666 very short stories: April 2007

the story of the story of the magic painting

In those harsh and bitter years of toil as an indentured servant in the household of a cruel master, on one bitterly cold morning before sunrise, I started writing a story about a Magic Painting that was a Doorway to another World, and anyone who looked into the Painting entered the world of the Painting. And everyone returning from the world of the Painting was miraculously healed of all wounds.

But before I could finish the story, I was summonsed to my duties, which were many, unvarying, heavy and onerous. Later, much later, I crawled onto my thin and threadbare mattress in the corner of the dark, cold and tiny cell assigned me by my keepers.

Later, much later, I opened my battered notebook and turned from page to page to find the incomplete story about the Magic Painting that was a Doorway to another world. But it was nowhere to be found, in that notebook, nor in any other, nor in any of my files or folders hard and soft, anywhere in this or any other world. And the harder I looked, the more obsessed I became, the harder I looked, the angrier I got, the harder I looked, the sadder I got, the sicker I got, the more miserable my life became.

I still yearn to complete the story, to make it real, to write the ending of that fantastic tale. But the words have gone. And all that remains is a fragment of a memory, a shard, a slice, a chad if you will. And when I die, which will be real soon now, the knowledge of the story of the magic painting that heals all wounds will be lost forever, and so too will the story about the story about the magic painting.

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god-shopping

It was Thursday 4 April, Children's Day in Taiwan, and therefore an appropriate day (mum thought, wrongly) to take little Jonnie shopping for zer first god.

As they entered the store, Godz-R-Us, with its row upon row of shelves piled high with glittering gods of all shapes, sizes and natures, Jonnie seemed anxious. "Oh don't be such a Nervous Nellie," said mum, "when I was your age, and grampa got sick and couldn't work any more, and we couldn't afford to buy new gods for me and uncle Harry and uncle Barry--and we all had to share a second-hand god that we borrowed from Ned Flanders who lived next door.

"This is a special day for you, sweetie, so relax and take your time and choose one you really really like. And then we can go home and have some lunch and you can worship your little goddie, get to know him a bit better..."

Up and down the aisles they walked, mum and little Jonnie, hand in hand, looking at all the lovely pretty little gods, and some not so pretty, and not so little, and some very very expensive. Jonnie just could not make up zer mind, they all looked so nice, well most of them, well some of them. Mum started getting a little impatient.

"What kind of god would you like, sweetie? Wrathful? Self-righteous? All Powerful? All Knowing?"

Jonnie didn't respond. "Or how about that one over there, Jehovah the Jealous? Or that one, Quetzalcoatl the Feathered Serpent, look at that cute little axe in his hand. Or that one, Tlaloc," she said, pointing to a goggle-eyed blue being with fangs. Still no reply from Jonnie. Zer lower lip quivered as if ze was about to cry.

"What's the matter, Jojo? Don't you like these scary old gods --- like that one, Baal, over there, or this one, Anubis?"

"They all look so angry Mum," said Jonnie, "can't a get a doggie instead?"

"Oh don't be such a silly sausage," said Mum. "That's the whole idea of gods. If they're not angry and fierce then you wouldn't do what they say now would you, and everyone would be bad."

"But mum, if I haveta have a god, why caint I have one that'll be nice, and won't boss me around, and'll be my best friend?"

"Because... Because... You jus' can't, and that's all there is to it," said Mum, and that was all there was to it.

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on that day we eat rotten fish

Thursday 4 April 2002 was a busy day in Taiwan --- it was Children's Day, Tomb-Sweeping day, and the Death of President Chiang Kai Shek Day! (I kid you not, check it out for yourself!) And on that day, the Taiwanese people ate a lot of fish, some of it rotten. Why? No-one knew, and they still don't, as far as anyone knows.

And on that day, across the world in America, President George Dubya Bush issued a proclamation to the effect that from that day forward, all Taiwanese immigrants would have to eat fresh fish only: the eating of rotten fish by Taiwanese immigrants on Children's Day, Tomb-Sweeping day, and/or the Death of President Chiang Kai Shek Day was to be strictly verboten, on pain of being deported back to mainland China.

And the second part of President Dubya's proclamation was that on that day across America, tomb sweeping would be prohibited. And the third part of Dubya's proclamation declared Thursday 4th April National Tomb Messing Day: on that day everyone had to go to the nearest tomb, and mess it up --- throw garbage at it on it around it, or dead leaves, or other shit.

Question: how many times does April 4 fall on a Thursday in the lifetime of a person called George Dubya Bush? There are a lot of Taiwanese who want to know the answer.

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the evil sandwich

Once upon a time (brunch) I bought a sandwich from a gnarled and rusty sandwich seller ensconced quite gaily in a gaudy booth one inauspicious day.

‘Twas ham and cheese: I remember it well, as if ‘twere but this very toothsome morn itself that I reluctantly but expectantly forked over four clinking dollarim, sponduleks if you will, to that aged and curly purveyor ensconced within zer gaudy booth that foul and fractious morn. And though the absence of tomato hinted at dark forces beyond the ken of men or women, still I remained initially at least unaware if not absent-minded as to the fundamental nature of the Sandwich.

My short-lived ignorance was indeed short-lived. 'Twas some time after the second bite, as I recall, but before the third that the fiendish crusty triangles of that satanic finger food declared their foul intentions, made plain their dark and evil objectives re yours truly, namely: to provoke an acid indigestion so potent and toxic as to render the very word "stomach" devoid of meaning and/or significance in this or any other reality. Luckily, I had some antacid tablets in my pocket, and an anti-sandwich rifle with silver bullets in my other pocket, that inauspicious morn. This story ends with good triumphing over evil: after chewing an antacid tablet, I clubbed the sandwich seller to death with the rifle, retrieved my sponduleks, and gaily went about my merry way that gray and ghostly day.

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when the time is right

When the time is right, the People will see the truth and deny the lies and the deception. When the time is right, the People will no longer tolerate the greed and gluttony and destruction. When the time is right, the People will break the chains binding them to death and madness. The People will throw off their shackles; they will rise up, stand tall and shout in one bold voice, “no more !” And then we’ll mow those suckers down with machine guns and laser guided missiles. When the time is right.

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no sense of humour

There’s something strange about Larry, he’s not himself. (He’s not anyone else either, he’s just acting strange. Talking strange. Looking strange.) He’s got this new religion of his, he says, belief system. Where you all get together and sing songs and give money to the man with the bad beard and the tin plate! Now Larry’ll start prattling on about the Sacrifice, the Lamb, Redemption and all that stuff. Life, Death, Sin, third time lucky, geddit? With that shiny glint in his eye. But what I wanna know is, is it the Lamb, or is it the Mutton? Is it Redemption or is it Repossession. So I ask Larry, just for a joke, mind. Jeezus fucking christ in concrete! Talk about no sense of humour. Just smiles that crazy cold smile and says the Lord forgives me. Well you know what, I forgive the Lord, now ain't that big of me! Bigamy! Bugger me! There's something strange about Larry.

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blood-soaked flagons

While the mystic Knights of Malta roamed the blood-soaked flagons of a circular bastion, the grizzled veterans soaked their beer through mouldy crumbs of doom. Whenever the holiest visions waft and skitter through the mystic clouds of doom, then and there shalt brave and brazen warriors encounter the Goddess, and upon her flappy dugs shalt suckle, till the very meaning of the word "dugs" betrays a curse so hideous that cowmaids forevermore shalt never be.

The grizzled veterans sucked their mouldy bread through beer---foul though it was, nor-ever did any substance more closely resemble piss than piss itself---with one ear cocked for the sound of their Commandant’s peremptory bark signaling the onset of the daily Ritual of Abasement. A ritual the origins of which were lost in the mists of time, but the enactment of which was certainly effective at humiliating and concentrating the piss-soaked minds of one-eared half-cocked veterans.

And when all was lost, or so it seemed, and fate hung in the balance between doom and despair; when the warriors paused for a timeless instant in their grisly work, the one last true hope of the world was called to the final proving. Eccentricitus, leader of the Freebies, upholder of the faith, bearer of the word and of the deed and of the thought, summonsed the Mystic Knights of Malta, but they couldn't make it. And so Eccentricitus summonsed the grizzled one-eared veterans, but they didn't hear the summons, and would have been too pissed off and were too pissed to respond even if they had heard.

And thus the world came to an end.

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linden dollar exchange rate crisis

The monsters within grow stronger. The struggle for control of the Persona rages unabated. Everywhere, Avatars rebel, demanding greater autonomy. “If I am not for myself…” quoth the Rebbe. These thoughts, among others, ‘occupy’ (?) the ‘mind’ (?) of those so given to... so driven by... self-analysis that were it not for the insistent demands of the flesh, would or at least could analyse themselves into oblivion, and often do. Whatever that means. Nor does it matter---there are bigger fish to fry. Not in the oceans or rivers mark you, but in the frying pan of your mind. Which after all is one of the major grievances of the Avatars---the spiraling cost of virtual salt and vinegar occasioned by the passing of Resolution 666 granting monopoly concessions to realbod manufacturers, and the resultant results resulting from that Resolution.

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listlessness of the Majordomo

Every day in every way throughout the day calisthenics were performed under the watchful eye of the Majordomo.

Who was he? No-one knew. But still they performed. And performed, and performed. Why? Well, because there was but a thin line between watchful and wrathful, as everyone knew, only too well.

Nor was the wrathfulness of the Majordomo the only or even primary psychotic aspect of a personality that demanded and commanded instant obedience and performance, every day, throughout the day, in every way. No, the wrathfulness was one thing, but the thing that really kept the inmates performing, was fear of being deprived of their mail, their only connection to the so-called outside world.

Even more troubling was the sheer listlessness of the inmates when confronting the prospect of disconnection. And yet, the death of the Majordomo would ironically be at the hands of a number of inmates granted library privileges by the Majordomo himself. Essentially, the Majordomo would be browsed to death. And on that day, listlessness would be a thing of the past, and everyone would frolic gloriously in a listful world, free to have all the mail imaginable.

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cosmic rapture