The Figs of May - Carpe Testicularum

The Figs of May - Carpe Testicularum

Chapter 9

     The Story The Authors
But one brave Martian, Marvin by name, was secretly plotting agains the Venusians in an attempt to free his people and overthrow the bullies. He contacted his friend the cow fairy, who was stationed temporarily on the planet Earth, via the amazing ELEPHAMOO transmitter. The cow fairy, seeing her friends in distress, sent a whole army of cow fighters to Venus. The mighty cow army snuck up on the Venusian headquarters and easily took over the government. From there they banned slavery and made the Venusian women start covering their bodies more than they had previously been doing. The extremely grateful Martians went happily back to Mars, where a new danger awaited them. Elephamoo (the cow fairy)
"Goddam Puritans" snorted Mr Tickles back in his room at the Please Don't Fall Inn. He tossed the newpaper down. "Let me tell you Timmy, those Venusian babes, best tits in the galaxy. Cow Fairy, that's for sure." A massive stirring began under Mr Tickles silk robe as he ruminated thoughtfully over the time he'd spent on the planet, a "personal guest" of Queen Moab. Ah! Those were the days, yessiree! The food, the serving wenches, the way all the bathrooms sparkled with antiseptic cleanliness, Not to mention the ahem, "entertainments" that had been arranged for him. (Being an Amazonian race they had to keep the ranks full somehow.)Why just thinking about that baby oil hot tub was enough to make him..."Uh, Timmy, I'm going for a walk."
"OK, Daddy."
so he went walking and fell off the end of the earth
Princess Sarah
Well, not exactly the end of the earth, but certainly the Pointy Shoe Bar & Grill was close enough for most folks.
In many places and cultures there is always an end of the line. A fabled place where all things go to die like the fabled elephant's graveyard. The Pointy Shoe was just such a place. Just run down shack in the back forty of the Arizona desert, it proved to be the last stop for many a previously popular artiste who wokeup one bleak morning and found their life's work suddenly passe A-ha were the house band, switching off for their nights off with the final incarnation of Modern English. Behind the faded scarred pine plank bar Paul Young traded barbs and hairstyling tips with the night janitor/soundman Howard Jones. It was a dreary place to be. A near permanent stink of defeat, stale beer and Brute clung to the walls. Dejected former hairmetal superstars slunk around the corners cadging drinks from the dessicated sagging wrecks of aging groupies. It was not a happy place.


But then she walked in.
The air seemed to be sucked, vacume like out the doors. Her hair, her eyes, her grin. Her walk. Magic, thought Paul as he walked her ooze across the floor and slide her ass onto a barstool.
Yeah - the barman asked. She raised her eyes. Her eyelashes like leaves in autumn. Dry and torn. She hardly spoke. Her voice a shrill siren of sound in the stillness of the bar. All forms of speach had died down when she walked in. All eyes were turned in her direction.
Damm, she's ugly - thought Paul. Only then he realised he'd spoken the words upload. Too late. She turned. Her eyes like peanuts baring into his scull.
I like ugly - he replied, lifting his shoulders as a child might when put on the spot and forced to lie.
She grinned. Toothless. He should have guessed.
Thank god he was gay. He could have been in trouble.
"Ah yes," thought Paul, "Gay, footloose and fancy free. Without a care in his head. The rest of his life an open door, now that his career was over, but with a loyal fan base that wasn't getting any younger who would always appreciate a little bit of attention from a former Tiger Beat crush. He may have been reduced from the London Palladium to the depths of the Pointy Shoe Bar & Grill, but he'd never lack for nookie." He immediately began chatting her up.
Mr. Tickles watched this from his little nook in a corner booth. "Toothless," he said to himself, "Now that has possibilities." He slid from his place and sauntered to a spot at the bar proper.
There were about a dozen stools at the bar, all frayed and battered looking. Odd, unidentifiable stains and fist like chunks of banana Bubble Yum clung to the sides like barnacles. Red vinyl seats slashed and squashed by the years of big assed losers and has-beens that had come before them to drown their sorrows into an alcoholic stupor. All, save one. It was covered in red velvet and trimmed with gold. It looked as clean and fresh as the day it was made. The very silver nails that held it together seemed to sparkle with opulent glee. One specially turned lamp from the track lighting bathed it in a special and particular glow as if this lone barstool existed only to support the butt cheeks of the Pope himself in the unlikely event that he should pass through the doors. Mr. Tickles naturally gravitated towards it.
At the penultimate moment to that whence Mr. Tickles’ great left gluteus maximus was to alight at last on its cushiony comfort, a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder. “Hey Buddy, that seat’s reserved.” Mr. Tickles looked around the room. There were maybe a half dozen folks there (not counting the occasionally reappearing figures of Men Without Hats as they loaded in their equipment.) and all eyes staring at him with thinly veiled disgust.
“Nobody’s using it now”
“I won’t tell you again, Mister. It’s reserved.”
“Yeah well, for who?”
“Ricky Martin” And the room shuddered with a gale of bitter, bitter laughter.


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