How Many Yuks Could a...

Thanks to the good people at Defenestration Magazine for publishing my latest buck-and-chuckle!

http://www.defenestrationmag.net/2012/01/sonata-non-grata-by-jason-abdelhadi/

A Song of Vice and Ire

I believe it was Asimov, in his foundational Semi-Loft Suite Trilogy, who claimed that empires die from the extremities, that cold lifelessness slowly tringles its way from the fingers and toes, through the limbs, and straight to the very heart. This I can attest to. My deep study of the Houghton-Mifflin Ancient Civilizations Grade 11 textbook has left me as cynical as to the durations of the works of man as the Solomon of Ecclesiastes, if not quite as susceptible to tickling as the good Teacher. But such are the lessons of these dire manuals. Who can peruse without nostalgia the pictures of long forgotten Empires, rendered as they are with cartoony accuracy and melancholic word bubbles? Et in Arcadia Ego, aye, and in Comic Sans no less! Who, in listing off the fell accomplishments written in the "Did You Know?" panel, blue-bordered like the lips of a thousand mummified Egyptian Kings, does not feel the tingle of despair and hopelessness in all our human endeavors?

Death from the limbs inward! The mighty amalgamated City-Sate of the National Capital Region is, I think, undergoing its last rites in that very manner. Living as I do in one of its extremities (which extremity I leave to your fancy and good taste), I can already feel the cutting off of circulation from the main arteries. Where once, in our glory days, a man could travel whenever he pleased from the far-off Westeros of Stittsville and the Ottawa Valley to the quaint French-speaking stabships of Orleans and Vanier-de-la-Crackhead, the route has since become a perilous endeavour. It was far too long on foot or horse, and the threat of highwaymen, brigandage, and puddle-stains are all too great for all but the most hard-eared ranger.

Public Transportation, the very veins of our intra-statal circulatory system, has all but ceased to function. The schedules may as well be printed in Italian for all the punktlichkeit they signify. If and when you do manage to see a lone OC Transpo, that melancholy ship of the suburbs, chances are greater than not it will be Out of Service, or worse, Hors Service! Yes, the horses get service before you do. But even if one does halt at a Bus Stop for a few precious moments, the riddle of the sphinx is still waiting crouched and hungry for your flesh. Have tickets? I remember going to buy tickets once. A grim old quaker sat at the counter, missing an eye, a leg, a tooth, and, I suspect, a lobe of some kind.

"Eight tickets please. Er, for the OC..."

He eyed me suspiciously and sucked his pipe - an old PVC stuffed with licorice and hot-sauce.

"Eight tickets pleased!" He mocked me, "Aye, and why not Eight trips to Malebolge and Satan's Arse while we're at it? Eight tickets please! Come thee lad, done any ridin' before? I doubt it with those doe-blue eyes! What's that? Hohoho! Via Rail you say! Ahahaha! Hear that Jebediah? Via Rail! Away with your Via Rails, boy! This is a man's hunt. Accursed be the man who rides the OC! Still insist, eh? Very good, 'tis thy funeral. Write him up, Jebediah. Eight tickets! Make your mark, lad, and God be with thee!"

Grasping my purple fold-out sheet, I left the store with a vague sense of dread and a specific cents of 50. I noticed the tickets had changed since last I was in town; the delightful neon blue had been replaced with a dire purple, and with a no logo no less - seemed to be a sort of Death's Head above the outline of a white poodle. Very odd indeed. I made my way to the lone Bus Shelter, and waited the suggested three-hours of "safety time" to ensure I didn't miss the bus by a hair's-breadth. Of course there was the expected four-month delay. I made due with the shelter and a spear I fashioned from a rusty screwdriver and a circus baton which I found in a pile of Tim Horton's cups. I survived mostly on chickadees, squirrels, and roll-up-the-rim Donuts.

Finally, one long, lone night, amid the howl of owls and hooting of turtles, the bus finally pulled up to my little shanty. The door opened and I saw the face of madness - our driver, Captain Jeroboam. A long scar ran down his dark features, and a flashing eye indicated the ticket-receiver. As he handed me the proof of purchase, I saw that his right leg - what they call the "pedal foot" - was made up entirely of dog-biscuit. That evening I was informed by the crew what kind of a made voyage I had undertaken - why the gleaming gold sheen of a Canadian dollar was nailed to the standing pole, waiting for the first crew-member to shout "'Tis he! 'Tis he! 'Tis Tracy Dick, with a muff as white as a snow-hill!" Yes, the Captain had a long standing feud with a beast of the dog-paths; a White Poodle named Tracy Dick, who once peed on his ill-fated limb, causing extreme discomfort. He had it amputated for cosmetic reasons and never forgave the poodle, aye, sought to destroy him with all his might.

Knowing that I would never reach my destination with this Flying Clutchman, I got off at Bayshore Station and never looked back. So much for my shopping trip to the Rideau Centre. I would have to make due with bare, provincial amenities of the Bayshore Shopping Centre. Still I mused on for the sake of my children. Would they even have Bayshore? Would they not be even further cut off from civilization? Might they be bound to the very suburban land they tilled, growing iPhones and gummy-worms for their pointy-shoed feudal overlord? Thus it seems. When I got home, I opened my copy of the Domesday Book and squiggled my name in a good part, somewhere between Knight and Baron - just in case.

Things I Happen to Know

I know damn well wasps like ketchup,

I know a man by his cap,

I know an awesome time from a fuck up,

I know a pine tree’s got sap,

I know a hobo from a chap,

I know a Quebecois by his “oui?”

I know a wink from a slap.

I know it all, but not me.

I know the smoker by his smell,

I know the hipster by his taste,

I know a liar by his "well...",

I know the student’s life (a waste)

I know a slutty top from a chaste

I know a neckbeard goes with geeks

I know a hot wing by its glaze

I know it all, but not me.

I know a Costco from a Loblaws

I know a Mac from a PC

I know safe drugs by the bylaws

I know a pug dog is wheezy

I know a cat by my sneezing

I know a public servant’s card-key

I know a good book from a sleazy

I know it all, but not me.

Cheap or expensive, willing or loath,

Boss, I know everything, see?

I know Death comes for us both

I know it all, but not me.

Hwaeter! There's a Fly in my Slop...

I came athwart the mighty shack of Earldran Ethanol, weary of shield, wiggly of bone, wagging for a pinch of ale and wench. My men and I, all good sons of the Goonmark, had fared long over fen and haggis to reach Glargenblargh within a fortnight. The sea wore out our boots; the road was beset by whale and wave. We were spared the toll of heavy hours by travelling lightly during the day. At night, we back-tracked for our things, and by next morn we'd be jowl deep in forest and bramble with only the Star of Odin to guide the oarsmen. Sailing long tracts by short-boat, and short tracts by long-boat, we finally caught sight of the kingly gables of Ethanol. Yet these troubles must had been endured, for our message was trifling and time, that harlot, was lengthy.

"Well met, sons of the Goon!" Ethanol bellowed as he received us in his bountiful barnyard. We made the traditional obeisances in the manner of the Old Kings, for in those days we were yet of the heathen religion; first, we sucked the braided tips of his oakish, fat-stained beard, and then, as per the rites of our forefathers, we battered his wife and daughters with a lordly ham. Our lord nodded his approval. He gifted us each with a ring made from the finest boar snout. Great indeed was the bounty of the Old Kings! We then feasted on delicacies, ate crow, and gnawed bonefish bones to our heart's content. The ale flowed like the tears of Wusswussi, god of whining, and the shield-maidens were as lobsters fresh boiled with ready fleshmeat to be plucked from their beckoning shells.

After the mealtime was doneby, and the tables overturned and set aflame, our Lord turned to question us on the dealings of the Goonfolk. "What news of the Goonmark?" he asked, and we gave him the news of our good King Grizzly Droppingsson, how he came to marry the Irish princess Shamrock McDonotoch, whom we hight Shamrock Partypooper, and how she brought with her to our debaucherous halls the new God of the Eastern Crybabies, hight Christos, and how our Lord would fain discuss the conversion of our peoples. And Ethenol sat Grimly -- his own dog, Grimly, who was much wont to chase his own tail, like unto Jörmungandr, the worm who encircleth the seas, and thereby marr the seriousness of the Lordspeech with foolery.

'Twas then that the King's berserk, Vain the Eyestrained, stood forth and laughed heartily. Vain had the laugh of a man who killeth in joy, the laugh whom countless men heard just before cleft in twain, and which they still heard ringing above in the halls of Valhalla or below in the cavernous House of Hella, that long, whispy, cackling laugh of disdain that only Vain could laugh. He laughed thus for 12 minutes, as the crow flies. And long thereafter he slowed down to a chortle, and wiped away a bear-like tear, and breathed, and thereat began to laugh anew. Awkwardly we shifted in our seats of goodly treestump. But Vain did yet continue his lordly guffaw. And truly he keeled over, and on his knees he laughed and laughed as if under the tickling of a frost giant. Beating the ground in hilarity, of which we knew not, he shattered the fine stones of the King's hall. And at last, his head did burst like a frosty old wineskin, and he laughed all the while, and we heard no more thereafter from Vain the Eyestrained.

After the mess of Vain was cleared aside, Ethanol bade us take to the rugs and the restful rapine of sleep, and promised to discuss our Lord's business in the morning. And we lay down to the comfort only the offal-hay of King's Hall could offer. I was just drifting off to the realm of the dream-hogs, when I felt a sudden chill in my rug, that neither could be wench nor horseflesh, but must needs be some foul weird afoot. And quite rudely did the doors of Ethanol's shack fly open. There stood a shadow-demon four times the size of a full grown Axe-Wielder, and with no normal proportions, but with legs bent as a toad's and arms like Mjolnir, hammer of Thor. And the thing did dash into the hall, and plucked up a companion from beside me, hight Thyr the Succulent, and did devour him most grossly. The King's voiced wavered from his room, quite uncalled for: "What noise?" he said, although none had asked the question. "I hear no noise. 'Tis merely a hog caught fire. Go back to sleep, Gooncubs all." The high pitch of his voice did little to boost my courage, but I merely shrugged and went back to sleep, watching through half-open eyes the fiery hog lick its fingers and burp.

The next morning, Ethanol called us forth to the Thing... I can't quite remember what it was called exactly. He said that he too had been in speech with the priests of the new religion, and had in fact bought one from a Croat, complete with cage and running-wheel. He had the fellow, hight Padre O'Dorkle, led before the lot of us. And he exhorted us all to join his God, for the Judgement day was coming. And our Seidr, old Grinhilda, said that we too had a day of Judgement, and that the sky would rend in twain, the Wolf would devour the Sun, and the gods would do deathsome battle with the giants and the forces of hell, destroying all things in a twilight of fury. And we all rocked out, for this was the best part of the song. But Padre O'Dorke was not stirred, and demanded a test, whereby we might see which god would triumph. And verily he beat us all in arm-wrestling, though he was puny, and he thanked "Jaysus Joseph un' Mary Lord T'underin'" for the victory. And we were all persuaded thereat, and donned his cross of peace and love. Whereafter we made it our solemn duty to burn, pillage, and rape wheresoever our new Lord's message was not received.

Amen, and Hail Satan.

-Testament Writ by Gigli Daughtersson, First of his Kin to Read and Write, and To Take upon Himself the Way of the Cross and the Jewish Comedian.

The Big Rock Candy Theorem

Recent minute blips in the cardiograph of the European markets has the public slowly but surely cocking eyebrows towards economists AS IF they know not what they did, will do, are doing. I must ask the public to be patient. Relax. Have a wheat beer. Take a wide Bertha (or a wide Martha if that's all you got). I learned to take an expansive, patient view of the world during my brief ten-year sojourn in the Swiss Alps.

I was taking the cure at Berghof Schrudrifer Sanatorium for my pathologic gummy addiction (to this day I can't see a swedish berry without salivating like a dog in a jerky factory). Ah, the sweet regulatory life of a patient at the Berghof! Time condensed and expanded in a way you "valley folk" could never understand. Between the five identical and precise meal-times, where we were served everyday with Happy Meals and Fresca, to the long stretches of the "rest cure", where, bundled up in our yak-skin sacks we sat hours on our balconies in all weather, snow or rain, howling at the moon and taking stock of the universe - who among you groundhogs could grasp it?

In short, it was blisteringly boring. But how marvelously so! Still, not all time was solitude. Besides brief conversation at the troughs during meal-times, I also managed to do some Berg steigen, mountainous hiking, although nothing too strenuous for my weakened, gummy-riddled frame. It was during these walks that I met Herr Tortellinni. Clad in a worn but tasteful pea-coat and neon-green neck-kerchief, Herr Tortellinni would harangue me on my mental fructifications and leave with me with plenty of valuable insight to maul over and forget on my own time.

He was a great homo humanus, a passable homo dodgeballicus, and a cringingly greedy homo stealsnapkinicus. He was also a maternal great-grandson of the famed economist Sismondi. His father had been a professional "Connect Four" player who struggled to bring national unity to his home country of Parmesania. Uniting the intellect and fervour of his famed progenitors, Tortellinni served the cause of his country and western civilization as a whole, writing a fifteen volume reference work, The History of Constipation in Literature. "What is all of Greek Tragedy," he would say, "but the mighty constipations of gods and men?"

It was Tortellinni who taught me the true meaning of Economics during one of his humanistic barking sessions -- sine pecunia, of course. I had brought up the subject with reference to the recent universal collapse of markets, sanity, and stability "down below". I went on further to call Economists, bankers, and market-traders alike "greedy sons-of-whores-and-whoremongering donkey eaters." Tortellinni smiled, played with his mustachio in that subtle, Snidely Whiplashesque manner he had, and proceed to correct my peverted opinions with the following lecture:

"Sapperlot, my young Informationist! I do not think you quite grasp the idea of Economics. It was Plato who said Philosophy begins in wonder; he might just as well have said that Economics ends in it. Indeed, one can hardly censure Economists for the unfruitful studies they undertake. At least a Philosopher or a professor of English would have no grounds. Economists are not astrologists. It might very well be that they study the ups and downs of market forces, currencies, and that impenetrable river of numbers and decimals with the same relish that a Classicist laps up from a passage of Homer describing the wine-dark sea. As soon as the critic can tell me the theme of the next great novel before it is yet written, then and only then will I look toward the Economist with regards to the future."

It was a striking thought, I thought, as I struck my thunker on an unseen outcrop of mountain.

"But," I continued, for my sentence was hardly begun, "what then are these Economists good for, Herr Tortellinni?"

He smiled and nodded. "You are playing in dangerous, Bourgeois, urine soaked pool waters, my young Informationist. Asking what a thing is 'good for' is tantamount to intellectual Goonism. However, I will accept your teleological goal-post for the present argument. Let us consider the term from the Poetics that Aristotle uses to define the end of tragedy. The term is katharsis, which might be translated as relief, expulsion, or, in my personal view, the sacred bowel movement of the conscience. It is the feeling that rushes over one after the tragedy, the feeling of joy and release that accompanies the abstracted vision of terror onstage. It affects the whole audience, as if they were figuratively (or in some elderly cases, actually) just waking up from a dyspeptic nap.

"Now you ask me, what are the predictions of Economists good for? I point to Tiresias, to Cassandra, to the prophets of the Old Testament, who underscore the tragic moment by revealing it beforehand. They are our modern capitalistic mystics. It is their place to point at the ghastly, meaningless numbers of the stock ticker, to babble incoherent verses like the Delphic oracle. Above all else they serve to garnish the absolute catastrophe of mankind with a bit of foreshadowed seasoning."

I mentioned casually that as far as the stock ticker on TV goes, I had never learned to discern its meaning. I always read the numbers out like a Bingo man much to the general mirth of the Berghof rumpus room. Some jokes never get old. Tortelinni smiled his wolfish smile. We seperated for lunch, where our Happy Meals and toys were waiting with Swiss precision at our designated seats.

The Shadow over Goonsmouth

子曰、飽食終日、無所用心、難矣哉、不有博弈者乎、為之猶賢 乎已。

'The Master said, 'Hard is it to deal with him, who will stuff himself with food the whole day, without applying his mind to anything good! Are there not gamesters and chess players? To be one of these would still be better than doing nothing at all.'

-Analects, 17.22

Deep in the wooded depths of the Ottawa Valley lies a certain townhouse complex; therein are many units smelling of this or that fried delicacy. However, down at its furthest end, at the door of unit 667, there issues no immediate smell -- of cooking. Yet this was my goal. A rhythmic knock brings a dark hooded figure to the entrance; he slowly opens the gateway and ushers me in with the archaic, nasal dialect of his sect: "Hail, hail." I hailed. Inside, the rooms bespeak sacred rites not bound by social laws of cleanliness or hygiene. Holy books clutter my path as I make my way to the inner sanctum.

My eyes are immediately lifted to the icon of a howling warrior deity plastered on the wall with clear reverence. I use my rudimentary knowledge of Old Nerdish to decipher the gothic script beneath the ghastly Kali-esque image: "Bloody Kombat XV: Voyage to Kill-o-polis". Quickly a chorus of hails snaps my attention to the scene at hand. Along two ancient Ikea couches sit three acolytes equally male, hooded, and neck-bearded, with eyes empty of all save reverence for their avatar. The middle table contains bowls of cheesy-puffed offerings, high-octane sodas, and the mystic scribblings of their latest devotions. At the head, in an armchair of blood-curdling antiquity and historical bespatterment, sits the High Bishop. "Welcome and hail, Brother in Ghanos!" I had done it. I had found at last the remnants of the Old School Nerd Cult.

History would seem to have all but dispensed with the cultural significance of asceticism. That the Monks of Ireland and Old Europe saved Latinate culture through the Dark Ages and into the Carolingian Renaissance is well attested. Ascetic principles, both coenobitic and anchoritic, have played major moves in the chess game of world history and its progress. Yet the modern era seems scarcely aware of its few remnants. We have taken what we like from their doctrines and outer shells, and have tossed aside the inner meaning behind the sweet melismatic chants of the Gregorian era.

Yet most asceticism has been bound in some way with the religions of the Old World. Up until very recently, the Old Nerds were among the few genuinely modern and flourishing examples of asceticism in the later 20th century. Its origins lie in the spiritual reactions of a few deep souls, usually students of mathematics, sciences, and what became computer studies, who though wise in mortal knowledge yet felt resistance against the trending pull of the North American magnetism, that is against materialism, greed, and money. They besought truth from the outer reaches of the Universe in Space, or the sacred archetypes of man's fantastical Mythologies.

The true Patriarchs of the cult had already inscribed the canons and sacred texts by the 50's-60's. Conversion and martyrdom were the first fruits of the 70's. Bullies persecuted the Nerds with a sadistic, Neronian taste for cruelty. According to one of their most respected Theologians, St. Pointdexter, "the sect was built on the wedgies of the martyred." During the 80's regulations of the various orders had been set down; the most significant, among others, were the Ordo Sci-Fiensis, Ordo Fantasticus, and the Ordo Nintendoensis. The present cult of Ghanos which I am studying is a descendant of the last, but, as with many other religious orders, has adopted the eclecticism and protectionist tendencies of a decadent age. As a last, withered branch on a dying tree, they feel the heritage of all Nerdom is their domain.

The Nerds have seen a sickening debasement of their religion no less astounding than the Protestant Reformation. The old rites of true Nerdom have spread to the populace in crude new forms. "Noobs and posers, the lot of them!" I heard one acolyte exclaim. "What do they know of long hours alone, level grinding through the dark soul of the night?" What was once a tacit and subdued display of religious fervour has became a socially acceptable party favour. Who among you has not played on one of the new-fangled systems, a Ninetnedo Woo, Chex-Box, or Playstation Drei? The Old Nerds however stick solely to the oldest systems; Super Nintendo, Sega Genesis, Gameboy; and the true adepts of the sect play only the original Nintendo Entertainment System and Commodore 64.

Maybe the more adventurous of my readers have even embarked upon a little game of Dungeons and Dragons once in a while, with drinks, good company, and a hearty acceptance of its silliness? Something you can boast about to your friends later, saying how "super nerdy" you are with a wink and a sly reference to your dispensed virginity? Yet therein lies a great gulf; for a true Old Nerd, these things are deadly serious. Chastity, study, and reverence for the import of the Old Rites - these are the holiest of virtues to the sect. Their gaming domain has since been taken over largely by competing sub-cultures: The Frats, The Students, The Izzy-Goths and The Claustro-Goths, Metal-Heads, the Jocks, and even that most antithetical of sects to the Nerd, that is, the Celebrity or Popular Culture sect, has embraced the gaming culture. With such temptations at hand, even Nerds themselves began to fall into apostasy. Some shaved and married. Others joined up with the aforementioned subcultures. Only a small, dedicated core remained true to the old teachings.

Particularly disturbing to Old Nerds is the trend of "girl gamers". That females are strictly forbidden and cast out from all Nerdom is one of their most cherished commandments. "It is the key to the entire Mystery of our Brotherhood," explained the High Bishop. "It is through the sublimation of Earthly desires, especially that one..." and here he glanced down-wards, "That is the Way. That is where the fervour and devotion comes from. That is the key to the Old School, to beating Wizardry 1-2-3, to playing through decade long campaigns, to achieving the ecstatic heights of union with Ghanos!" He continued to harangue against the heresies of Geek Chic, Cosplay, Gamer Weddings, and all such petty fraternizing. "Mere shells without meat" he said.

I asked the High Bishop if he saw a future for the sect. He grimly shook his head. "We do not breed" he said with a hint of longing. "Our doctrines are dissipated and watered down among the masses, preventing new converts. Our spirits and our teachings may live on piecemeal, but the time of the Old Ones has come to an end. It is a new age dawning, and while we seek unity in the timeless bosom of Ghanos, the rest of the world must fend for itself. Perhaps there will come a time, as the prophets predict," and here he took a puff from his inhaler, "Perhaps, when the Phoenix of Dorkdom shall arise once more from the ashes of hedonism and success. Hail Ghanos!" I left the Nerds a sadder and wiser man, feeling a mix of regret, melancholy, and indigestion.

The Seventh Squeal

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll,

Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal,

Louping and flinging on a crummock,

I wonder did na turn thy stomach!

-Robbie Burns, Tam o' Shanter

Judging by the police reports, the claw-like shreddings in the new wallpaper, and the singular event of my awakening topless and shivering in maple-tree outside of the house, last night's Turner Classic Movies horror marathon must be pronounced a mind-gnashing success. I thought oldies were supposed to be a cakewalk. Laughingly I condescended to spend "an evening of it", making wry faces at the poor special effects and chortling at the hauteur of 40's Trans-Atlantic accentuation. "Noli me tangere!" I gurgled; Was I not a child of the most de-sensitized and bloodthirsty American generation since Hernan Cortez?

Reader, take my advice. If you would like to make a mockery of the cinematic heretofore, and choose the macabre as your genre, make damn sure the film doesn't have four stars. What becomes cheesy acting when done poorly reaches stupendous heights of eldritch horror when performed with Shakespearean acuity and depth; instead of our modern decapitations, the merest sigh or raised eyebrow comes to indicate fathomless terrors beyond the ken of human perception.

The selection was particularly effective. From the casual sheningans of a bloodthirsty lycanthrope, to the shrieking claustrophobia of a British seaside manor, last night's showing left me a stewing pile of nerves and pizzicato mini-yelps, much to the chagrin of both missus and mutt. But far worse than any of the feature pictures were the dreaded intermezzi. Yes reader, I am referring to those commercial (which came close to mental) breaks.

Wound-up to the pitch of high c by dissonant chord changes and fine acting, how do you think I felt when I saw the ghost of Sarah Jessica Parker suddenly appear before me in shimmering white and maw agape? Dead, dead eyes peered into my very psyche, howling, and pointing a gnarled claw at me to lift the curse of a thousand years by buying her new shampoo. I fell to my knees and prayed in all 108 languages I knew until the apparition dis-apparated. Yet many more followed; vision after heart-stopping vision of celebrity ectoplasms, photoshopped to uncanny new heights of ghostliness, threatened to haunt generations of my offspring should I forbear to purchase their unnatural skinware.

What they promised was as eerie and unholy as their appearance. Rejuvenation, eternal life, the philosopher's stone! I was exhorted to "fight the seven signs of aging" by means of a dreadful new alchemy known as "microdermabrasion". Computer generated close-ups of the aforementioned process left me more in doubt about its scientific value, and more assured as to its Satanic origins. What seem to be uncanny little ghostlings suddenly appear after the application of the non-euclidean substance - terrifying shapes beyond the known fibre of the cosmos in the blink of an eye dispatch time and matter alike with babe-ruthless efficiency.

Cosmic dread was upon me. Yet some maddening atavism in my being prompted me to dig deeper into that which I loathed. Telephoning my contacts at Miskatonic University, I obtained through dark channels some security transcripts from the unholy headquarters of these devotees of Hecate. I present them to you now, unadulterated, and recommend squeamish readers turn their heads to more pleasant jottings. You have been warned!

(Scene: Headquarters of ***** skin and hair products. President's office. Two middle-aged men smoking cigars in fine suits (their own suits aren't too bad either) are looking outside at the bleak Autumn weather. One speaks.)

Tracy: Johnson, I need that formula. If we're going to beat Macy's for the Holiday Rush, we need a new product for mom that sells.

Johnson: Mr. Tracy, sir, we're doing all we can. Our scientists are plying their microscopes night and day. We've already managed to take off 20 years...

Tracy: Bah! Only 20!? You and your science! Your slow, plodding, progress of science! No Johnson, I need something more potent.

Johnson: (hastily) Just give us a few more weeks sir-

Tracy: (interrupting) Johnson, I've made up my mind. Call him.

Johnson: Sir, he's mad!

Tracy: He's a genius, Johnson.

Johnson: No sir, I can't be a part of this any longer. I have a family, sir, and -- well damn it all, I have religion and a conscience! You're meddling with powers beyond your control. I'm leaving sir, and if you know what's good for you, you will to! (walks to the door) God keep you, sir!

(exit Johnson. Tracy sighs, flips casually through his flesh-bound copy of the Necronomicon. Finally, he opens his cell phone. Fade to black. )

(Scene opens in Festermoor Castle. Alone in his study, cluttered with unholy tomes, pentagrams, alchemical apparatuses and pizza boxes, the infamous Doktor Fistus finishes drawing a magical circle.)

Fistus: Have now, ach! Philosophy

Studied throughout, alas for me!

And all religion is a bore

Your sanctity doth make me snore.

I stand here yet a mighty fool

In a puddle of my own drool.

Fortowhich I turn to devilry

To ply the wand, aye that's for me!

(enter his manservant Garble, a jaunty homunculus with a heart of ash)

Garble: Master, I've recieved the a call

They wish to know if you withal

Have made the cream?

Fistus: A fool do I seem?

Abra-dabra-cabra car

Gloogle bungle bing ja jar!

I shall show them, who are so pushy!

(waves his hand over the magic circle)

I summon forth an ancient hussy!

(The ghost of Helen of Troy appears in the magic circle)

Fistus: Oh dame who launched a thousand nations!

Pray tell the secret of microdermabrasions?

Helen: Eye of goat, and toad of mud,

Mud of sheep, and cow of blood!

Fistus: Haha! Success! And now I've done it!

The secret alchemy, I've won it!

And to secure the unholy ingredient
A monster party methinks expedient!

(Fistus begins to dance with his homunculus while Helen begins a galliard with castanets. A variety of demons and ghouls join in. Fade to black with accompanyment from Bach's Toccata and Fugue in D Minor).