Friday Expirimental Fiction (BONUS ROUND!!!)

“We are here live at the Democratic National Headquarters where Presidential Candidate E, who has recently retired from a lucrative acting career to act in politics, and her strategist, M, are expected to announce their campaign strategy any moment now as they set their eyes on the White House.”


She turned around, disappearing in the host of reporters and cameramen, heads all wrapped in bandages in the shape of towering dunce hats. The mass of reporters was packed between the fence at the end of the lawn and white chairs surrounding the podium. All attention was focused on the door where the candidate would emerge from and walk to a podium set halfway down a path cut through the middle of the lawn. Around the podium were special reserved seats for very important and honorable members of government like family members, civil servants[1] (whose very title is a blatant mock and testament to the stupidité of their plebian “masters”), and friends who were owed favors for their unwavering loyalty.[2] One man came striding along the sidewalk outside the assembled mass, quite different from the rest, for he had no swelling and no diadem of white wrappings on his head. Those packed against the fence—the fringe of the scene—were the only to notice him. They pressed their faces up against the high black iron fence:


“Hey!—hey you! Why don’t you have any bandages? Did the doctors find a cure?”


“Yea I thought everyone was afflicted with this thing now.”


“What do you do?”


“What’s your name?”


“Phil—” he began.


“Looks like a scientist. What science do you study?”


“Well that’s nice Phil but did the doctors find a cure or what?”


“No, the doctors did not find a cure, but I can help you with that problem—and others…” he began.


“Scientists, these guys know it all. Can you tell us the meaning of life yet?”


“Sure—”said Phil.


“What?”


“What is it?”


“Yea tell us!”


“Come on now, out with it!”


“What do we need to do to get cured? Tell us, Jesus Christ!”


“W——” Just as Phil opened his mouth, a reporter shouted, “OH MY GOD! There they are! They even brought out A[3] the Democratic Donkey for this!”


The reporter fixed her blue-shaded contact iris on what could be the story of her career. “Screw his stupid little answer!” She reared her head back, threw her dyed blonde locks over her shoulder and marched toward the trio at the podium with a Stair Master gait. She was followed by all the other reporters and cameramen; they swarmed forward in a swell of bouncing silicon and rattling plastic Viagra bottles.


The trio came to a rest at the podium. The two women smiled at each other and waved to the cameras, faced one another, and with a steamy look in their eyes they opened their mouths and swatted tongue with tongue. They paused for a moment, illuminated in flashes and camera lights, then knelt down and set to work on A the ass with equal zeal.


There were cheers and whistles zipping out from the crowd of reporters. One man looked back to his cameraman saying, “Are you getting this? Its spectacular!” while another woman shrieked, “OH GOD! Its like being back at my old Sorority House! I LOVE COLLEGE!!” She threw her shirt off, darted past the podium, and joined in.


Another cheer went up accompanied by whistles and shouting. A reporter looked into his camera, tucked his two middle most fingers under his thumb so that his pinky and index finger stood straight up and roared into
the camera: “YEA BABY! FLOCKS NEWS!!” The reporter’s face flushed with blood and as his neck veins
swelled and throbbed the bandages bulged and he began to nod uncontrollably. His stitches ripped down the center of his head and his brain blasted out in a spray of crimson dots and wavy white bandages. Thin folds of scalp-skin fell in where his brain had been, leaving a collapsed crater in his head. The reporter’s eyes rolled back in his head so that only the white showed, and he began blinking so fast that his eyelids could be heard smacking together. His jaw dropped and his tongue fell out over his lips and shook all about the sides of his mouth as his frame was wracked. The reporter crashed to his knees, then fell on his face into the grass.

Everywhere reporters were hurling themselves face first to the ground. As the Hebetudinous Head-banging struck again, one man, standing too near the fence, impaled himself on it; as his head was racing toward the pointed iron post he opened his mouth to scream but was not sure which one to use, for now he had two: the mouth in the back of his neck drooled blood in place of spit, and his life left through it instead of words. Such is the fate of all reporters, speaking enough for two mouths yet never thinking enough for even one brain. Another reporter bashed his face through the post: his initial scream dropped to a gurgling groan as the post erupted out of the back of his neck accompanied by tomato-skin-red spray that drenched the nearby corpses. Chin sunk to chest, body shuddered, and then was still; his eyelids rested half down across his eyes, gazing lazily into the abyss.


The ass, startled by the sudden outbreak of the Hebetudinous Head-banging, began to stomp and kick in a paroxysm of panic. Just as it stomped E’s face she tried to pull away, and lost her head. The ass stomped the head once more, and shook its leg as though it had a bucket stuck on one foot and was trying to kick it off. M was on the upward swing returning to a kneeling position when the donkey flung its two hind legs back and up, hitting M in the face with E’s head, which should have snapped her neck and even back, but M was a talented politician, so her neck and spine merely bent a little more than usual. She landed on her back, with arms and legs spread wide, ready to negotiate.


Though the collision had jarred E’s head loose, it was now being dragged and tumbled on the ground by A’s legacy, as the ass kicked wildly and ran in circles. A finally gave up and stood idle with a bewildered ass-stare among the field of bleeding bodies.


Phil turned his back on the chaos and gore, and slowly walked away.







[1] Civil servants, who have more houses, cars, and luxury in general that they masters they “serve”; civil servants, whose record over the course of history is anything but civil, and is rather a catalogue of vice in general and sexual deviance in particular that even the Marquis de Sade would find twisted and nauseous. One must ask—are civil servants anything but convenient jokes for satirists and philosophers?


[2] Political Loyalty—Not revealing all the nefarious deeds that a member of government is involved in until it becomes profitable; that is, where such a revealing might yield an increase in votes, notoriety, or money.


[3] Bill. Apparently names were a last minute addition and subsequent subtraction (Cf. note 1 from the “Blogger Chic(k)” section below), along with the gender of characters which seems to have been kept, though certainly uncomfortably. Many places in the MS are littered with “he/she” preceding actions or following dialogue and nearly unintelligible railings concerning d’Lingua’s all-out assault on their lack of identity.