The Unnamed adventures of Roger Weaver

Chapter 2

The Story	The Authors
Injun Joe couldn't believe his eyes. Breaking into the Observatory had been easy enough. But 4 hours of work with a tomahawk hadn't made a dent in the file cabinet. Cursing and punching it he discovered it hadn't been locked! Oops! What had him rubbing his eyes in disbelief was the folder of fridge magnet poetry kept by the astronomer. The first folder Injun Joe had opened was dated January 26, 1995. The "poetry" he read there seemed to have prophesied the next 4 years of his disgusting and empty life! Joe gulped and read it again... Magnetic Poems 26 January 1995 1. one two we heave our thousand diamonds I incubate on your honey chocolate breast worship the repulsive sausage of death with me go go frantic goddess you are the sweet pink apparatus of my water vision & the bitter language screaming from my sleepy tongue 2. picture my peach a powerless purple languid yet enormous shot through with stormy lather I moan a symphony of fiddle music 3. sky boy recall elaborate manipulate still forest raw 4. he licks sweating skin as did she smooth lust delicately leaves him weak beauty falls drunk spraying white milk it is lazy summer 5. friend above please watching she asks to run to play feet on pantleg tiny she 6. luscious butt sit like iron smell as woman 7. blue sun behind cooks rock sea boils no wind not a whisper cool moon winter shadows me delirious smear beneath trudge 8. knife finger blood meat urge be gone D.W.Hoard	Tom L.
As the hologram disappeared from the churning befeathered fog filling the room (through Roger's dimly returning vision) poor Roger shook his head in a gesture of defeated disbelief. It was always something they were showing you that you were expected to understand, be they scientists, poets, politicians or missionaries, always some string of words or length of video of which we — you, me, the little folks, the man on the street, the meek still waiting to inherit the goddamned earth — were supposed to make both head an tail of, a trult impossible task since the messages sent us were, increasingly as the years sped past, equivalent to this feathery goo in which I am presently so uncomfortably mired — that is to say, possessing neither head nor tail among its consituent elements, I shall not waste the effort trying to make head or tail of it. He sighed... At which the bulbous, glowing head remanifested itself out of the blur of fog and feathers and, with rubbery lips appearing to expend great effort into the pronouncing of the syllables falling thickly through the atrophied muscles of its aged maw, once again spoke in the harsh blue glottals of its accent: "ROGER WEAVER! We have for thee a task! Though not without peril, the rewards at its completion are considerable, and no longer would you find yourself forced to work those humiliating temp-clerical and telemarketing jobs! You would be wealthy until the end of your days. What say you, mortal?" "What do I have to do?" squeaked Roger. "Killing and eating that rancid giraffe was bad enough! I think I got a tapeworm from it..." "SILENCE! Enough of your petty maledictions — I am speaking here of the Fates of two worlds, yours and mine, inextricably interwoven in time and space and collagen! The clocks of doom are ticking away, and the sinister monkey of our races' twin demises sits upon both our backs, eating peanuts and throwing the shells where it will! There is no time for you to dilly-dally? What say you, human shellfish of a sponge-mop?" "Uh — I guess so. But — do I get to meet a princess? Huh? Can you at least guarantee that." "If you insist." "She's gotta be attractive, too, dude. No ugly princesses for this giraffe-killer." "Your wish is my command." "Cool beans, daddy-o! When do I start?" The head merely sighed, and, motioning for the overstimulated Roger to follow, turned and bobbed off into the darker recesses of the place.	Philip

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