Sunday, May 22, 2005

Evil Glenn vs. Writer's Block :A Filthy Lie!

Writer’s block. The bane of authors the world over. Anyone who has written more than a few crappy letters to the editor has had it. This is the factual account of a case of writers block gone horribly wrong, as reported to the Nashville, TN sheriff’s deputies. Normally we change the names in such stories to protect the innocent, but let’s face it nobody is innocent in this case.


Tues. April 26th, 2005:

During a trip to the Dixie Gunworks outlet store in Tennessee, Graumagus, Contagion, and littlejoe stopped at a small diner for a bite to eat, and to stretch their legs. It had been a long drive from northern Illinois, and they were famished.
They entered “Molly Protein House” and took seats at a booth near the back of the establishment. Contagion, while taking stock of the people seated in the diner to assess their threat level, noticed a man seated near the entrance typing away at a laptop. His heart visibly jumped into his throat, as his eyes widened.
“Hey Grau, isn’t that Evil Glenn over there?”
Graumagus, casually turned his head to look,
“Yeah, I think it is dude, that’s fucked up man!”
littlejoe was too busy eating a pat of butter to notice their conversation, so he just nodded and made agreeing sounds.
Evil Glenn, the would be world conqueror, destroyer of hobos, and drinker of puppy laden protein shakes was sitting no more than twenty feet from them, typing away, and deleting.
“This article on the state of my domination over the blogosphere simply will not allow itself to be written.”
Glenn takes a sip of a sickly, pinkish, almost pus-like fluid, smacks his lips, and starts typing again.
Graumagus,
“Dude, he’s actually drinking a puppy shake...in public. That’s fucking fucked up dude!”
Contagion,
“Oh god, it looks like when I had that infected toenail removed, oh I am going to puke.”
Littlejoe,
“Hey guys, this butter is really good, you should try some.”
Just then, there is a crash, followed quickly by a rash of swearing, and Glenn yelling,
“This writers block will be the end of me. My empire will come crashing down around me if I am unable to post my three-hundred-fifty-first post today.”
Glenn spins out of the booth in which he is seated, his cape whirling poetically about him, the shattered remnant of his laptop at his feet, he raises a fist, and states,
“Is there nothing that will break through this mortal limitation of imagination?”
Grau, and Contagion sink lower in their seats, much like everyone else in the diner, even the zaftig waitress. Except for the unfortunately oblivious littlejoe.
“Dude, duck!” Grau whispers insistently.
“Aw shit, he spotted you.” Contagion mumbles as he disappears under the table, fumbling with his pocket knife.
“What? Who spotted what?” littlejoe says confused by the sudden disappearance of his friends.
Evil Glenn approaches the table where he is sitting, licking the last precious smears of butter from the waxy surface it was pressed onto.
“You!” Glenn says through clenched teeth.
“Me.” littlejoe states.
“You will help me break through my writers block, your suffering will inspire me to write again!” Glenn says, implying a future of limitless torment for littlejoe.
littlejoe, never one to be intimidated by men wearing capes, cocks and eyebrow, and asks,
“And what exactly are you trying to say sparky?”
Evil Glenn raise both hands, palms to the sky, his fingers clawed,
“I am saying that I am going to torture you, burn you, chop you into pieces, and then kill you.”
He starts laughing maniacally at the thought, pauses, and says,
“Excuse me, I must visit the little emperors room.”
He turns on his heel, and storms off the washroom. As he enters the door, Graumagus, and Contagion grab littlejoe by his collar, and drag him out to the car.
“But I’m hungry!” he pleads.
Graumagus hangs his head, and sighs, “Dude, that is Evil Glenn, do you not understand what he is planning on doing to you?”
Contagion, almost jumping in over Grau says, “You know, ‘puppies in blenders’ Glenn.”
littlejoe shrugs, sighs, and says,
“But I wanted some fried chicken.”
Graumagus’ face was a picture of horror as he heard those words. littlejoe had been known to do...things...to get fried chicken. Allowing himself to be experimented on wouldn’t be the worst of them either.
While he is not watching, Contagion smacks littlejoe in the back of the head with a tire-iron knocking him unconscious.
“Dude, that’s going to leave a mark.” Grau says, chuckling.
“Get in. Drive.” Contagion says.
...................................................
A short time later, littlejoe wakes up in the back seat to the sounds of police sirens.
“What the fuck man, you fucking hit me in the head!”
Contagion looking quite sincere says,
“It was for your own good.”
He was about ask what was going on, when the deputy knocked on the window.
“I am going to have to ask you all to step slowly out of the car, keep you hands where I can see them, and lie down on the ground.”
The deputy’s pistol was aimed at Grau’s head, and the other deputies had their long arms leveled at the car.
Turning to Contagion, he asks,
“Sir, we have reason to believe this is your pocket knife.”
Contagion takes a mental inventory of his pockets and realizes that in the rush to get out of the diner, he dropped the knife he was trying to pull out when Evil Glenn was approaching them. All three of our subjects notice at the same time, that there something red, wet, and dripping from the blade.
“Yeah, he must’ve dropped it back there.” littlejoe states innocently.
Both Contagion, and Grau groan at the words coming out of his mouth, and would probably have killed him on the spot, had it not been for the sheriffs’ deputies having them in their sights.
“You have the right.....”

“What are the charges?!!?” Contagion asks, trying to be calm, but realizing things just got very, very bad.
“This knife was found a few hours ago thanks to an anonymous tip, it was stuck in a puppy that was half blended into a shake.”
As the deputy finished talking, the three of them realized how bad this really was. Evil Glenn had set them up, there was no hope, he owned half the blogosphere, and had power beyond their ability to comprehend.
“What’s even worse, is that it was stuck through this!”
He hold up a waxed paper butter thing, printed on it is,
“Puppy butter, 100% natural, no artificial colors, or flavors.”
littlejoe proceeds to puke his guts out, not because it was puppy butter he had eaten earlier, but because he really, really liked it.
The deputy scowled, and shook his head in disgust,
“I hope you guys rot for this!”
A scant few miles away, Evil Glenn is typing away on his laptop, humming a little tune. His article completed at last.

5 Comments:

At 23/5/05 1:34 AM, Blogger Graumagus said...

You know you GOTTA post the "Mutha-fuckin' fried chicken" story now, right?

 
At 23/5/05 8:59 PM, Blogger That 1 Guy said...

Nice job, man! Love the oblivion!

 
At 24/5/05 7:34 AM, Blogger Contagion said...

Great story, one flaw... I don't lose my pocket knives! (checking pocket to make sure its still there) See!

 
At 27/5/05 10:31 PM, Anonymous GEBIV said...

This will be up at the Alliance HQ soon!

 
At 30/5/05 5:41 PM, Anonymous Harvey said...

At least it wasn't pickled sausages :-)

 

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