Joshua Dobson

by Horror Sleaze Trash on August 9, 2013

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Joshua Dobson likes to make his own fun, some of which can be seen at http://joshuadobson.deviantart.com/

human sacrifice

 

Far Too Tiny to Believe in Things

Police had yet to catch the piquerist who had been stabbing people in the eyes through their peepholes. I always made sure I held a book (Bataille’s Story of The Eye) up to the peephole for a few moments, and if no ice-pick arrived, (and as of yet none had) I would then and only then take a gander at who was pounding on my rusty steel security door so softly, yet so insistently.

The peephole’s warped fish-eye view of the black and white checkered hallway revealed, waiting patiently outside my corroded metal security measure, three very short men with brown skin the color of tobacco, dressed in matching tiny black pinstripe suits with tiny black fedoras perched at jaunty angles atop their rather bulbous heads.

They were too tiny to be police – and too weird, circus weird, carnival weird – and triplet weird, they resembled each other so much. They were identical down to the swirling scrimshaw scars, big bumpy keloid scars, which snaked across their handsome chocolate-skinned faces in elaborate crop-circle-like patterns. They didn’t seem to be proselytizing, as they held no books nor pamphlets. And they seemed far too tiny to believe in things.

If they had been taller I probably would have just pretended I wasn’t home, I wouldn’t have answered the door if they weren’t –

-so perfectly tiny.

I do not know what frankincense nor myrrh smell like, but I’m pretty sure if one were to boil both of those ingredients in a mixture of rotten eggs and rutting-goat-drippings the resulting funk would approximate the odor that wafted from the three wee men in black sipping purple lizard tea in front of a roaring fire blazing in the hearth of my handsomely furnished parlor.

“So what can I do you for?” I asked cordially.

“We are secret,” the nearest one said in a weirdly accented singsong voice vaguely reminiscent of my favorite cartoon character.

“Agents sent by the,” the middle one said in the same voice with the same accent.

“Very king of Wawawawa himself,” the farthest one said in a voice identical to those of his two compatriots.

It wasn’t actually Wawawawa, but I didn’t understand what the wee fella said at the time and I forgot what it even sounded like a split second after the alleged agent had finished tonguing.

They showed me their badges, carved bits of ebony shaped like suns or octopi, or octopi-suns, with some sort of writing, Wawawawa-ish I suppose, carved into their centers.

Here it comes, I thought, now they’re gonna say they need my bank number so they can process my reward or an approximation thereof.  I told them politely but firmly I don’t believe in banks, or money, or giving money to help the King of Wawawawa reclaim his throne and then he’ll shower me with Wawawawa-bucks.

“It is,” the nearest agent said.

“Nothing,” the middle agent said.

“Like that,” the farthest agent said.

They said the King of Wawawawa had ordered the construction of a nine-hundred cubit tall bronze statue of me, totally naked, to loom over the cityscape of Wawawawa City, the beautiful capitol of the Kingdom of Wawawawa.  (Yukio Mishima eat your heart out.)

Here it comes, I thought, now they’re gonna say they need my old pickle jar fulla pennies to build their crummy statue. I told them politely but firmly that I don’t believe in pennies, or saving pennies, or giving pennies a day to build crummy statues.

“It is,” the nearest agent said.

“Nothing,” the middle agent said.

“Like that,” the farthest agent said.

They said countless spies of Wawawawa, like themselves, had been stealing bronzed children’s shoes off mantles all over the world to acquire raw materials for The Colossus of Wawawawa.  They said athletes of Wawawawa had gone off the steroids cold turkey and were training to sweep third place at the next Olympics.

“Do the ladies of Wawawawa run around with their boobs hanging out?” I asked the three spies purely out of scholarly interest.

“Only the women,” the nearest agent said.

“Who work at,” the middle agent said.

“The sausage factory,” the farthest agent said.

”Why the hell does the King of Wawawawa wanna build a statue of me anyways?”

“There is an ancient,” the nearest agent said.

“Legend of Wawawawa,” the middle agent said

“About the The Worm-Chested-One,” the farthest agent said.

How the hell did they know?  My whole life, I had gone to great pains, to hide the fact that I had been born without nipples. I wore, at all times, artificial nipples, which I had ordered, under an assumed name and with a stolen credit card, from Maldoror Mail Order. They aren’t really artificial, they’re real nipples coated with space age polymers. Nipples from dead bodies donated to Science.

The glue salesman, the artificial-nipple-glue salesman, the tiny artificial-nipple-glue salesman with the scarred face and singsong voice with the weird buttery accent. Son of an onion, I knew his prices were too good to be true.

I told the secret agents of Wawawawa politely but firmly that I don’t believe in legends, or prophecies, or destinies, or wasting my valuable time to save mythical kingdoms hidden inside everyday household objects.

I do believe in nipples.  I shuddered when the thought suddenly occurred to me that maybe they wanted to vivisect me as part of some mad scheme to breed a race of titty-twister-immune Wawawawa-ish super soldiers.

I told them politely but firmly that I don’t believe in wars, or sports, or camping, or armies, or navies, or any other thinly veiled pretext for men to take showers together.  If I were one inclined to sodomy, I would like my sodomy direct and to the point without all the bells and whistles.

“It is,” the nearest agent said.

“Nothing,” the middle agent said.

“Like that,” the farthest agent said.

The middle one suddenly leapt up, ripped off his pants, which appeared to be breakaway Velcro stripper pants, and squatted obscenely atop my glass coffee table.  He wasn’t wearing underwear.  His penis was huge, uncircumcised, and terrifying.  He began panting like a hot dog, his eyes rolled back into his skull, and all the veins on his head bulged protuberantly as he slowly pulled an ornate metal tube out of his purple, cauliflower asshole. The sweat slicked agent of Wawawawa opened the tube, which seemed to be of great age, and removed a parchment with what the two wee strangers still seated assured me was a decree from the King of Wawawawa himself written on it. The sans pants agent standing atop my coffee table handed me the none-too-fresh smelling scroll. Written on the parchment, in what appeared to be blood, was some nonsense in some sort of gibberish alphabet which I’d never seen before.

“I can’t read gibberish,” I explained apologetically.

They told me to stare at it and unfocus my eyes like with a Magic-Eye puzzle. I did as the agents of Wawawa bade me and the Wawawawa-ish characters formed themselves into Roman alphabet gibberish words. I unfocused further and the Roman alphabet gibberish words transformed into English of only slight gibberish-ness. Paraphrasing from memory:

Let it be known, from the caves that scream in the northern winds, to the desert ruins where the nameless southern birds roost, from the eastern jungles where giant wings flap in eternal darkness, to the western swamps where the air is fragrant with the putrid dreams of crocodiles, that I, Wawawawa the VII, King of Wawawawa, and descendant of The Great Wawawawa himself, do hereby officially decree a royal erection nine-hundred cubits high and of pure shining bronze.  This royal erection shall be inspired by the naked form of Thomas Q. Garrotti (1240 Maple St., Butcher’s Gorge U.S.A.).

There was an illegible chicken scratch signature and some sort of royal seal, similar to the badges the spies of Wawawawa had brandished at me, impressed in a splatter of blood-red wax.

The rest of the scroll was devoted to a frighteningly accurate pen and ink sketch of my naked body, accurate in every detail even down to the scar on my ass where I was bitten by a rogue petting zoo platypus back when I was knee high to a grasshopper. I nearly died from the poison, but that’s another story entirely.

“I got bit by a platypus on my ass,” I explained to the agents of Wawawawa sheepishly.  Praying they wouldn’t ask why I wasn’t wearing pants at the petting zoo.

“The platypus is,” the nearest agent said.

“The most sacred,” the middle agent said.

“Animal of Wawawawa,” the middle agent said.

They said Australian pirates sometime in the last century introduced the platypus to Wawawawa and now their whole culture revolves around these strangle mammals. The people of Wawawawa’s food, clothing, perfumes, colognes, sex-jellies, vandalism eggs, and etc. all derive from the mighty platypus.

Unfortunately, thousands of Wawawawa-inians are killed every year by platypus-poison.

An ancient legend of Wawawawa says when The Worm-Chested One, a human man but lacking nipples, like a platypus, appears in the sky above Wawawawa City, the platypus will lose their venom.

I told them politely but firmly that I don’t believe in religions, or charity, or children, or buying lame goods from cripples or retards because I’m supposed to feel guilty, or sorry for them, or something.

“It is,” the nearest agent said.

“Nothing,” the middle agent said.

“Like that,” the farthest agent said.

There will be a gift shop inside my nut-sack the spies told me.

“Do I collect mechanical royalties on all the banks and snow globes patterned after my naked body?”

“That is something,” the nearest agent said.

“You would have to discuss,” the middle agent said.

“With the King,” the farthest agent said.

The three spies of Wawawawa enthusiastically described The Colossus to me.  The head of The Colossus of Wawawawa will revolve three-hundred-sixty degrees and there will be a four star restaurant inside serving the finest in Wawawawa-ish cuisine. There will be a disco inside each of my big toes. The ass of The Colossus will function similar to the ancient device known as the Brazen Bull, prisoners (mostly enemy combatants from the Kingdom of Wawawawa’s many secret wars, the agents informed me) will be locked inside and a fire kindled underneath to heat the bronze up red-hot. The steam and screams generated from the bodies of the dying prisoners will be vented through my giant metal anus which will be outfitted with special tubes and pipes so that the escaping steam generates weird flute music like H.P. Lovecraft’s characters were always hearing late at night.

“I’m still not exactly clear on what you fellas want from me,” I told the spies of Wawawawa.

They said they needed to take measurements of me and ‘scan-o-graph’ my naked body with special bionic glasses and ping pong balls glued to my skin so The Colossus would be accurate in every regard.

I don’t know.

They could just be perverts out for a wee bit o’ the ole Albert De Salvo, or they could be on the level.

What if I refused to be scan-o-graphed because I thought they were perverts and then they turned out to be on the level?  They could cancel the whole Colossus project, which would be tantamount to letting perverts steal my nine-hundred cubit tall bronze naked me statue. Or worse yet, they could make the statue without scan-o-graphic measurements and it could turn out grossly inaccurate, too lumpy, or … not lumpy enough.

It was a dilly of a pickle indeed.

And I wanted mine to have believers.

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