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Cerebral Contents: Update for 05.13.08: Backsliding by Cynthia Ruth Lewis 05.05.08: Five Feet and Building by Joel Van Noord Grocery Aisle by Richard Lighthouse Cross the Road by Ashok Niyogi 04.29.08: The Modern Covenant by Daniel E. Wilcox Death by Onions by Michael Frissore 04.21.08: Future's Children by Kimberly Raiser Identity Theft by George Anderson A Great Deal of Money by Justin Hyde 04.14.08: Mr. Papaya and Dale by Eric Suhem California by Caroline Imreibe Aftermath of Vehement Argument #1,068 by Cynthia Ruth Lewis Trip-Hammer Vitality by Lisa Nickerson 04.07.08: The Florence of Basel, or Why Readers of Nietzsche Need to Read Burckhardt by Jeff Crouch Friends of the Poet by Sean C. Bowen Picture Perfect by Leah Baldwin 03.24.08: Staring Down a White-Tailed Doe by Aleathia Drehmer 03.17.08: The Hairbrush by Vernard Kennedy Dog Days of Winter by Niall Berkeley Poem From My Grave by Michael Lee Johnson Mashed Potatoes and Hamburgers by Matt Finney 03.10.08: Hard Work by Luis Cuauhtemoc Berriozabal Jetty Cake Pigs by J.D. Nelson |
Modus Ponens by Boron Tactless If this is Chapter 5, then it is a readable section
containing various characters of assorted meaning. If it was ever evident that Plckmpht tried to love excrement, then it
would indeed mean that he was some kind of alcoholic. He did try to fall
in love with the waste products of yeast, therefore he was drunk with
wine. “I can’t remain your lover, ah, sweetheart. You are a consumable
resource. If it was you that I have loved then, ah it is not you now,
not since I bought you in the spirits store, not since I passed you through
my organs, and now you’re someone else. You’re a consumable
product! And pretty soon there will be decorative plates bearing your
visage hanging from every fucking wall, ceiling, floor, window, housewife,
painting, cupboard, hammock, crib, and of course, other decorative plates.
If that is the case, then obviously, the government is inherently involved,
since these same decorative plates always, no fail, are reincarnated as
postage stamps. If the government is involved, which it is, then I do
not deviate from demographics because I have no true love! Then I am a
pawn, I live unsuccessful, like the masses, who adore their decorative
plates and the mass marketed cultural symbols they bear, Elvis, Gone With
the Wind, Marilyn Monroe, and the Wizard of Oz. These icons make me sick
in the most blasé, disconcerting way possible. You know, then this
alone negates you as my lover, this now, wait? I draw again at the board!” “But,” stuttered Box Wine. “But what if you’re a fool?” Plckmpht gazed at what he
thought to be another inebriated hallucination. “You’re no kind
of companion, you are simply another lotus petal, plucked from the fragrant
flower of a liquor store. These gracious blossoms scattered about the
meadows of a commercially addicting distraction of a world. Like every
other fucking store, like money on sale for money. When will people realize
that there can only be one mutant, one deviant, like the antichrist answering
the religion of blind idiocy prevalent in a world of ‘expanding higher
ideals,’ which can mean only one God can reign supreme, only one
person can harness the power of loving the morbidly disfigured. “Box Wine! Those fucking vials, I didn’t even put them inside
of you, you, who led me astray of your own drunken accord. I set them
under that floor board, the pills, the chemicals, I can put them in the
Supreme Deviant. Do you know yet that I’m a genius? It was logic
all this time and everyone had forgotten because they follow too many
guidelines.” “Love me, love me, for the love of God, why can’t our souls
make sweet love for infinity?” cried Box Wine. “What the fuck? a microphone! Why?” Plckmpht was too drunk
to understand. “Oh, so you think you figured this out too,” said a man’s
voice from under the sink. The door swung open and a man attired in a
Ponendus Liquor Store uniform crawled out. He was covered with filth. “I poisoned your wine while you checked it out in the store,”
he said. “Banister, why are you stealing my life endeavors? I have a medical
problem, I don’t think logically, I never have, I’m deranged,
retarded, crazy, in other words, exempt.” Banister rolled up his sleeves. “I have to kill you and steal your illustrious destiny. But which
floor board was it, I did not see as I was only present in audio form.
Ah, tell me if you like or don’t like, I can kill you knowing it’s
somewhere in the floor. And I have to steal your destiny, it’s only
logical, as is your deducted destiny. “Because! If you are competing in some kind of polemical contest
concerning the affection and protection of the most grotesque fiend, then
I indeed am your rival in the election for the only opportunity for true
love. And since there is but one fiend, then there can only be one true
love on the planet, and if true love is some form of indefinite happiness,
then only one person can be happy in the world, indefinitely. But you
are competing, and I am running in the election for this said affection,
and so your murder is inevitable.” “Banister, you speak with the gruesome flavors of nebulously fictitious horror. You think that if I am a sot that got caught a lot and bought too many a shot of hops, then your assumption that I am to be fought for my plot will come hastily to naught. And the floors and doors that cover this moor have bourn a sore for more than one floor and board. And the boards and doors that open the floor for sure are forty-four million score more than this poor cure can endure. And the boards of the floor are a billion more than can be procured by words to explore a cure in floor, a cure to adore the pure Severest Deviant more. And the cure for the horror that you procured is under the boards that we abhor, beneath the floor. "Nothing so poisonous than losing the election, which we elected
to compete as running candidates for a nefariously singular love, nefariously
running as we the competitors elected. But if I am bloodthirsty for the
Severest Deviant, I then challenge you to these love trials three. I shall
provide the first trial, you the second, and the Severest Deviant the
third. Each trial shall have a consequence for the loser to perform, and
it will involve shame and humiliation and horror. If you agree to the
trials then you will not be exempt from humiliating consequences or prizes.” “I agree, with one stipulation. I name the first trial, you the
second, and the Severest Deviant the third.” “Therefore you are not exempt from humiliating consequences or prizes.
And I agree as well therefore I am also not exempt. But first we find
the Severe Deviant.” “You don’t already know who that is?” asked Banister disgustedly. “I know who but not where.” Banister attached his hands to Plckmpht’s lapels and shook his arms
violently. “Maybe we can do the first two trials in the meantime, while we
search for supreme happiness in three-dimensions. And don’t tell
me that these trials are meant to impress the Severest Deviant, by God,
if the Love Trials are accomplished with the greatest of alacrity, then
it would be a service to our mutant that we should come to decide who
will have love first, and thus grant the winner and the Severest Deviant
supreme happiness sooner. That may be a few more days of happiness before
death.” “Fine. But do let the Severest Deviant do something.” “They can choose specific shame, humiliation, and horror for the
loser. But Plckmpht, where the hell do we find this mutant?” “I’m not sure,” sighed Plckmpht. He placed his hand on
his ex-lover’s shoulder. “Box Wine?” “Gargle.” “That doesn’t help me! That isn’t logical! You bloody
worthless piece of shit of a waste! I’ll kill you and your logic
as well! I’ll kill your logic!” Plckmpht clutched Box Wine, despite sounds of protest. He beat the box
repeatedly off of the floor. “Blargh! Glarbgh! Blarglhgh!” “This kind of love is a poison that isn’t strong enough to
kill a man. That kind of logic is a farcical exercise in the pain of fruitless
idiocy. And I could have been thinking instead! I’ll have your label
as a trophy.” Plckmpht tore the box to shreds and beat it against the floor with his
fists, resulting in an upturned floorboard. “Plckmpht, why aren’t you dead? I poisoned that box. Or was
it some other box? I can’t remember!” “Shut up Banister, I’ll kill you!” Plckmpht screamed, covered in wine, blood, and his own saliva. He picked
up the board that had come loose and swung it repeatedly with drunken
precision. Banister quickly ran to the other side of the room, dodging
a swing that resulted in a hole in the wall. Gaseous plaster formed a
heavenly white cloud and Plckmpht coughed and gagged as his body was temporarily
overwhelmed. “I think you need focus,” suggested Banister. “How about
the first trial. We can at least be constructive. I’ve got it! The
first person to monopolize the world wins the first trial.” ______________________ Click here for the other available chapters of Modus Ponens. Posted 03/29/04 |
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