It convulsed with the hottest of synthetic Herbert Adams jams to date. It was also wearing one of those glitter wigs from the Melbourne Show, shedding crap everywhere.
In his first gallant act, Agent X slew the beast to Germy’s minor amusement. The beast was a distorted version Crowmere and the connected souls of many of his followers.
“Put him with the rest of the food,” said Germy.
Later that evening, Germy was eating at a formal dinner, hobnobbing with fascist leaders from all over the planet. The restaurant was on the ground floor of Hotel La Spaz, Psychoville. Red drapes covered the walls of the circular restaurant. A sumptuous meal was laid out on the mahogany table. Basted duck, salads, red wine, bagels, roast beef, chicken, turkey, pineapples, sauces, ribs and all manner of delicacies were laid out before them. Two caraways circled the table, pecking at various items.
Germy, let it be known was a man with a sense of humour. It certainly was a sense of humour to an extent, but nobody liked it. In fact, he was not funny at all. He really wasn’t. Factually speaking, the only person who could possibly laugh at one of Germy’s jokes would be a genetically spawned clone of... Germy and his large army of scientists had yet to succeed in creating his clone.
Germy was politely cracking stupid jokes and talking right wing nonsense as per usual. He then immersed himself in an anecdote from the old days: “So the orange pellet bounced off the door and hit me in the gum! Those wacky guys! They love me you know...”
He drivelled on with his mindless anecdote as if it were interesting and amusing. Sitting silently and smilelessly next to him was a thin man in a chrome bodysuit that went up to his neck. He stared into space menacingly; not eating, not drinking. He was Germy’s newly acquired bodyguard. He was a true man.
His name was Krustin Janzl (a.k.a Agent X) and he was a complete bastard.
Germy continued, “We were inseparable us four, like a team. Smoked drugs, drank copious amounts of alcohol. Like one day, I said, hey, like why don’t we go for a drive? And we did jus’ cause I suggested it and one guy - a real joker - put a stubby under my wheel. Those were the years. So Krustin, tell me about yourself. How did you get to be my new body guard?”
“Well I had this other job, but I got in deep for using departmental computer systems irresponsibly. I was admonished, so I decided to leave... and one thing led to another and I became a bouncer at a bar - until one day this guy started shooting everyone. That led to a manic depression whereupon I entered a mental hospital and met the most peculiar guy from a band... The Jazzbuckets I think they were called. I’m not sure. Well anyway, my experience in the hospital turned me into a complete bastard and I became a bodyguard. It’s a much more rewarding job than being a Bottom Feeder within the Bowel Tactics Commission.”
“What an utterly boring story,” sighed Germy, “life has become so dull and irrelevant ever since I left my mates all those years ago.”
Germy’s mood became sombre and reflective. A solitary tear rolled down his face as he stood up and announced to the table: “I need some space and a Garfield mug!” and walked out of the restaurant.
Inflict Kafe Gavani On The World
  
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