Our Shrink sat in his office. Stella the Mannequin from Macy's lay on his couch staring at the ceiling with her arms outstretched in an unnatural pose.
"So what do you think of the Cleveland Indians this year?"
The Mannequin lay on the couch without moving.
"Do you still think that your sister is dead?"
The mannequin rolled off of the couch and thudded on the floor causing an arm to fall off. Our Shrink's secretary ran into the office, excused herself and entered the office to join the Shrink and the broken mannequin.
"Is she going to be OK Doctor?"
"No...I'm afraid she's a mannequin depressive."
A large, scruffy man with a tangled beard and a tattered bandana lounged against a Marshall Stack, painstakingly sewing a thread of Mylar up his left forearm. He thought the dragon's back scales were coming along nicely, despite the discolouration from the dirty needle he'd used the previous week. When he came to the end of the spool, he looked at his watch.
"Damnit, where is that hippie?! Sound check's almost over!"
"Hey, frogbreath! There's some mean bitch out front lookin' for ya!"
"Wha's she look like?"
"She's wearin' these robes and shit. Looks real good in sandals."
"Oh cripes, it's the missus. Look, stall her, man."
"Where ya goin?"
"Anywhere but here." Zeus ducked under the stage and beat feet, cursing whenever he banged his head on a support.
Headlines in the Metropolitan Monomaniac's entertainment section: "Hendrix misses another appearance," and, "Stage blown away by angry fan."
Zeus narrowly escaped the light show. Hospitals were flooded with the casualties. Never get in the way of a goddess during PMS. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, ha! Whoever said that never pissed off Hera.
"Shit, now I gotta think up another disguise."
Zeus sat on the outskirts of Memphis with his pet salamander Tonka.
"So, whaddaya think?"
"Look, the roadie thing's still cool. You just gotta stay around other roadies and keep a low profile."
"Oh, yeah. News flash, slime ball, I just did that and Cleveland Auditorium got flambe'ed."
"Uh huh. You think getting that girl pregnant with twin lambs was keeping a low profile?"
"Hey, I was disguised as a bison..."
"No no no no no. No raping, pillaging, or even stock fraud. Stick to the recreational embroidery, and let the chicks come to you. C'mon, you know how Hera is about family values."
"Hmmm, ya got a point. But that takes half the fun away."
"It doesn't have to. Change into some hot-bod and the groupie girls'll be all over ya. Hell, if ya grow yer hair long and dye it three colours, they'll think you're a musician."
"That or a friend of Kyle's. And can we come up with something a bit sportier for my schtick?"
"Like?"
"I don't know - something the gals would want to hear about."
"Like, `Makeup Artist?'"
"Naah, Hera would pick up on that one in a pico-second."
"Okay, handle the FX."
"Too obvious."
"Hey, if you wanna get babe attention, you're going to get her attention. Deal with it."
"Yeah, but I don't wanna get Hera's attention. She's on that Permanent Menstrual Syndrome and I'm supposed to be laying low remember?"
"Then why're ya asking for a babe-getter image? You know that's like blood in a shark tank."
"Good point. Maybe I should just make myself look like Zeke."
"Who?"
"We're looking for Zeke," said one of the sisters at the front of the procession.
"What for? He's just a senile old man. How can he live in this mine?"
The Sisters of Merciless Food entered the room that used to be Zeke's sitting room. The old fire pit was empty, not touched for possibly months.
"Where could he have gone?" asked the short sister.
The rocks awoke.
"I dunno," said the sister in charge. "Maybe he's in the old man's room."
"Well he'd better hurry back. Our hedgehog casserole is getting cold, and the yak fat is curdling."
The rocks would have salivated, had that been their style.
"Yeah, and our poison ivy salad is going limp."
"Like the boys in Jonseytown?"
"Kinda."
"Why don't we just come back another time. This place is really spooky. Besides, I want to get back and have some more of that Leek Jelly we made."
The rocks pounced. They started to chew, but then the taste of the casserole hit. In an instant, the Sisters of Merciless Food had been ejected in a spontaneous volcanic eruption, their remains scattered over the parking lot of Chez Quickies: poetic justice for a bunch of undergraduate chefs that considered making chocolate chip & ginseng rolls.
From here for the next bit we're editing on CWBorysowich's BIG screen TV, which is large on size and small on resolution. So if the plot seems over blown and under-focused, that's why.
Time is a conspiracy of the watchmakers (go figure).
If we can have TV for the blind, why can't we have stereo for the deaf?
"You been listening to pop radio? We already do."
Where did all the clowns go?
Never mind clowns, here come the Cleveland Browns!
Next hit movie: The Violence of the Shams.
All of the French maids at Chez Quickies came out in force to clean up the parking lot before their president, Francois Mitterand, stopped in for a visit. He liked the job they did, and sold them all cars with faulty wiring. A month later came the biggest case of tragic spontaneous explosions ever known, and there were no maids left to clean it up, either.
Hey, you didn't think we could have the Plot to End ALL Plots without a few fatalities, didja?
Speaking of which, you should all realize that, when this monstrosity is finished, there will be no more plots. Ever. No stories, conspiracies, schemes, or intelligence work. So enjoy this stuff while it lasts.
And, when we're done, we're going to convert it into a microdot. That way, you won't have to read this gigantic thing. It'll look like this: .
