“This lone flame represents He Who Is Illuminated.”
The pitch-black room suddenly grew a small yellow pimple of fire as the voice spoke.
“And we are thankful,” a chorus of half a dozen voices replied in unison.
“By the light of one candle, a thousand others maybe be lit,” it said again.
The fire shook a bit as several other flames appeared alongside it, separating into a semi-circle.
“And we are blessed,” the others intoned.
“A day is coming soon when all the world will shine as bright as we,” the speaker said. The candle bobbed slowly around the room, lighting other candles floating in oil. Inch by inch, the series of lovingly-placed silk anime wall scrolls came into view, their pinks and blues turning green in the flickering light. In between the Ikki Tousen action figures and first-edition tankoubons that lined the shelving, several tiny pinpoints of light began to appear.
Doe-eyes, pointed chins, impossible breasts and a stretch of bankais presided over the gathering with an air of both familiarity and authority. When the last candle had been lit, the six in their custom-sewn mascot costumes raised their foam-cast heads far enough to blow them out before gently placing them on the floor. All, that is, except the original. His costume had been the source of great envy for the others, until the great Day of Joy, when he revealed to his chosen few that it was not, in fact, a costume.
He came to them, on that day, revealing himself as one of their own. An outcast. An outsider. One removed from the society he had been raised to accept, the society he had been told he must find his place in. Like them, he found only scorn and derision from his peers when they found out about his lifestyle and the choices he had made. Their hearts broke at the sight of him, and with much wailing and hugging, they had made him their leader.
“Let none at this community college cast their eyes upon us in shame or cruelty again,” he growled in his throaty dog-voice.
“Blessed and Illuminated is the Anthro Kahn,” the others chanted.
And so the orgy began.
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The last bit of flesh and muscle tissue peeled away from the severed finger as Weird Boner chomped vigorously at the digit. He closed his eyes and swallowed, digging his claws into his palm to keep from shuddering. He could show no weakness, not now, not when he had already come so far.
He spat the raw bone into his free hand, and wiped it against his shaggy pelt to remove whatever blood and drool remained. In his other hand, a smartphone was waiting for him to enter a text message. With the finger bone now clean, Weird Boner gripped it like a morbid stylus, and began to write on the screen.
WHAT NEXT
The phone displayed an animated envelope consuming the message and sealing itself shut before flying off into space. He rolled the calcium tool between his fingers for several minutes before the phone beeped in reply. He hurriedly opened the message.
poop from a butt
Weird Boner raised one of his dog eyebrows. Another text arrived.
8======D~
More and more texts began to arrive, several per minute.
whilst touching yourself, i
does a crazy person know he’s crazy
what are you doing dave
your scrying sucks and you should feel bad
Weird Boner dropped the phone to the ground and crushed it beneath his heel.
* * *
Heh continued to snicker as he handed the phone back to Fartwiener. “That was fun,” he said, raising his palm towards the shaman.
Fartwiener wordlessly disassembled the small sign of the encroaching technical blight. Later, he would ritually destroy them with rock, river, and flame.
Heh would remain un-high-fived for the remainder of the evening.
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Corm Walton aimed his laser pointer at the graph projected on the wall. “We’re expecting some resistant growth in our third quarter, but that’s mainly due to supply being bottlenecked that time of year. Nothing new there, just something to be aware of.”
G.D. Shitlord looked down at his smartphone. It was still trying to bite him.
“Excuse me a moment,” Walton said. He balled up his fist and punched his own head cleanly from his neck. The various fish that sat around the executive table flopped in appreciation.
Corm reached into his briefcase, removing a large seagull head from inside. He set it firmly on his shoulders, and gave a piercing squawk of triumph. The fish continued to flop.
The seagull-man’s beady red eyes then focused on a walleye seated at the far corner. G.D. remembered liking the fish’s tie as it flopped in this morning. With another great cry, Corm launched himself at the fish, snapping it up in his beak. The fish struggled it slid down Corm’s gullet head-first, and vanished from sight.
Corm looked directly at G.D. His entire body seemed to convulse as he released a healthy load of bird shit all over the table, creating a black and white explosion on the polished oak surface.
The other fish flopped in silent contemplation at this new turn of events.
“Negotiations were tough, but when you’re dealing with an industry leader, you can’t be afraid to step up to the plate,” the man said into the camera, smiling confidently. In a news van across the street from the skyscraper, a bored broadcast engineer fished a green pepper from his breakfast burrito and added a name to the graphic template: Corm Walton. The engineer lamented for the man’s ridiculous parents.
Before Walton could say another word, G.D. Shitlord emerged from the building, and the news cameras began to swarm like bees around him. A writhing human tumor formed on the front steps, with the occasional aide metastesizing off to fire a text message back to the editor.
“G.D.,” a reported called out, “is it true that a slug is about to fall out of your mouth?”
“No,” the executive replied, continuing towards his car.
“G.D., can you comment on the nails in my eyes?” someone else asked. When he looked, he saw that a woman had nails buried in her eyes. She seemed rather calm about it.
“No.”
“What about the rumors that this merger is going to lay off thousands of workers?”
G.D. Shitlord stopped on the last step. The lump in his throat was gone. Nobody had nails in their eyes. He looked around, his vision beginning to clear.
“…nobody’s getting laid off,” he said, and stepped into his car.
In the nearby alley, Getsome patted Fartwiener on the back. The shaman was vomiting up what looked like hot tar. Getsome nodded, whispering something encouraging.
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G.D. Shitlord flipped through the next stack of paperwork on his desk. His eyes glazed over at the unending acres of words, some of which had been invented specifically to deal with corporate issues between large companies. Much like the one he was currently tasked with running. He wasn’t even entirely sure what they did anymore, but he continued to sign papers, day after day. Sometimes he took a lunch break. He wasn’t even entirely sure what he ate.
The Haze was thick today. It hid behind his eyes, making the words on the contract blurry. It made the colors in his office—carefully chosen by executive psychoanalysts to be as welcoming and affable as possible—bleed together, causing the whole room to seep out of focus at the edge of his vision. A cup of warm coffee sat at the corner of his desk, but he couldn’t smell it.
Not entirely sure when he had picked up his pen, G.D. Shitlord scrawled his name at the bottom of the contract.
He could smell french vanilla nearby.
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TONGA AT THE 1974 BRITISH COMMONWEALTH GAMES
ADAIR COUNTY COURTHOUSE
Weird Boner’s caramel-colored claw tapped at the screen again. A thin layer of scratches on the iPad’s touch-sensitive display gave evidence to its user’s repeated use of the exact same spot over the course of some time.
COCKSUN REPEATER
HD 44594
NIELSEN RINGSCAN
No.
HIGHFIELD PARK, NOVA SCOTIA
No.
LEPIDOCHRYSOPS VICTORI
The claw poked through the screen, causing the display to black out. Weird Boner wordlessly threw the device into a corner, where it came to rest atop a dozen others, each one broken or disabled.
Weird Boner removed a tiny cloth doll from his back pocket and began to chew on it.
In St. Petersburg, Florida, Jimbo Wales suddenly began to have horrible muscle spasms.
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The slight rustle of leaves was the only clear indication that the little turtle was on the move again. It emerged from beneath the hollow log, and slowly craned its neck around, checking for any signs of its pursuer. After several quiet minutes, it lowered its head again, and began to creep away.
Directly behind the turtle, as still as the moss beneath his feet, Heh crouched on top of the log and watched with a smile. Afraid to breathe too hard and cause the wood to creak, he continued to observe the turtle’s path until it moved through another pile of deadfall, out of sight.
For most of the afternoon, this had been the game. Find the turtle.
Heh barked in excitement, and his powerful legs launched him several meters ahead, near where he thought he had seen the turtle last. Catching a tree branch as he went by, Heh hoisted himself up, and began to take in his new surroundings. The creek was getting closer; he could hear it trickling in the distance. The wind carried the tingly scent of fresh ozone, telling of the storm that would arrive to the forest soon.
Amongst the dried leaves and fallen wood, Heh’s sharp eyes managed to spot a round dimple that looked suspiciously like a turtle in its shell. He licked his lips, and squeezed his hands together to keep them from drumming against the branch in excitement.
The slight rustle of leaves was the only clear indication that the little turtle was on the move again. It poked its head out from its shell, and slowly craned its neck around, checking for any signs of its pursuer. After several quiet minutes, it lowered its head again, and began to creep away.
“You…you can’t do this!” the other werewolf said, cringing further away from Getsome. The Fenris easily towered over his defeated opponent, holding the instrument of his victory in one clawed hand. “It’s against the rules!”
“A strong man will make his own rules,” Getsome growled.
He held his fallen foe down and crammed a handful of checkers down his throat.
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Fartwiener allowed the mostly-chewed bones and connective tissues to ooze from his mouth, forming a wet, sloppy pile in the small chalk circle. A single sphere out of several dozen, connected by thin lines of hairs taken from the head of door-to-door pollsters.
Heh watched from an unmarked corner. Fartwiener carefully pulled a rat from his pocket, whispered something to the rodent, and set it on the ground. Its pink nose lifted into the air and twitched as it took in the atmosphere of the room—chewed chicken necks, dry chalk, incense, and unwashed dog.
The rat slowly made its way towards a circle, paused to sniff again, then turned to its left and dashed into a hole in the wall.
“I guess all methods of scrying aren’t equal,” Heh said smugly.
“I wasn’t scrying,” Fartwiener said.
Heh’s grin dropped a little.
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Heh slurped noisily through a straw as Getsome returned. The Fenris’ pride was echoed in his meaningful pace, and as he came into the light from the cool evening, Heh could see that the other werewolf’s face and chest was covered in blood.
“What is that?” Getsome asked.
“A smoothie,” Heh slurped in return.
“That smacks of embracing a more decadent lifestyle.” Getsome visibly bristled at the thought.
Heh swirled his straw around, draining his cup of every last available drop.
“I consulted my totem on this issue,” he said, raising his arms high overhead.
“And what did it say?”
Heh stared at Getsome intently as he lowered his arms to his face. A pair of sunglasses was in his hands, and came to rest on his nose.
“Deal With It.”
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