Chapter Four: Busy Mouths

Sartre reclined in his chair. One of the more difficult parts of bringing Billy to this place was the exhaustion. He had been warned that this would happen, but he didn’t anticipate his bong being stolen or having to send Billy on the chase. The bong had only been stolen once before and it was more easily retrieved as the thief had simply come across it by chance and had no knowledge of the bong’s power. The longer Billy stayed away, the more Sartre felt sleepy and weak. Sartre comfortably closed his eyes and accepted the responsibility for his current situation.

Sartre knew that this experience would be good for Billy, even with the new confusion presented with the bong thief. Billy had been abandoned as a child and taken in by a man who offered him a role in a quickly-growing industry known as orphan porn. Billy, only seven years of age at the time, realized within days of working for his new harborer that he could figure out what people wanted very easily. This gave his co-stars, and later his customers the satisfaction they could not typically get from the more apathetic prostitutes who had lost sight of pleasure years ago.

Sartre pulled an emergency pipe from his pocket and smoked two bowls… Billy really is a good kid. Or talented at fighting a bad nature. Whether it be blowing some brothers or finding the cure for cancer, anyone who can become self-sufficient by the age of twelve has got some things going for him.

Billy was feeling a little less than good, as he began the search for food in this strange world. For buying food, he would need currency. To achieve currency, Billy had to steal or earn it. Billy was much more crafty with his mouth than with his hands, so he surveyed his surroundings to look for a potential customer. The bus driver had already been satisfied in exchange for the trip. Floral-Billy, who was still jamming in the corner of the bus trying to demonstrate his specialty of rocking, looked as if he hadn’t been pleasured in a while aside from the occasional slip into a saxophone or trumpet bell.

Slut-breath Billy slid his hand up the pole nearest to him, and seductively (or so he thought) began to hum along to the horrendous music. Floral-Billy instantly felt his groove thrown so far off that his right pinky shattered. He noticed Billy Emerson’s attempt at allure and quickly did the math. The equation was a simple one. Billy Emerson may have strived to be a bit more rhythmic if he’d known that in this world, an abrupt change between grooving and non-grooving could destroy phalanges.

Billy Emerson crossed the bus and began to stroke the arm of Floral-Billy. Without words, he dropped to his knees and initiated some Billy-on-Billy action. Upon a chaotic entrance into a doppleganger nightmare, it was clear that a tuba’s bell would have been needed. After only a minute, Billy Emerson began the famous countdown. After the skeeting, Billy Emerson was disappointed to find that there was no form of money in this world.

“So how in the muthafuckin’ hell would I get some food, then?”

A satisfied Floral-Billy replied “Well, if you did right you shouldn’t need any. Heh!”

Billy was initially disappointed by discovering that he was the only one in the world with an appetite… then he smiled and realized that this was just the diet he’d been dreaming of. He got off the bus and didn’t recognize the area. He no longer knew where Sartre was, and certainly not where the bong thief had gone. This lesson was going to be a tough one to learn, especially since it had been taught so phallically. Thunder rumbled, and it became apparent that one could still feel a good disappointed lemonade rain on their face in this world, too. Then, Billy urinated all over himself. He didn’t mean to. Maybe that’s just what happens when you provided oral sex to your doppleganger.

As the thunder shook this world, Jack was arriving at his destination. He narrowly got there in time. He took a large, brass key out of his pocket and unlocked the door to a white, thin and vertical townhouse with navy green trim. He ascended the stairs to his apartment on the third floor as quickly as he could, knowing that they only had moments left to survive. He went into his apartment using no key, as there was also no door. Jack went to the bottom drawer of his wife’s sewing dresser and grabbed a VHS case filled of marijuana and headed to the back bedroom where the group was waiting for him eagerly. As he passed the many plaques with great men’s names upon them, he knew he was earning his place.

Jack slid open the curtain to the bedroom and saw all sixty-three of them in their respective cages, not knowing that the gift they were about to receive. He got out his special attachment for Sartre’s glittery bong, an accessory like one would see for a vacuum cleaner. As he began to circle the group, he initiated with the hamster who seemed to have the most cancer. As the hamsters began to sequentially take sweet, sweet healing hits, Jack’s wife entered the room.

“Jack!”

“Hello, Bethany. As you can see, I have Sartre’s bong healing your cancerous hamsters. That’s right. Sartre himself. His bong. These cancerous hamsters.”

“How did you get a hold of this? These hamsters were all going to die within the hour. Exposed to all of that caffeine when they were young, they were all on their cute little hamster deathbeds. You’re saving them!”

Jack knew that Bethany would disapprove of stealing, even for the good of these cancerous hamsters. So Jack told her that he’d borrowed Sartre’s bong with his permission. She began to cry, and went to her sewing dresser to get the supplies for making his plaque. A few minutes after each hamster had toked, the hamsters played as they had when they were youthful. Sartre’s bong and Chuck Norris were the only two known cures for hamster cancer at the time, and animals were not immortal in this world. Jack had done well.

Bethany, still crying, began to dance alone in the living room to a song nobody could hear. Her tattered, burgundy dress’s train dragged on floor behind her.

~ by wortkampf on June 9, 2008.