I am now certain that they have broken through the third layer of skin, and will soon burst forth and devour my tortured soul, beginning with my searing, bloodshot eyeballs. And not a second too late, as the corrugated steel walls of my shipping container will not stop the CIA satellite laser beam locating the signal eminating from the tracking beacon that has been implanted into my visual cortex via a fiendish intra-ocular injection.
For these reasons, it is imperative that this memoir, surely my last, be written down in a concise manner, free of the circular, quasi-Euclidian, repetitive & tautologically redundant repetitive waffle that one might expect from a hunted man, under constant supervision by alien satellites, with insects burrowing under his skin, and who feels it is imperative that he complete his final memoir in a short, verbose, concise, lengthy, non-repetitive and non-oxymoronic fashion . . .
bzzzzzzzzzzzzz POP!
I wake up drenched in sweat, but safe in my own shipping container. I realise I am no longer there, no longer strapped to the dreaded “reaming bench”. I re-live the moment of the nano-syringe injection over and over again. Blurred glyphs swim before my eyes, forming and dissolving a message – but it is a message I cannot comprehend, having recently been struck illiterate by an acute case of the very rare gastro galaxial trans-cerebral reflux disorder virus, or “comet vomit” as it is referred to euphemistically in the refurbished shipping containers, underground parts and distribution of unitised synergons, or RSCUPDUS, as it is known colloquially in the RSCUPDUS business, business, business, which I contracted after being struck by an infected harpoon expectorated with stunning force from the terrifying sextagonal blowhole of a low flying, egg laden, majestic Royal Canadian Mounted stealth whale.
Now let me begin again by saying, the vast, sextopus tentacle like conspiracy I shall expose herein, will play out with devastating consequences for the “business of the 'brolly”, as it is known in the RSCUPDUS business. Indeed, it pierces the eye of the storm in a way so analogous to the proverbial “intra-ocular injection” that blood and ocular fluid will leak from the lowliest part-time rectal barometer insertionist, all the way up to the weathercocks, weather analysts, and the upper echelons in the the Fortress of Pre-Emptive Meteorological Retaliation itself.
And yet as I write this, my own path is becoming clear. I must decode the cryptolexisporidial bloom which now appears before my eyes, divine its true meaning, and trace its meandering execution stack back to the very source of the segmentation fault.
However, before embarking on this fantastic, yet largactic, lysergic, dopaminergic, serotonergic and possibly cactopowersurgically enhanced mission, I must proceed to the municipal book depository, to rewrite the books on basic literacy, followed by the book on intermediate literacy for beginners, 2nd edition.
After entering the depository via the depository insertion pod, or “suppositron” as it informally known in the RSCUPDUS business, I proceed to the enquiries counter and ask about renewing my membership. The clerkbot presents me with a document that I assume to be the renewal form, along with a replicated smile.
As an illiterate, completion of the form presents a serious obstacle, especially given my increasingly decreasing high level intellect and unthoroughly detailed understanding of ethnolexicognitive neurocomprehensive factorisation.
Fortunately, I am able to fall back on my innate sense of paramortal yoga posturing, animorphic non-tessellating
monoalphabetic body expression, semaphornication and ISO-9000 compliant bird calls.
Like a surge of power from the pneumatoscalpel of a crack, combat hardened cactopowersurgeon, my application form sluices through the osmotic barrier to be absorbed into the depositories’ main mucous memorybrane chamber. I grimace, as next I am to submit to a deeply penetrating examination of my fecal aperture by a writhing proto-tentacle, which has appeared from nowhere, and goes about its task for what diabolical purpose I know not. Though I am soon to find out.
*aaaaaaaaaaaargh!!*
I feel violated, yet cleansed, as the proto-tentacle and I both have what we want. The proto-tentacle’s prize: A fresh and pungent parcel of my post-intestitudinally denourished bio-nuggets, to be chemically analyzed and compared to whatever biometric specimen it might wish to force-extract on my next passage back through the suppositron.
My prize: Access to the knowledge I seek.
Using naturopathinogenetically engineered micropharmatropes, I am able to condense over 3,000 written languages into a convenient, quick release nanoanandemide capsule, containing well under 6% sexavalent Einsteinium, as required by the Selective Metafactoid Reuptake Advisory Council guidelines. Choosing to forego my usual blue vein injection route, I empty the contents of the capsule onto the cover of a book portentously titled “When Retroworms Attack! How to Protect Metafactoid Capsules from Infection”. Ignoring that, I prepare two thick lines of the dark, roughly 2,3,fluorodiacetylcolostroglobulin coloured powder on the book's cover (upon reflection, the colour might in fact have been closer to 3,4 methylfluorodiacetylprotoglobin). Producing a glass tube from my pocket, I quickly insufflate both lines of nanoanandemide powder.
Within milliseconds, I feel the rush of knowledge hit me like a massive tidal wave of neural custard, cascading from my pre-hippocampal lobes, through the frontal menigdoladecahedron region, and on down to my primal scrotocortex. The feeling is almost cactopowersurgically cyborganismic, as if every one of my axiodendritic tungsten channel terminals is simultaneously being given a full body massage by a pornoelectric, mutlivaginal pleasure slave-beast.
C-C-CUNT! FUCK!! SHRIVEL MY B-B-BALLS!!!
Suddenly, I sense that something is wrong - horribly, gonad witheringly wrong - as wrong as the infected ball-sack of an uncompensated victim of phallitelecommunotestebulgarism, or PTCTB as it is known in the RSCUPDUS industry, a dehabilitating and telecommuting syndrome caused by non-ionisotonic particulons, a microcarcinomic byproduct of the previous year's gigatoxic EULA cluster collapse and subsequent supernova, combined with pepto-abysmal sperm retardation in the host, and the “blueballs” testicular pigmentation syndrome commonly seen in excessive and infrequent users of bluetooth communications, as well as those who have never used bluetooth at all, but whose testicles have become iradescent blue nevertheless. In most cases of PTCTB and "blueballs", the victim will have to have the testicles removed cactopowersurgically, usually inside a cactopowersurgery.
My thoughts and intentions, previously as pure as the pearlescent white shell of a low flying Royal Canadian Mounted stealth whale egg, now turned as black and foul as the smoking corpse strewn wreckage of a crashed jet, which has had a flight data obfuscator knowingly and crudely installed in place of its flight data recorder, prior to takeoff, by the mortally negligent and criminally insane ground crew, a scenario which, it seemed to me, was occuring all too often these days, at airports right around the country. There was something very strange going on.
I felt a sharp, extratestiscular wrenching sensation, as though some invisible army rallied to defend me against what was, I now realised, an attack of the infamous and deadly Isotourette’s retroworm. By all refutable logic my autoimmune system should have collapsed under the profane verbomolecular assault. I reeled in immunoshock, and the glyphs that had been continuously writhing before my eyes in a climactic cactopower-like surge, now resolved into letters of the alphabet that I could comprehend.
The letters combined to form words that hurled vile invective at my brain. Whereas before I could ignore the strange glyphs, I was now mentally bombarded, and could no longer block them out. I heard every possible synonym for the various anatomical nether-regions. Phrases and concepts like “cum nazi”, “polypenetration”, “frothing jizz bucket”, “cryofudgepacking”, and "auto-erotic ass-immolation” pounded my shocked consciousness.
In my mind, as each word was erected it would seem to stop and flex around inside me for a moment, but it wouldn't stop coming. As they rammed me harder and harder, I was taken back to a frightening experience I had suffered as a young child on the “Romper School” television show. We were peacefully singing a song about rainbows with Miss Kim, when without warning, Big Ted tore his throbbing 2’ purple bearhood out from his pants, directly in front of the terrified, weeping children. And if this wasn’t enough for him to be charged as a bestial monster-dicked pedophile and banned from children's TV for life, we were further traumatised as he ran around the studio clutching his engorged bearcock and chanting “Death to infidel prostitutes!” and “Cut off their pleasure organs, then all will kneel down before my mother pole and drink from the everflowing, high-protein font of Gargantuon the Penetrator.!!”
Fortunately, I was pulled from this disturbing flashback by the appearance of more words in my mind’s eye. Two words in particular stood out above the din of the debauched, cryptic tentacle crossword orgy gang bang and bukake scrabble occurring in my mind. The words were “fatuous” and “DEAD.BEEF”, and I knew they had to mean something . . . something very important, but what? . . . I had to know.
To be continued . . .
