"Repurposed krogan hospital. Sturdy. Built to withstand punishment." "That’s unfortunate. Hospitals aren’t fun to fight through." "What is fun to fight through?" "Gardens, electronics shops. Antique stores, but only if they’re classy."

I was created in a debris-strewn alley when an unnamed transient screwed a discarded waffle iron beneath some high-tension wires during a thunderstorm. The motion of his wrinkly member repeatedly penetrating that malfunctioning appliance caused it to short-circuit at the very same moment Jupiter slid into alignment with a fluorescent light globe manufacturing plant in downtown New Jersey, thus tearing a hole in the very fabric of reality and causing an elderly musk rat to violently expel me from its anus in a large cloud of argon gas. In my larval stage I resembled a small elliptical puffer fish with training wheels and I divided my time pretty much equally between foraging for mossy deposits growing on the undercarriage of parked cars and attempting to attack low-flying aircraft. After several years on the street, I was found by a kind-hearted Vietnamese sailor, on shore leave and trawling the back alleys for hookers, and adopted by him shortly thereafter. I spent the next six years sailing around the world on a Vietnamese whaler, earning my keep by eating the barnacles that periodically attached themselves to the hull of the ship, until it was scuttled by a rogue manatee in 1946. After washing ashore in early 1947, I won a scholarship at Cambridge University, where I quickly discovered how to steal paper clips from the faculty supply closet. After graduating, I spent the next decade or so making a fairly decent profit smuggling anencephalic babies into Libya, hidden in Pringles cans secreted deep within the cavernous armpits of my beloved camel, Roseanne. I was going by the name "Aluminum Harry" at the time and my forehand serve was legendary. If I'm not entirely mistaken, I believe it was at some point during this period that I invented chalk. As a highly sought-after and rare delicacy, trading in anencephalous infants was an extremely lucrative source of income for anyone with the fortitude to brave the dangerous border-crossings and inhospitable desert terrain. The Libyan Royalty were especially partial and would pay a handsome price for prime merchandise. Alas, after nearly fifteen years, my illustrious career abruptly came to an end after I insulted the King Of Libya's hairiest (and thus most desirable) daughter by refusing to pelt her unconscious with melons (a local custom I was not aware of). I spent most of the interim years up until this point in a dank Libyan jail cell attempting to train hundreds of cockroaches and gnats to cover my body from head to toe and fly me to freedom through an uncovered ventilation shaft high up in the stone ceiling of my prison. Unfortunately, I succeeded only in contracting Amoebic Dysentery thirty-six times. I eventually managed to make my escape by presenting my jailer with a lovely hand-woven rhinestone-studded silk bra and asking very politely to be released. After the guard covered his eyes and began counting to twenty, I slipped away from the prison compound in the dead of night, now entirely penniless and, wearing only a small radish, set off for my homeland on a conveniently nearby-parked dog sled.

9th October 2011

Post reblogged from GAME OVER, YEEEAAAHHH! with 142 notes