A little absurdity for you all.

Hey all,

For the next month or so I’ll be posting some short stories, some new and some old.  I’ll also be posting a preview of my forthcoming sci-fi novel Blood Rebellious which I hope people will pick up.

I’ll also be posting some excerpts from another novel I’m working on called Night Mage which I’m aiming for a late spring/early summer release in 2017.

Up first however is a bizarre little story I wrote a while ago that I totally forgot about.  I honestly don’t know what I was thinking that day, it may in fact have to do with my reading some old articles on Salvador Dali.

Inspiration comes from strange places.

This is a short story that I wrote inspired by my favorite artist.  It’s pretty weird, but then again so was he.  I hope you enjoy it.

Time Travel?! That’s Absurd!

The Ilad Sproc had been created for one reason and one reason only; stop Ryrgnyk Volcano from erupting. The eruption happened on August 21st  2035.

It was supposed to be the greatest rock spectacle of all time. The great Ryrgnyk Volcano Music Festival and Grilled Cheese Competition was in its fifth year and always showcased the best of the best in both the world of Rock Music and Grilled Cheese Construction.

2035 promised to be the highlight; the greatest festival since it began. Not only was Ferzel 8huvner29 from the Martian Colony on Saturn competing in the grilled cheese off, but none other than Fart Monger was set to headline the show.

The greatest grilled cheeseer and the greatest rock band would be at the same venue. Tickets sold out quickly.

It was midnight when Fart Monger began their most epic and in the end, final performance. The entire band was playing from the top of the volcano, the quartet spaced out evenly around the rim like the directions of a compass.

There was of course Muzzleflash Goldberg on guitar. Dipthong Hakamura on drums and the always smiling, always pleasant Skullfucker Johnson on bass.

Skullfucker – as everyone knew – had left the band five years before to donate all his time and money to the various charities he ran, but rejoined the group for this one last show, at the request of the lead singer, known only as Fart Monger.

Nothing else was known about Fart Monger other than his moniker. He was a complete mystery. He always performed wearing a mask made of avocado husks and insisted on being paid in cash.

The band opened with their first single Baby You Know I Want Too, But Your Daddy Smells Like Ham. They then seamlessly moved into Pant Load of Steam which melded perfectly with their first number one hit Shut Up and Get Me A Pickle!

Everything was going fine until they began to play their greatest hit. The quadruple titanium single called Thhhhhhhhhhhffffuurrrghhhhhsqueeeeeeeeeeefuhhhh burrito

Fart Monger had just squatted over the volcano. Holding the microphone to his rear end, he let loose with the first line of the song. The speed, volatility and amount of gas released, triggered a catastrophic domino effect within the already churning volcano.

As the lava percolated and the mountain shook, Dipthong Hakamura was thrown from the lip and fell to his death inside the molten core. The rest of the band was incinerated moments later when the whole thing went up, killing not only the members of Fart Monger but Ferzel 8huvner29 and 400,000 festival goers.

The volcano erupted violently for 23 days, throwing the Earth into a nuclear winter, killing off millions of inhabitants who could not find safe refuge.

That horrifying incident is why the Sproc Ilad had been created. If they could find out who Fart Monger was and stop him from becoming Fart Monger, then Fart Monger would never play at the festival and all those lives would be saved. Not to mention the countless lives that would be changed for the better if Skullfucker Johnson was able to continue his selfless acts of charity.

Curl Swanson was one of the first children born in the new world. Raised underground by surreal anarchists in a bunker made entirely of Legos and Silly String, he grew up listening to stories of an Earth that once was.

When the Ilad Sproc was created five years ago, he jumped at the chance to enlist. He was first and foremost interested in saving the planet, even if it meant that he would change the timeline and never be born. But, he also wanted to see what the world was like before the catastrophe, and perhaps even have one of those grilled cheese sandwiches he’d heard so much about.

Curl leapt from the year 2055 to 2015 and was currently staring, across the dining hall at the man he was certain would become Fart Monger.

Curl knew certain things about the band. He knew they’d all gone to college together at Loyola Marymount. He knew that it was in fact Skullfucker Johnson and Muzzleflash Goldberg who would be the first members to join. The three of them, would months later, fire their first drummer Geoffrey Smith and bring in Dipthong Hakamura to replace him.

Curl was staring at a young man in the Loyola dining hall named Todd Rebert. Known affectionately as “That guy who eats things for money” and less affectionately as “Retodd” when he wasn’t around. Sitting on Todd’s left was a young Skullfucker, on his right Dipthong and behind them shouting “Do it dude do it!” was none other than Muzzleflash.

Todd was about to eat an egg salad sandwich that had been baking in the sun for six hours. Added to the sandwich were sweet pickles, sardines, one raw chorizo sausage and three cigarette butts that had been found in the quad.

In his autobiography Flatulence Flatulata Fart Monger told many ridiculous stories assumed to be made up of half-truths and bold faced lies. In the final chapter, he wrote of the fatehful day he in fact became Fart Monger. There was only one surviving copy of Flatulence Flatulata and it was kept under heavy guard within the secured bunkers of the Ilad Sproc.

Curl had read and memorized the book during his time with the Sproc and knew it better than his own life. As he observed the four young men, he recalled part of the origin chapter.

“…I was just your average guy in way over my head. I dreamed of simple things like paper, gorillas, paper gorillas and perhaps one day eating the perfect grilled cheese sandwich. On a very hot day, in 2015 my life changed when I was force fed a stolen egg salad sandwich that had been mixed with other various, disgusting bits of food and non-food. The mixture, seemingly just gross, in fact combined to make a sort of potion which almost instantly transformed me from the simple young man I was, into Fart Monger Merchant of Madness…”

The nearly otherworldly effects of the sandwich were well known. It gave Fart Monger debilitating, violent and constant flatulence (which he would later learn to control for both good and ill) and it made him absolutely psychotic. The man, by all accounts had been an insane, psychopathic douche. He was known to kick dogs, throw babies, and laugh during Kevin James movies.

The man was beyond insane, he was terrifying.

The genetically engineered Time Lobster in Curls front pocket was clicking its pincers nervously. Curl and the time lobster – who Curl called Harvey – were psychically linked and able to communicate silently.

The Time Lobster had been genetically engineered to read distortions in the continuum, with the base line being the eruption of 2035. The closer they got to the origin of Fart Monger, the bigger the distortions and the more agitated the Time Lobster became.

Curl reached out with his mind. So Harvey, what do you think?

I think if you call me Harvey one more time, I’m going to clamp on to your sack with my pincers. How many times do I have to tell you, my fucking name is Steven! Replied Steven the Time Lobster, who was absolutely at his wits end. Steven hated Curl.

The only reason he volunteered for this mission was because it was a one way trip and he was desperately hoping he would be able to watch Curl die, before he was most likely thrown into a pot of boiling water and turned into someone’s dinner.

The Time Lobster’s pincers became more agitated and Curl knew this was it.

All right Harvey, I’m going for it! Curl suppressed a scream when he felt the pincers dig into his most sensitive of fleshy bits and he sprinted across the dining hall toward the four young men.

He reached the table, grabbed the sandwich and, as he ran from them he shouted the motto of the Ilad Sproc with pride. “Debone the banana fish fore tomorrow we shop for pudding!”

Curl was halfway across the quad when he was tackled by Muzzleflash Goldberg. Quickly the other three men joined them. He was held down by Dipthong Hakamura and Skullfucker Johnson while both Todd and Muzzleflash loomed over him.

“You want the sandwich so bad, then here, eat it!” Screamed Muzzleflash Goldberg as he shoved the sandwich into his mouth.

Todd held Curl with a firm grip around his jaw, forcing him to chew and swallow while Muzzleflash force-fed him the entire sandwich.

Curl felt a stirring in his brain and bowels. The last sane thought he had was, Oh god, may the Ilad Sproc forgive me…I am Fart Monger.

This quickly gave way to his first insane thought about the Olsen Twins, a nine gallon vat of yogurt and the long dead Richard Millhouse Nixon.

The fart that escaped him seconds later killed Steven the Time Lobster instantly, and rendered his four assailants unconscious.

Fart Monger slowly rose to his feet. He smiled and stared up at the sun for far longer than he should and thought about Curl’s Time Lobster’s last thought. Prick! Fart Monger was still laughing when the others woke up.

“What the hell just happened?” asked a confused and nauseous Dipthong.

“The beginning.” Replied Fart Monger. He watched wile Dipthong helped the others to their feet. “You guys ever think of starting a band?”

Skullfucker smiled. “Hey we were just talking about that.”

“Tell you what,” said Fart Monger. “Let’s talk about it over lunch.” He held up the impressive corpse of Steven. “You boys like Time Lobster?”

Then he farted again.

A disembodied voice is now telling you that time, as pliable and elastic as it may seem cannot be changed. The universe is a cleverly constructed, precision piece of machinery and though we may not believe in fate; that our life and destiny is our own, the universe as it always does has plans for us all.

The disembodied voice is now laughing idiotically and has just started making fart noises with its hand and armpit while singing Spike Jones’s Cocktails for Two.

It’ll probably be doing that for a while, so there’s no point in reading any fur—

Links!

Instagram http://bit.ly/1XgDJfc

Goodreads http://bit.ly/1XpMF4k

Amazon http://amzn.to/1MwzPG6

Twitter http://bit.ly/1YIWqZA

Podcast http://bit.ly/1KOLDsH

Facebook http://bit.ly/fnbrjwp

See y’all next week.

Jonathan

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