|The Story||The Authors|
|Or, to put it differently, can one arsehole posting on the Tandem Novel completely destroy a story-in-progress? Methinks not. -- Cole Mufti III, 1873|
|-- chattered the teeth at the glossolaliacal nonsense pouring from Lardass's foaming, bloody mouth as he thrashed about the debris-strewn ground in the throes of a grand mal seizure.|
And so the sagely plastic teeth gave up on him and chatta-chat-chattered away,
dreaming of miraculous future in which beings of its own kind could be
augmented with platic salivary ducts for the release of plastic saliva.
Then, it thought, I'll be able to SPIT on people again!"
|But alas, it was not to be. The plastic teeth leapt from his mouth and fell under a bus driving by, shattering into thousands of pieces. And he wept, alone and toothless once more.|
|And as his tears mingled with the oil and grit and saliva that coated the destroyed teeth, the realization hit with more force than he had ever been prepared to face. The realization that nothing was real anymore. Every thing that he had held as sacred and true, was thrown back into the blur of random grey realities. In the back of his head, over and over, he heard it: "All that you love is unreal. Everything is broken. Changed forever. Forever."|
"Wait!" Lardass cried out to no one in particular. "This is all wrong! This can
be all there is!" Lardass picked up the shattered teeth and cradled them in his
grimy, oil-stained hands. "You haven't beaten me yet!" he screamed at the sky.
Lardass wrapped the teeth up in his hankerchief and tucked the precious bundle gently in the bottom of his coat pocket, taking care not to grind more damage into the delicate clockwork machinery. With a new hope, for what he was not sure, Lardass shuffled off toward his home.
|there he found his friends. Jacob,Anita Bathe and of course, Ben Dover|
|Ah yes, his dear old friends. Of course, when he first met her Anita's last name was Mann but then she got married. Unfortunately her husband was killed in a freak plumbing accident, God rest his soggy soul. His best pal Ben would probably never get married because it's illegal in most states. The last time he'd seen Jacob, he was still dating Helen Bach and she looked like someone who'd just been through hell and back.|
|Of course her real name was not Helen Bach, that was just her married name. Her real last name was Mucous.|
Sometimes this willy nilly stew of his coupling and uncoupling, married and
divorcing and endlessly name shifting friends began to confuse Corley. He often
lost track of people and the convoluted trail of what they preffered to be
called and then saw some so infrequently that there might have been up to three
marriages and one religious conversion with a requisite name change before he
might see someone again. (Sister Maryalice Calypso Stewart Walla-Walla Ding
Dong Doobie Allah Is Mighty Jackson nee Karen Smith being a famous
But Lardass almost never forgot a face. He could recognize people he'd met before and instantly recall where and under what circumstances. He became adept at being able to converse without ever having to actually address anyone by name. It served him well.
|Until he met a woman with no name at all, a skinny, long-haired, beatnik sort of a lady with black hair, greasy eyes and no lips to speak of. No name either. Not even "hey you." Even avoiding addressing her by name was impossible.|
To avoid her was to predjudice her, to even glance her
way was to force his face not to grimace and then not
Word up! Little man!
The Dodge Dart you is drivin'
Refutes your sex-u-al preferences,
-- Mrs. Mufti (wife of Ivan)
|**To Whom It May Concern: Please do not listen to the woman who places a "Mrs." before my name. She is not yet my wife, and if she continues to cause as much trouble as she is currently causing, I will never -- and that means NEVER -- make a so-called "honest woman" out of her. Having recently taken it upon herself to throw (pre)caution to the wind, she has gone off her psychiatric medication, and now -- once more in the grip of those same morbid fancies which time and again have unhinged her delicately wrought mind -- has imagined for herself a fresh start as "MC Mrs. Ivan Mufti." Even now she has locked herself in the bathroom for the past six hours, where she is practicing her insipid, melancholic "raps" while employing a hair-brush in place of a microphone. Therefore, until the ambulance arrives and those nice young men in the white coats can get her into a straitjacket and return her to the sanatorium, your consideration and empathy in these matters is greatly appreciated. I remain, respectfully yours,|