Lava
He stared me down. His black beard against his brown skin gave him a Godlike appearance. His vivid orange jacket almost blinded my weepy eyes. As he glared at me, I could see he was daring me - daring me to make a move. Directly between him and me was Nigella Lawson wearing a jetpack. I knew what I had to do. It was a difficult operation. Some might have called it suicidal. It was a job that required someone crazy, but not just any kind of crazy. It required somebody crazy and religious. I was a devout Hindu. I was also crazy. I fitted the bill. People used to shout across the street and call me a loony. In fact, the local bakery named their bestselling bun in my honour. It was a fine bun that required a special machine to bake it. It wasn’t a large machine or anything major. It was more of a minor bun engine. I always kept a bun or two with me, which was fortunate, because at that moment I needed a bun to bite. I took it out and ate a mouthful. I tossed the rest of it over the Nigella to Benny, who held his stare and caught it with one hand. He raised an inquisitive eyebrow.
“You need to bite that,” I told him, and he took my advice.

But let me start at the beginning. I hadn’t been high that day, but I was sure a sign came in the form of a band of marauding gay nuns that were distracting me in the middle distance. Benny seemed unperturbed by their homowailing. He was a mighty adversary. I felt the situation get the better of me and dropped to my knees.
“My insides are hideous!” I shrieked. “They would repel me physically if only I wasn’t attached to them!”
Then I heard a beautiful sound. It was the voice of my dead brother. “I love you inside, Ed!” Ed was the name he used to call me when we were kids playing Horsie Horsie up at old Mr. Hardwick’s farm. “Don’t worry, Ed,” he’d whisper. “It’ll be over soon. Hardwick doesn’t take long.”
The sound of his voice was equally as reassuring now as it had been back then.

I leapt to my feet with renewed vigour. A sixteen year old nymphette danced across my field of vision, her school bag over her shoulder. I called an obscenity at her and she replied with such a filthy mouth that I was shocked. I whistled for a nearby puppy and commanded it to attack the girl, but it wouldn’t do it out of good will alone. No, the puppy had a tariff for such tasks. I gave it a bite of my fine loony bun. It was delighted, so I ordered the pygmy houndling, whose name tag read ‘OLIVER’ to defecate on Benny, the gay nuns and the potty-mouthed schoolgirl. On the horizon I saw Alan Hansen approaching and, detecting the impending scene of carnage, he swiftly donned a chain mail suit and brandished his shield. As he drew nearer I noticed a small yellow hoof protruding from his pocket. I recognised it as belonging to a ruminant mammal upon which I had earlier performed cunnilingus. I wondered who might have placed it in Alan Hansen’s pants, but that thought quickly disappeared as Bill Gates appeared behind me. I was a big fan of his. I admired his computer knowledge and aspired to be just like him. He set my trousers on fire and I thought I was under attack, and only when Ashton Kutcher loped over with a cheeky grin did I realise that it was an elaborate prank.

In all the excitement I hadn’t noticed that the puppy had nipped my finger end when I had fed it my loony bun. I was bleeding. I hadn’t bled for months, and had wondered if I was still even capable of bleeding. Clearly I was. This was a great relief. The colour was not quite as red as I remembered it. It had more of a magenta hue. Nonetheless, I was delighted to see it. There would surely be people who would love to have blood like that, and I devised a swift strategy to peddle my genetic information to eager customers, such as the women off Sheila’s Wheels.

A wild pig meandered over, wearing shades and a leather jacket.
“Word up, homies,” it grunted, and we noticed it had a bonsai tree in its trotter. We all ignored it. It was sooo 1978 and not at all with the times. In my kindness I decided to give the porcine beast some advice.
“You should speak to my people. We Hindus are great botanists. There is a tree by the name Taxus baccata,” I told him. “You should invest in one of those. It’s much cooler than a bonsai nowadays. You can get one in Washington State. While you’re there you might like to spend the night with a girl I know.”
The wild pig pondered this for a moment, and then said, “Yes, I think I will.”
I noticed a scar on his throat and asked how he had sustained such a wound. He told me he had had a ruckus with a gentlemen’s hairdresser.

Our chat was interrupted by Nigella Lawson descending in a jetpack, squawking something about ingredients for a new dairy-based liqueur. It was old news to Benny and me so we hatched a daring plan to disarm her of her method of aerial transportation. Benny said it wouldn’t work but I insisted it would. He dared me to go ahead with it.

This was where my craziness and my Hindu faith came in. I leapt into the air and screamed the name of Ganesh as loud as I could. Ganesh heard me and adorned me in black leather and chains. I landed next to Nigella, whipped the jetpack from her back, stuffed a ball gag between her luscious lips and threw her in a nearby kiln. Her screams soon died.

After an hour I opened the kiln door. To my disbelief, the heat had only melted away her cunning disguise. What sat there now was a flame-haired songstress. She stepped out, relieved to be alive.
“Heaven is a place on Earth!” she squealed with delight, and swiftly disappeared to write a chart-topping single, but not before I had run my tongue along her prominent earlobe.

All this time, the puppy had been playing with nunchukas and I saw him make a bolt for it from the corner of my eye. I pursued him using the jetpack and flew straight to Newcastle where I located Donna Air’s house. She wasn’t home, but the housekeeper was. Noticing a red mark around the puppy’s neck I realised it must be allergic to conventional animal restraints and advised the housekeeper to inform Ms. Air of this. I then noticed that the door stayed open on its own. I asked how this was made possible, and the housekeeper pointed to a cunningly concealed makeshift papaya doorstop. I liked the cut of her jib so I produced a hash pipe and gave her a wink. She invited me in. We smoked and made sweet, sweet love.
“Thou art more sensual than a drunken badger,” I proudly proclaimed as I peppered her wrinkled back with my souljuice.

The dare had clearly gone too far.
(stusut79, Tue 6 Nov 2007, 13:53, 16 replies)

...
*clicks*
But in return you have to change "... between he and I was..." to "... between him and me was..." and "...mammal I had earlier performed cunnilingus upon..." to "... mammal upon which I had earlier performed cunnilingus...". Nothing comes for free in this world, and I'm feeling all grammatical today.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Tue 6 Nov 2007, 13:59, closed)

Done!
Thanks for the quick lesson.
(stusut79, Tue 6 Nov 2007, 14:10, closed)

...
Sometimes I'm embarrassed by my lack of restraint about these things. But not often.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Tue 6 Nov 2007, 14:12, closed)

Well!
I've got a feeling I would like this story if I could be bothered to read it all.
( girlinthehole, Tue 6 Nov 2007, 14:16, closed)

If we're being picky
isn't "fit" an Americanism? I think it should be "fitted" in UK English. And "chain male" should be "chain mail".

Great story though!
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Tue 6 Nov 2007, 14:30, closed)

my verdict
Trying too hard. Bears all the hallmarks of a callow creative writing student whose friends find this kind of thing amusing. It's those "Oh so zany" irrelevancies and faux-earnest specificity that ruin it every time. "Flame-haired songstress...allergic to conventional animal restraints...threw her in a nearby kiln....more sensual than a drunken badger"

I'm yawning now. Shrink it by 80%, come up with a narrative thread someone may care to read and you might have a good post.
(frankspencer, Tue 6 Nov 2007, 14:31, closed)

You are certainly correct
about the chain mail thing. I don't know what came over me!
(stusut79, Tue 6 Nov 2007, 14:32, closed)

@K2k6
Naaah - I think "fit" is fine.
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Tue 6 Nov 2007, 14:42, closed)

@Enzyme
Having looked it up in my computer dictionary, it appears to be OK.

But it's a Mac, so it has a US dictionary. Looking up the Oxford English dictionary online:

fit - verb (fitted (US also fit), fitting)

So "fit" as the past tense is indeed American.
( K2k6 has a proper job these days, Tue 6 Nov 2007, 14:52, closed)

frankspencer
I assure you there are no irrelevancies (EDIT: OK, the badger bit might be a bit irrelevant) and the narrative structure is stolen entirely from a hugely popular contemporary film. The length is necessary to convey the epic scale of the source material on which it is based.
(stusut79, Tue 6 Nov 2007, 14:52, closed)

Fitted it is then!
Cheers!
(stusut79, Tue 6 Nov 2007, 14:54, closed)

Oh Benny Lava,
Where are ye when I need ye?

I am proud that I got it, but I fear others did not.

Where is my papaya? Oh there it is.
Where I left it.
(jindodsdadsdogsdead I am not stusut79, Tue 6 Nov 2007, 14:59, closed)

@K2k6
Hoodathortit?
( Enzyme is powered by sunlight, Tue 6 Nov 2007, 15:19, closed)

Hang on a min
Is Frank Spencer's post said in earnest?

Why.... I am dissapointed.
(jindodsdadsdogsdead I am not stusut79, Tue 6 Nov 2007, 15:32, closed)

Yeah, this one gets replies!
So I need to add sex, right?  Ok, Horsie!  Horsie!  I'd rather be flying Elephants!

LOVE ME!
( CapnChkn I would rather be flying elephants., Tue 6 Nov 2007, 23:55, closed)

Okay...
I'll love you, but only if you'll caress my clammy earlobes with the gentleness of an asthmatic marmoset. xXx
(stusut79, Wed 7 Nov 2007, 16:31, closed)