9th March, 1990
Frederick was limping badly. He had been practising the unseemly art of tie-dying his erstwhile companion Ozalp and muttering profundities lucidly. With a slap of his thongs he stood, anger causing his hair to fall out in large clumps from his ferret skin thongs; this was normal for lamingtons. ``Hey! Where did this lamington come from?'' As this question was asked, it was unasked and hence became used as a punchline in a nearby washing machine.
Anja, breaking from her bonds, ran quickly. The washing machine had gained a life of its own, wandering through the hall, pinning the unsuspecting Anja to the wall. The controlling spirit was in full flight throughout the household goods - the percolator bubbled quietly to itself for fear that the universe was listening.
After reassuring himself that the universe was lurking elsewhere, the therapeutic percolator teleported itself into a void star. Pointing itself in the right direction, the percolator dashed off in the key of Harry Belafonte, a void star himself. The percolator, however, lurked quietly, gurgling away contentedly in the corner as the malevolent spirit in the washing machine caused it to spurt soapy water in all directions.
Few people have seen the atomic disintegration of a coffee percolator. This extremely rare event is usually seen in the outer regions of small clusters of coffee beans in Borneo, although it has been mentioned in the upper reaches of the Quandolin nether fountains. Slowly, the fetid fountains floundered, fostering the foolish frolickers funky frumpishness forever.
Orange olives oiled orthopaedically in an Indian international inn. Hugo's tongue felt knotted when he attempted to say this. The knot was understandably surprised at this juncture and, as the generic percolator grew, it quickly ran over the soft covering of hard coverings. The authors of the story, overdosed on chocolate and foreigners, groaned. The foreigners in the chocolate groaned the story, and recursed down the hall where they eventually would have been.
Retching violently, they screamed in unison - ``Horace! You fiend! You scoundrel! You uncouth boor! How dare you do such a thing!''. Hugo was amused to hear the outburst because he hardly ever knew his own name. After plugging the putrescence, the outburst slowed to a drivel.
At the dry cleaners the next morning, the rain blew heavily and mournfully. ``Beware'', glared the apostate - the words were written in his eyes, hence he could communicate by glaring. He continued - ``But please, mein therapist, I beg of thee to help my poor shattered self be ...'' - the sound of a shattering self was all but drowned out by the sound of the therapist percolating quietly on the table next to the box of Kleenex.
for (i=0; %s core dumped was walking down the sigma pi variations of the known text space, and laughed at Stuart. Ozalp's 3rd leg had finally fallen off into the olympic pool, which caused some consternation within the lower levels of heaven. It was drained completely, and cleaned for the first time in years. The dirt was collected for the blind.
Hugo awoke from his deathly slumber to see his mattress flolloping grandly across the plane. Shaking his head sadly, he manacled himself to a lamington and drowned. Patrick, the samurai sword sticking out prominently, crept cautiously through the crinkly coleslaw and cut the crystal from Anja's arsenic ankle. In an asymptotic arc, the albatross exponentially elongated and coalesced into coffee and settled into the percolator once more. Reality seemed to be restored, however the world did not seem to be right.
The fountain was not a major feature in the story, and has so far avoided being killed. Satisfied at this outcome, it sat there, gurgling away in the corner as the body was carried out. The black ribbons fluttered in the venetians, and the huge man-eating toad crawled slowly into the cavity left in Hugo's body after the hedgehog left early in the morning. The authors, still desperately trying to seize the handle with both teeth, finally opened a large peanut factory and banana split at both seams, bursting with putrescence as they floated freely.
The breeze spread the fetish stench like a sluggish stream through a cesspit. Many fables begin with `Once upon a time the slug ate chocolate and old spice.' Stories starting this way never made it into print, and have been sold under grotty counters for the last six hundred metres of silk derived from bloated sheep bladders.
Slowly the ancient wooden album producers burnt percolators. ``Yes!'', they cried ``burn them! Burn them!'' for indeed t'was the advent of coffee which ruined the wooden album industry. The psychiatrist looked about, startled at the carnage in the house. He didn't really expect Hugo to go to pieces quite so violently - reality has many nasty surprises for fictional characters, especially death.
The term `putrescence' which may (or may not) feature in this story derives from the old Persian term `Pu-Tresx-Enz', meaning that the whole interpretation of this story was incorrect, except for the last few words.
Again and again Anja cried, and again she cried, over and over, and when she finished she started up again, until finally there were no tears left for the broken body of the percolator, laying shattered on the cold, white tiles of the kitchen. The psychiatrist walked over to her and ate her whole. Without her whole, she could no longer go out on Friday nights to the disco. She had to be transferred to Alaska for the good of her father's pedestal, which had suffered cruely at the hand of the rhythmic percolations of the coffee machine, which ruptured its lid with an ugly bursting sound and sent orange fluid oozing over the bench malevolently, surrounding the small wooden craft in which Hugo sat, and so there they all were, believing themselves sane, and yet totally paranoid and neurotic - even schizophrenic - as the night fell crashing about their ears.
There was a sighing wind which sighed, sighingly through the trees around the sulphur encrusted kneebrace where they found him. He was lying in a pool of puddles, eating chocolate and noisily berating the final potato. And so, his miniscule overnight bag began to bulge, bursting at the seams, floating on the stream of consciousness in the higher astral plane. A gale was raging on the lower levels of hell but this was of little consequence since the dead body of Hugo was dead.
Patrick, meanwhile, was digging himself up to go and do some shopping. Scraping the clods from his corpse, he unfortunately fell onto the roadway and died. He got up and died. Wandering around the body, several ex-pet sheep committed ritual suicide around their owner. Their bodies lay in a pentagram formation which was really unusual since there were only three of them.
Hugo exploded violently, coating the walls in putrescent green putrescence. In the hamlet at the foot of the nearby volcano, Patrick died. After this monotonous non-event, the piano hurtled slowly onto the person on the right. But it was only a minor accident, and his health was not diminished, and the person responsible for the puns were shot, as was his health thereafter. There was no redemption possible for that person - the puns were forgivable. Judgement was swift and terrible death by satire, the most horrible form of punishment fortunately there was no punctuation so there without any of those breakdown in communications.,''?, and several other spurious characters came down the line, ekeing out a simplistic existence in the murky depths, then they all died, with a pedantic air. They sank ever deeper and they percolated through the grimy sea life, bloated and sweaty, their clothes bursting at the seams, the wafting smell from his shoes destroyed all micro-organisms in the region.
The clothes flew off in all directions, but mostly in a downward direction. Hugo thought that this was odd since he had very little idea which way it was. Funnily enough, he thought, reading the drivel oozing forth from the interpreter, that the Forth interpreter needed a conversion to ANSI Cobol with a nasty piece of fish in the oven. Ozalp, the pointy blind dog, began to scratch uncontrollably, tossing his wild hair hither and thither. The itch was demanding fulfillment - it was driving him insane, sending him spinning around the now revolving room. Hugo felt that he would rather be dead, so he promptly shot himself and failed to die spectacularly. In his later life, he and his kneebrace traveled widely and the kneebrace became a holy relic.
In another paragraph, the story read backwards became a chant to Harry Belafonte, who never quite recovered from the shock. In an attempt to recover the tone of his mind, he sat down to read the coffee percolator manual. At this point in time the illusion of reality suddenly lifted to reveal the stark. The stark shrieked with surprise and ran out the fourth dimension, slamming it shut from the outside. Our brave adventurers used the nearby lift to get to the 5th dimension and turn the tap off, trapping the stark, whose frail body shuddered with the perks of the coffee machine in which it had been trapped. The lift stopped at the correct floor, for the first time, floor 23. The reality of the situation struck home to Hugo when he read the user's guide, ending at floor 15.
As he fell the last 5 floors, he reflected in the window across the way. But the mirror image reversed and became a reflection in itself, unified in the diversity of life itself, and right in the centre of it all was Frederick the Orange.