Blindly Unhinged, Fred Swaggers While His Exotic Rockmelon Hacks

Anthony, Brett, Warren, Callum, Doug, Leisa, David

Tue Jun 25 10:12:07 1996

As Mary ate her own legs, it dawned on her that she needed more sauce. So she went up to the nearby shops and saw Patrick farting loudly. ``Stop it!'' she exclaimed, and hit him with her diamond kneebrace. He fainted with the happy look of a dying lunatic on his face, and the sad look of a twisted neddie on his ears. He survived with his feet intact. The dancers in the marketplace began to swirl and weave among them, giving tins of free kidney beans to all and sundry. The suds produced by this experiment quickly got out of hand, and out of mouth. The people inside laughed loudly, until they died.

Fortunately, Ozalp came running to save the day, merrily chewing lettuce leaves and betel nuts mixed with yoghurt. Robert followed him into the fray, slashing his wrists with a sharp-edged goldfish. Olga fainted at the sight of blood, and ran screaming from the scene, dressed only in a skivvy and tennis shoes. Her rushings took her to Smolensk, after which she was exhausted and ate a hearty liver before realising her mistake and vomiting. Fred came back with his stick and just managed to avoid being skewered alive by it before he was skewered alive by it. His remaining life was spent counting to three. One, two, three, urgh!

Someone, somewhere, was decidedly unhappy with their lot in life, and foresaw the existence of coca cola in 4L bottles. This was so extreme that they died. But it was all in vain as a suggen gust of wing brought them to life again. The author couldn't explain what all the `g's were doingg in the sentengce and shot them. In fact, this event was so inexplicable that the CIA began to look more like the X-Files than the X-Files looks like the CIA. Mulder and Scully were brought in to investigate this extra-consonantal anomaly, despite pleas from mothers of small children and members of the gun lobby.

Soon enough, all superfluous consonants were eradicated by the deft use of a Samurai Sword, which was left to Julia by her great uncle in law, Sir Mervyn Moncrieff, C.R.A.P. T.L.A. who was renown for his impressions of blue ringed octopoids, particularly when his gout was at its worst. The gout was a relic of older, grander days, when it was expected that a young man should go out into the world and so he was none the wiser.

As he tapped his way slowly down the street, Freddy had plenty of time to live, but he didn't know this was the case. He considered gallantry as evil and chastity as its own punishment. Life was for the living, not for myopic programmer nerd types, he thought as he took another swig from the bottle of moonshine perched precariously above his `Soldier of Fortune' magazines and squashed the cockroach that scuttled from the lip of the bottle.

He wondered vaguely where the next bottle would come from - he'd never been able to remember PINs, and the cashless economy was progressively dismembering his once carefree lifestyle. He gazed about the blood-splattered wreckage, looking for his VISA card. Maybe credit would come to his rescue. Unfortunately, it didn't and he was astounded to see thousands of heavily armed commandos in American Express uniforms descending by parachute. He surreptitiously hid the offending card under the treads of a passing glue factory and swaggered in an unconcerned manner towards the tundra, where there were supposed to be good rockmelons lurking in the shade of the grazing wildebeest. Unfortunately he never made it to his destination as Fred intervened in a drastic and visually spectacular fashion by spontaneously combusting all over the carpet. He was most embarrassed, and the other guests had to try hard not to laugh as they stepped over his body fruit which squished and slid underfoot, but the peppering of squashed cockroaches beneath which most offended.

The more curious guests peered into or sniffed various crockery jugs that littered the room, but none were able to get out of the containers once inside. In fact, they were meat-eating Venus Guest Traps, which only grew in pubs with no beer. The pepper grinder didn't work so well on rockmelon. All the skins would get caught in the gears and they would jam horribly. Without beer to dissolve them, they were impossible to remove, and hence the recipe was never tried again. A number of different rockmelon-grinding schemes were tried, however, and one which attracted a lot of advocates involved a pencil, a rubber duck (the surf life-saving kind), a working replica of a Colt 45, two or three matching candlesticks, a Rolls-Royce jet engine (preferably such as is found on the Boeing 767), a pack of 50 swizzle sticks and, lastly, a giant full stop to end the list.

Fred took the swizzle sticks and a slightly rotten apple and combined them in an unusual and exotic way before giving the duck a good time in East Anglia. A disruptive strike ensued, and before Fred could run for President, the aveloic apple of time swung full circle. His life flashed before his eyes, ears and several other sensory organs, joined briefly by Anja's life, which was just on the way past looking for a suitable sensual body to infuse. Life had been a bit boring since the last body accidentally destroyed every Rockmelon in the store in a futile attempt to contain the outbreak of mad cow disease. Much more interesting were the events down by Hilldicky creek, where it was said that Swaggering Fred was soon to arrive in town, cockroaches and fruity pulp surrounding his corpse. The rockmelons were rolling gaily through the slush of their compatriots and the cows were coming home.

Down at the bottom end of the food chain, in other words, life was grand. Fred, who had recently arrived at the bottom of the food chain, was probably the only exception. He was having a miserable time. His exotic rockmelon was not taking to married life with equanimity: it was demanding all sorts of concessions from Fred, such as two for the price of one, six months interest free terms, no deposit, yyeeeaarrrs of workmanship! Yes! And we all speak English (or some reasonable facsimile thereof).

Ha! He scoffed. There would be no way Fred was going to worm his way out of this one. No siree. This time he was well and truly fucked. Sorry, I couldn't resist putting that in, but mind you I've just seen `Trainspotting' where lots of Scots looneys run around engaging in sundry byes, wides and no-balls. His tongue was cut out to remind him not to use such filthy language next time, and the words `Life's a bitch and then you fart' were tattooed on his penis.

Such deterrents were common amongst the exotic rockmelons, whose hacking skills were legendary, as it had become obvious to their leaders that if such drastic measures were not taken the rockmelons might discover the erotic delights of zucchinis and the resulting cross-species reproduction could result in disaster for any curries who arrived seeking refugee status from the other story. ``36 bits or eat gruel!'' became the rallying cry of a new generation of sensation seekers, who sought enlightenment mainly through preserving PDP10's and inventing new forms of fruit salad. A few flasks of rum where accidentally spilt over the second ALU, but since this didn't seem to make any significant impact on the performance, no-one bothered about it very much.

One day, while sitting watching the lights blink on and off, Eric slaughtered everybody in sight, and then had a relaxing cup of tea. He sighed, and watched the butterflies frolicking in the deserted wastelands. After the tea, Eric stood up and phoned Fred. ``Hey Fred, you wanna go bowling tonight?''. Fred pondered for a couple of nanoseconds. ``Yup, count me in, Eric I've just got to milk the camel, and I'll meet you at the bowling alley''. That was the last time Eric ever spoke to Fred. He was killed by a pack of rabid arts students for letting his Rockmelon out without a leash and, in his blindly unhinged and swaggering state, was unable to defend himself. Poor Fred. Poor Eric. Poor Rockmelon. The End.