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Old 03-11-2016, 07:09 PM
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Prodigalson (Offline)
Homer's Odyssey Was Nothing
Join Date: Nov 2014
Location: Humboldt Co., CA
Posts: 2,259
Thanks: 252
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Our story so far...

The punch came from nowhere.

The sheer force of the impact caught me squarely on the chin and sent me toppling backwards before crashing down into a messy heap on the ground. I instinctively held my arm in front of my face so as to resist another blow from my assailant.

Then the S.O.B. kicked me. In the ribs.

He drew back his steel-toed boot to give me another good shot, when I grabbed his ankle and pulled hard, sending him tumbling down beside me.

And I looked into his eyes. I felt something. Something quite unexpected.

A shiv to the kidney. Well, not quite the kidney, but close. It hurt like hell.

Then a kind of calm I had never known before suffused my being. I held his knife hand fast to my side. My free hand moved towards his face, pointer and second finger slightly apart.

I poked hard, burying my weapon knuckles deep into his eye sockets. Blood squirted and stained my hand as I wiggled my fingers free. His gurgling scream broke the silence.

A rising stench told me he had lost control of both his bowel and his bladder.
I began to feel uncomfortable.

How was I going to explain to my boss that I just "took out the competition?"

Then I saw her. Stacked heals on black, calf high leather boots. Black leather shorts (they are so tight-how can there be space for another garment under them?).

A white halter top that looked as if it was going to fail under the strain at any moment. And the hair! Waves of orange red sparkling cascading thick silkiness swirling down over her shoulders.

A souvenir!

She must have noticed me noticing her grin because she said: "You should see the other girl".

I have always felt a special attraction to a woman that likes a good fight. Now if only I could get to my feet and properly introduce myself.

She saved me the trouble. Squatting down near me, she reached her hand out and expertly slipped my wallet from my pocket.

"What?" she shrugged, "You didn't expect a helping hand did you?"

I rolled to my side, then onto my knees while thinking of the glint I had seen back behind her grey eyes.

Where had I seen those eyes before?

And then it came back, the shiv in the side, the look in the eyes. My God, this was his sister!

The shock knocked his thinking from first person to second.

No, the shivver's sister!

He managed to tear open the Quick Clot packet he always carried and stuffed the powder into his seeping wound. The flow slowed and stopped. As he stabilized his thinking cleared.

"Now just what is going on here?", he asked Trixie.

Trixie held out her hand.

"Your watch," she said.

But it was his. The mountains were his. The valleys, his. But then every kiss tasted as if joy and pleasure, all his bliss had the name "Trixie".

Dying will do that to you.

"Yes, dying will do that to you" he mused, in an ambiguously tense manner.

The shiv remained in his side, not too deep, but certainly enough to puncture the kidney. Its handle protruded out past his fingers as he used his hand to try and stem the bleeding. Blood continued to pour from the open wound, ignoring his attempts.

Well, he thought, at least I have a spare.

First it was close to the kidney. Now it seemed in it. The Qwick Clot had stopped the bleeding yet now he thought the blade was still in his side.

As the delirium muddled his mind he began suspecting a coating was on the steel.

He was unable to determine how much time had passed since the start of the encounter.

And why did Trixie want his watch?

So she could tell him, to the second, how long it had been. It seemed he had been to Hell and back, only to discover he was still there. How long would that take? He didn't know.

After he answered his own questions he asked himself another: Was Jesus a zombie?

In that nether-world between life and death the question seemed pertinent. Yes, it was the only question and with a sudden clarity, surprising as otherwise his oxygen starved brain was shutting down making everything seem gray and thick, he realized the correct answer could save his life. He knew he knew it but it was just out of reach. He nibbled at the edges but just as the final form began to take shape it dissolved into vagueness. The answer seemed to be on the other side of Death and he knew if he but stepped over he would know it, know it and everything else that could be known, and then some.

Some band from years back sang it for him, '...should I stay or should I go?..." He knew he knew who they were but as with the Jesus question (a sudden stab of guilt for putting the Clash in the car with Jesus but now that he remembered their name they could get out) and speaking of getting out he tossed Jesus too, the zombie fucker.

But Trixie had another idea about how things are gonna go for Bobo.

She pulled an adrenaline pen from her boot and firmly planted it in Bo's chest ramming the plunger home.

You see, she needs him alive. She is madly in love with him and only she knows he is adopted.

In her sick and twisted sociopathic mind she plans on using that against him. For now, though, she just uses the pen.

And indeed just the pen it was. In her excitement she had pulled her Montblanc Meisterstuck.

In a barely audible groan Bobo was heard to mumble: "Damn writers".

The pain brought me back to myself. Where the hell have I been? It must have been an out-of-body experience. No time to worry about that now, I thought. Where's that Quick Clot?

Trixie was aghast.

Before she could move the blinded, undead original assailant reached out and clamped a hand on each of her leather clad ankles.

Noticing all this as he retrieved his back up pouch of Q.C. from his ankle wallet Bobo thought wryly: "Now it's a party".

Yanking myself back into the first person, I agreed with my third-person persona, Bobo.

"A freak party," I said as Trixie bent her knee then drove a spiked heel into one of her brother's empty eye sockets.

But as Damnable Writers Unanimous agreed...

there can be no consensus.

Is that what your family looks like? Or what?

As the query came over the previously unnoticed P.A. speaker Trixie dropped into a feral crouch and scanned her perimeter with a predator's intensity.

Stepping from the shadows, Prodigalson made quieting motions with his hands. "It's a bunch of schoolkids on a huge old redwood stump just down the road from where I grew up," he said. "Now quiet, we're watching the show."

fuck, bye wb

Watching in amazement as that little scenario played out, I thought, do it now and, grabbing the heel without the eye-gunk on it, I flipped Trixie's feet out from under her.

Landing on her back with her leather sheathed ankles jammed in her ear holes she asked herself: "Why does this feel invigorating?"

And in a flash it came to her. She had finally achieved the heretofore elusive asana known as Upside Down Dog.

She also recalled it was often referred to as Playful Puppy.

As her breathing slowed to a deep rhythm a new vista of perception began to open up for her.

The red veil of rage that had been the constant filter between her and the world all her life began to mist and drift away.

A lightly glowing bluish white pulsing color tinged all she could see.

Along with that a taste of honey, Hibiscus honey, was on her tongue.

The unfolding petals of her Dharma eye began revealing pages of the previous lives she had been in.

She saw, at first, how gender was interchanging and, as the visions continued deeper into her past, an awareness of moving through species came to the fore of the experience.

Suddenly she leaped forward, landing on all four hooves as a bull buffalo.

Standing erect, she shook herself in the manner of a breeching sailfish.

Drops of past karmas in all the hues known to a human eye scattered out from her, crystallizing as they fell to the earth. There they were absorbed, returning to a state of potential.

For a moment her form drifted up an inch or so and shifted a few feet southward due to an errant breeze.

Knowing, deep inside, the interconnectedness of all things I corrected myself. Not an errant breeze at all, I thought, but rather the effects of the wind of destiny, for southward was where she was meant to be.

And I no longer loitered on distinctions of third, first or second person.

Neither did Sybil and look where it got her. Finding a mirror, I looked in it. "Look where your shenanigans have got us," I told Bobo.

"Mine?" he said and you knew they were yours because trouble always followed you.

I knew those words weren't mine. As I walked about the room wondering where they had come from I noticed that the bottom of the parrot's cage had been papered with pages of a Learn Ventriloquism book.

...which explained why he seemed to get worse and worse at it. The poop daily covers more of the instructions, I thought. I should clean his cage.

Then the parrot started twisting his head round and round, 360 degrees clockwise, while saying, "You don't mess with the shit, lady!"

"Lady?" I said, grabbing that confounded bird and screwing its head back on right. "I ain't no freaking lady!

"And I ain't no ventriloquist!" squawked the parrot. "It's him! Talking to hisself!"

and then cam e bumbling bot.

A Confederacy of Dunces. battled a Union of Thieves. Nothing civil about this, thought Bobo. They probably don't even break for tea.

Little did Bobo know that tea was already brewing in the pot as wyf tried, vainly, to be domesticated.

"In the kitchen, bitch!", shouted Bobo. "The fate of the Union depends on you!"

Trying to figure out who the 'him' was the parrot was talking about while keeping this woman focused on American history, I totally forgot about Trixie.

but what was that about the confederacy and domesticated?

"The domestication of the Confederacy is the only hope to win the Civil War," Trixie replied as she hopped off her time machine.

Bobo stood aghast as he touched Trixie's face. "Finally," he said. "The time is right for us to win." He took the parrot, and readied to battle the army at Heaven's Gate.

but this game was already played, backwards.

...but all it said backwards was, "Satan is Lord," and, "Worship the Devil," so we're trying to set it straight, here...
Mr. Ed said I should use his signature, since he's not anymore. In honor of his good friend Nok, here it is: "As far as smoking a cigar," she said, "I'd not know where to start or how to start." "It's simple," said I, "You light one end and chew on the other and hope to meet in the middle."
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