I HEAR THEY'RE THROWING A PARADE DOWN OBEC WOODS: TWITTER, DESTROYER OF WORLDS

perhaps it's the still still-afterglow the boys are experiencing comfy and warm and sprite locked in their bubble to be having quite the extended audience with their literary hero, but no one's noticing that Alan Bored is fading quick. they know he's been tired lately but that's it.

Alan: i'm gonna have to go into sleep mode soon.

Dirg: you're funny, Alan! may i call you Alan, sir?

Alan: funny is one thing i've never been accused of. not even dry British wit humor. you boys have to be careful. universities aren't the bastions of learning about obtuse oligarchs and systemless systems and sex positions involving only your spleen that they used to be when i was a kid. they've become simply indoctrinations into the Left. i mean what's the point of college if not to be free to hear all points of view and choose according to your pumping soul? if you stifle the speech you hate because it's hate speech, it ceases to be a college and becomes a camp.

Laertus: i admit it, i'm racist-adjacent. that's a tired argument and one dunked in hogwash. plainspokenness does not equal the condoning of hate speech. careful, you're intimating some very depressing things about humanity. you don't want me to get naked, too, right? it's as if you're saying that if humans were truly allowed to be free, could truly talk without censor and express how they really felt inside their black hearts without fear of consequence or societal cuffs, with no correcting cats and political pander bread, not having to win anything or anyone over, get a job cutting hair, no more doors anywhere just cleared air, enough with the kowtowing to cows on stage, not having to think you were wrong, if there were no taboos, if people could REALLY have a sexual preference, then humans would just naturally be racist and xenophobist and misogynistic and serial and it's okay cos that's just how they naturally are when they're allowed to be free animals roaming the wild woods. eating bananas. you're concluding that there's a design flaw in the assembly line, humans are from birth made wrong.

Alan: am i? well i wouldn't know anything about that.

Dirg: it's a tough life but someone's got to take the hot molten mantle. or the species becomes symmetrical. my tongue is proudly caked in mud. better a bitter spitter than an easy lazy Dem. yeah you're right, all the dirty folk here wouldn't just be triggered treehuggers, they'd be given the license to become who they truly want to achieve: treefuckers. what do you think that knothole is for? sap plus cum equals maple syrup.

Alan: i dunno. i say let freedom ring. ring out everywhere. freedom is the solution to most things, with no ph mixed in, gets out the most caked-on stains. when in doubt, call for more freedom. let everything and everyone and every notion be as free as possible. clear the stage, wash it, the audience-member is free to throw a tomato at the free speaker just as the free-speaker is allowed to duck. just don't let those beautiful beefsteak tomatoes wilt and rot, that would be a tragedy salad.

Laertus: hey.

at the French Open, it's open-mic night at the press conference. Nadal tells a joke but no one understands it.

Nadal: it's not just the language barrier. it's the accent barrier. i made an effort, you people need to be more linguaphile. the only seed which concerns me are the raw seeds which fall on my land's soil dropped by birds. you'd get that joke if you experienced an enchilada in my country culture. you know you in the stupid press continually think me dumb cos i talk slow and with few words. and yet i'm smarter than any of you to realize there is no God. how do you explain this, smartguys in the crowd? it's a divine discrepancy of the deity. this is genius hour, i'm Alice no i'm the White Rabbit already buried in my hole of red clay you can't catch me i'm too quick-witted for ya.

press: God.

Genie: now THAT is the man i need! my mother had good taste. i'm jealous of my mother, she still had a chance to be a princess, i can only be named after British Royalty which just rubs the salt in. the salt which is actually good for my androidic joints. man this French Open is boring as the dirt it's played on! no wonder we tennis players are notorious rulebreakers and get in the most trouble out of all the 4 major sports. you really feel it now, the tennis players have a LOT of time on our hands, TOO much time to get into shit and break up new marriages. it's not match fixing, it's simply coaching so we fix it so our student can play better against this particular opponent with some secret knowledge by McEnroe distributed over a midnight phone. none of this would happen if coaching was allowed to be free. if you had coaches in the stands using their hands. we could all see the coaches' hands giving signals and thus also see if there's a dollar bill clasped inbetween those fingers.

Nadal: i do not believe in God. i believe in Goku. from now on, i will don the traditional Dragon Ball orange gi to all of my matches henceforth. it's cool cos it's opensleeved so you can still see my bulging muscles.

Genie: that's it, Rafa's my next twitter date. Adonis and anime?!! genius. real men of genius. time for the nudist colony. all beautiful girls are secret anime geeks inside.

in the woods on the edge of Obec, Roseanne is pulled over by the silver cops.

cops: don't move, ma'am!!!

Roseanne: that's just my body settling.

cops: put down your phone.

Roseanne: don't shoot, my hands are up!

cops: do you have any comment? any further comment on top of the initial comment? an apology for the apology? anything which just compounds things?

Roseanne makes the zipper-up-closed-shut-tight on her long saggy mouth. she adjusts herself. the cops have actual zippers attached to their silver jaws.

cops: what's this in your frontpocket? contraband? it's a BAGGIE of ambien. where did you find this? are you getting this off the black market?

Roseanne: of course, i'm near a university, of course i got this at Exodus College. that's the problem, all the brainwashed blacks are in the universities now getting more brainwashed.

Laertus: according to Harvard, the number of blacks in college is 43. sad. shameful. that number should rise to at least 5000.

Roseanne: okay i'll compromise to get some more followers. take down the statues of the generals and all statues generally, replace them with crosses. those crosses need to be big if you know what i mean.

cops: *blowing their whistles* that's it, we're taking you in, you're coming with us. squeeze in the car, it shouldn't be hard. no, OUR car not yours!

the painted cruiser drives off with Roseanne in cuffs, into a dustnado of summer green elms.

cops: don't say it................don't say it.....

Roseanne: why are we going into the jungle?

at Mueller's office Bob has just come back from the Pulitzer luncheon.

Mueller: i love when my girlfriend dances on top of tables like she's doing her skating routine but in heels and flipping off the press who came to cover it. i'm with Ashley Parker while Comey cat is away on tour, keeping her warm for my bro. i love when she puts the cantaloupe up her nose. i need Ashley to distract my doldrums. my office is so depressing, it looks like the hollowed-out inside of a YMCA but without all the fun stuff. in fact that's exactly what it is, stripped of the basketball court. but you can still smell the stripping glue. a cavernous classroom with one oldskool projector in the far front, projecting onto a big pulldown white screen. my huge head ominously-looking, looking straight at the camera, at YOU with my wide eyes, not saying anything from my frog mouth, as the image on that screen. it's like the inside of a DMV during test day but drearier. sigh.

Mueller slides off the clear sheet used for math with markers on the projector screen, the one on top of the projector machine itself, the clear hollow one that has that huge light bulb screwed on so big and so tight you can see fluttering in waves of light, too bright to look at up close directly. Mueller squeezes and squees back to man-size and climbs the gym ladder to the very top of the last ledge which hangs below the large slit windows filtering dusty particles of grey-blue light from the outside. Mueller stares out into the greeny DC streets saddled with large trucks of high-minded high finance, the swampy Potomac River full of pink whirlwinds, to the furthest point of distance, the tip of the Washington Monument. his arms are in his backpockets, messying his hands with a greasy mechanic's mini-towel and bulby wrench in the other buttcheek. daypocket and nightpocket.

President Bump is strolling along and notices Bob in the high window looking out and forlorn. he decides to pay him a visit and opens the revolving door to the Y.

Bump: i saw you on the ledge. you were a silhouette of the moon, caused by the moon.

Mueller: thank you, friend, that was very poetic. i love you.

Bump: can we do the summit here? it's just as good a place as any.

Mueller: sure. just move the projector.

Bump: can i borrow it? let's go, Kim. oh yeah wait first.

Bump kneels at the U.S. flag on the flagpole in the corner while the National Anthem is being played.

Bump: okay, go. let's summitize.

Kim: summarize? like read the minutes? nothing has happened yet.

the two iron out and force themselves to do a fistbump after an arm-wrestling match of fists and cry and sweat and tear and tear their hairs out---each other's hairs, they wouldn't dare touch their own hairs---and negotiate and yell in the same language until finally FINALLY after roughly 8 rough hours both ways day and night, three days later, they hammer out the final details:

Bump: okay, that's it we decided on the design of the coin. done? i'm just biding my time here waiting for lunch so i can feel good and not gross again for an hour.

in Hawaii those damn volacnaoes continue to churn without end, putting on a hot-water show of dancing lines of shoot like you see in Vegas with the colored multi lights. except there's only hissing, not cheering and yeahing. and the only colors are orange-red. and drab for the rocks. Gladyce rushes to get the honeymooners reserved at the Lupin Lodge before it books out.

Gladyce: don't ignore me, dear! why are you reading a book while i'm speaking with you? that's an ugly face.

Doryce: huh did you talk something? i'm reading a book. of Lupin manga. i'm learning. these volcanoes are acting like they own the place. i thought it was a Jeep commercial. i was setting up to watch on a lounge chair with my fig coffee.

Doryce wears her Maui Jims to block the saving-grace light. she's lugging around a sack of Maui Brand potatoes by her vagina.

Doryce: okay, i'm ready. where are these famed Maui and Sons? i want to fuck Maui first to get a taste of the father then i'll be ready for the sons.

Gladyce: what's that on your lap?

Doryce: oh?!! oh it's just my salad from lunch.

Gladyce: why is it more brown than green? and molty and munchy instead of crisp and watery? the bad arugula again?

Doryce: THIS ISN'T SALAD. that's all i'm gonna say. women go to the bathroom on their breaks.

Gladyce: on a plate tho?

Doryce: that's how dirty the bathrooms are here.

Gladyce: i'm gonna check the Shit Chart online to see what shape yours are in and if i should be worried. of all the things i thought i'd ever see online, i really didn't want to see that chart.

Doryce checks the scores and other things on her watch, Gladyce the weather. Doryce pricks an ice cube on a skewer left by the dust road and begins roasting it over the volcano.

Doryce: melted instantly. gotta check again i'm not doing it right.

Laertus: hey you! yes you! Doryce and Gladyce! why did you post an image of poo on a plate with the caption underneath

Accidental Salad

that's not cool. you makin' fun of me? i will not be bullied any longer. i'm dropping you as followers.

Doryce: you followed us, kid.

Laertus: i know, i needed Quidditch tips. what's that smell?

Doryce: a lady never tells. twice.

Laertus: a gentleman never asks. for nudes. no i mean that smell of burny gooey glue that's been pasted into taffy?

Jay Furr: it's me.

Laertus: get off my feed, DUDE! no one wants your stinky marshmallows!!!

Gladyce: i was surpised at your virality.

Jay Furr: my number of mentions if you put them on a chart go up and reach a peak it's shaped like a volcano.

at the house full of haunts and surprises:

Dirg: *papering* who is this? i haven't seen this character before.

Alan: new this week. popped into my head like an electric bolt.

Laertus: looks like from the famed anime book Destroyer of Worlds.

Alan: that's a character. and not a god-damn anime character! fuck anime! fuck anime adaptation! not everything is anime you know! there was a comic industry that was American which in turn was British. long ago, forgotten and shamed. like where the characters animals and humans alike all looked like, well they had normal eyes and were Hanna-Barbera and stuff. men had muscles. writers weren't afraid to make their main-men protagonists musclebound and honorbound. and dutybound, men who took huge risks and huge shits in the toilet, big big doodies. not genderless geeks. you youth have to decide what kind of world you want to live in: the one designed by Marvel or DC.

Laertus: i applaud Marvel. just turn off the comments and they'll be fine.

Dirg: what a travesty going on over there at Marvel. i'm shaking my head that you can see cos it's not spraypainted.

Alan: see how they're force-feminizing Thor into a character who doesn't need a breastplate anymore? the solution is simple and clear: just create female characters. new ones, don't SJW-strip the living life of the old ones like you have a time machine or something. don't turn Mowgli into a girl despite his long hair, racism was charming back then. okay, world, i got a compromise for you: you leave Thor as is and i promise to create a brand spanking new female character who kicks ass and takes it in the ass but has small breasts, deal?

Dirg: *clasping a pencil inbetween his fingers* NOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

Alan: let's just step back a moment here and breathe, shall we? i mean this is crazy. a woman taps a few keys from the privacy of her keyboard and suddenly she is responsible for millions of jobs lost. the President has her beat on that one! twitter is deadlier than cancer. i'd get shut down for saying that on twitter. twitter is cancer. Coach Colangelo has to resort to using a burner twitter to insult his players cos he can't insult them i mean discipline them to their face. there's got to be a better way for us to communicate. nobody goes outside anymore, even coworkers and friends in bars would rather type to each other than meet at work or play. we've got to start talking to each other, we've got to start knowing what color eyes our circle of people have. we must go outside, for fuck sake GO OUTSIDE!!! the reason i stay indoors behind this spiritual screen is i don't want to meet my younger fans and end up like John K.

Laertus: what's that rumbling?

Alan: it's not rumbling. it's rustling.