A Noel Fielding Inspired Rant

I'm comin atcha. comin atcha like a laser beam, like a tiger's dream of an ice cream scene. In the dark where the fark meets the mark of the assassin. Moving through the night like a fright flying a kite. With his hands so soft and creamy and yet so tasty crunchy. Oooh wheatabix hands, what are you doing to me?

So I finally get to the pool where the showdown is taking place, just in time to find that the festival is over and the candy is strewn about the floor in a quiet haphazard manner. Just in time to find that the festivities let their sails to the wind and passed on down the road to tuluga. The starfight and the gelly fish were already gone and the crowds had gone with them. Down the road to a place I'll never know and a time in which I'll probly be somewhere else. Praps in a dream. Praps in my mind. Praps getting to the bottom of a juicy juicy lollypop.

So on I go down the road, following my destiny on the long way into the sun when suddenly. And suddenly still. I met a man with Ram's legs.

He showed me the way.

On the Street

For most of the night, he sat quietly, watching each breath as it froze in the cold. He was bundled pretty good against the slow death of winter, but knew all too well that the best coat could only save you for so long. The one he had on wasn't too bad, it'd lasted him through many of these winters, and tonight he had it stuffed with newspaper, the best free insulator out there, the great untapped resource.

He wore cheap nylon gloves that were melted between the first two fingers of his right hand, the problem with burning his cigarettes to the very last drag. He looked back to the square brick building he was huddled beneath, probably just another office building. It meant he'd have to clear out sometime before six, if he didn't want to get run off.

Damn, it's cold. He shook his head at the thought--it's not doing you any good to complain about it--and gathered his coat around him. Sleep wasn't going to come easy tonight--Heh, like it ever does.

He used to have a pretty decent gig, unloading trucks at the market for whoever needed help, getting a few bucks each time, but nowadays they got a bunch of young kids doing it, most of them couldn't even be more than 17 years old, throwing freight, like he used to. But as bad as he hated his life, the newspaper and the melted gloves and the cold, it was better than his other choice, and he wasn't about to stoop like those bums on the corners.


Ah, who're you kidding? True, he thought about it, sometimes, about how easy it would be to play off of people's pity, getting a few bucks from the bankers passing by, but he couldn't get himself to ever do it--the looks on the people's faces when they shoved dollar bills into those grimy hands--he couldn't do it. He focused his attention now on the other figures around. About a dozen people like himself, blending in with the brick and concrete like they've been doing it their whole lives. Every year there were more and more of them, until it seemed like now the homeless took up the majority of the city.

Yeah, yeah...there's time to worry about that later, just focus on tonight, it's gonna be a cold one. In a life like his, the seasons come and go, fortune smiles one day and scorns him the next, and the days and nights will march on, but sadly, in the midst of this changing world, his bleak situation is the only constant that he can be assured of. This last thought filled his mind as he closed his eyes, and fell into a restless sleep.

Trouble at Santiago Point

Part VIII - Trouble at the One-stop Survival Shop


One-Eye-Jim lit the cannon's fuse, and walked away.

Steve struggled against his bonds, not eager to meet the nine-ball grape-shot aimed roughly at his head.

The aforementioned ammunition, which didn't have a name, regretted nothing.

The church bells of Saint Mary's rang twelve times, and the courtyard fell silent.

Before the twelfth stroke, Steve was dead, and never again would he be able to ask a stranger for the time.

The End...