I sense vibes.
It's not something I admit readily, but I do. As yet, t-shirts to remind others of this characteristic o' mine are lacking in actual existence, but I have sketches in my mind and they look, for want of a better word, snazzy.
True story: Recently, perhaps as early as last week for all you know, I felt vibes whose magnitude shifted tectonic plates, causing brief but significant crunching, which led to a phase of metamorphosis with embarrassing results. A similar feeling of being caught unaware exists in humans whenever someone they know enters the room during a moment of singularly prevalent nudity, in which at least one hand is quickly snatched from a position of pleasure into a position of visual defence.
So there I was, sitting doubled over with my curved spine against a pillow, stroking and rubbing in equal parts to pure rhythmical genius. The bars still totaled eighteen, but the mind insisted that eighteen nude models, not bars, were between me and the outside world.
And then it hit me. I had to get out. Not because I had to but because... Well, yeah, because I had to. But how?
With time of the essence, I stopped pleasuring myself several minutes later, when Viktor poked me in the eye after seeing Anton, his teddy bear, in my care without having received the stipulated paperwork requesting the pleasure of Anton's company.
My tears were caused by instinctive reactions from foreign objects entering my eye and were not, as Viktor claimed, because I was a nancy boy.
Meanwhile, a crusty old hag materialised in the bum gas which I had let loose the instant Viktor speared my eye with his digit.
'Hey, you,' the fart lady said spookily. 'You will have pink eye before the night's through.'
Ignoring the paranormal gargoyle and her disturbing trend for stating the obvious, the issue of freedom took priority over flaws in personal appearance. At least temporarily.
How do I escape?
'Fake it, you fat bastard,' came the reply from who-knows who.
It made no sense. Fake what? I had to know more, preferably details as to how and, more importantly than that, what.
It's it. What is it? etc.
'A voucher, you fool,' said the voice loudly enough to be heard above the trash Viktor had playing on the gramophone: some mainstream religious twaddle [WTF?] like Creed or Amy Grant; I forget.
It made no sense and I was loosing patience. Instinctively, I reached for a glass, propped the open end against the wall and my right ear flush against t'other. I poked myself in my good eye for thinking mid-thought of contractions such as t'other, which weren't contractions at all but unnecessary forays into the ghosts of grammar past which, as everyone can attest, never even existed.
I resumed eavesdropping on what the wall had to say.
'If you create it, out you'll go,' said a voice from deep within the wall's plasticine interior. The fucker made about as much sense as an outdoor plant with a chocolate centre. Come to think of it, the voice sounded convincingly like me. I pondered the physical likeness it would possess if it materialised, then I threw the glass at the wall with everything I had just in case it was entertaining thoughts similar to those of the old crone.
Later, while plucking shards of glass from Viktor's face and foreskin, having inadvertently caught him in a lewd act with Han, my pet hamster and co-author of Booty Time; a stage play about shoes that never go out of fashion, I heard the voice say: 'A golden ticket you will need for freedom to be your one true deed.'
I explained to Viktor how a silicon-based Phoenix had crashed into the wall before I had time to push him out of the way. As he continued his raucous howling in a manner unbecoming of a Polish man with a weakness for fur, he nodded and said: 'That makes sense.'
I got cracking on designing the golden ticket pronto, leaving Viktor to apply pressure or elevation or tomatoes; I forget which, to his own leaking appendages.
'You are cordially invited to attend the maiden voyage of the tall ship Tunnerbricks. Invitation valid for one. Scabbards supplied.'
The printer did its part to bang out the invitation in next to no time; the gold paper looked exquisite. The laminator and scissors did the rest.
I flashed the invitation to one of the eighteen models, the one with minimal breasts and first rate pins. The gate opened.
Unfortunately, the incident with the glass had drained the bulk of time from the evening. Curfew, which was now in place, had been announced over the loud speaker and the gate shut as quickly as it had opened.
I thanked fuck for the pillow and the eighteen ladies o' many sensuous poses and got back into the swing of finishing what I never quite did.
Technorati tags: Andy Kaufman, fiction, short story, vibes, Viktor, Australian, overseas, pink eye, masturbation, boredom, plasticine wall