Post by Captain Benjamin Maxwell on Jun 12, 2005 19:44:02 GMT -5
Sunday.
I don't know that I've ever been able to truly enjoy Sundays. When I was a kid, Fridays and Saturdays would draw to a close with the promise of a gentle awakening the next day by the smile of the sun pouring in through my He-Man curtains, gently coaxing me from my bed, and ushering in a fun-filled day packed with sugar-fortified cereal and midday cartoons.
Sunday evenings were typically filled with terror, however, as unfinished homework lurked in the shadows, and the only smile I had to look forward to the next morning was the tobacco-stained grimace of my antisocial school bus driver, terminally poised on the brink of a massive nervous breakdown as she shuttled us off to the elementary school like a truck full of cattle bound for the slaughterhouse. Bedtime prayers typically included a plea for a stay of the inevitable execution - but usually, the Governor wasn't feeling very merciful.
This morning, the executioner started sharpening his axe extra-early. As I lay half-awake, feeling the cool breeze of the forty-dollar-an-hour air conditioner wafting across my face, and the rays of the morning sun playing across my bed, I was suddenly jolted violently from my idyllic state by a thunderous pounding, and thrown across the bedroom, where, upon my impact with the wall, a pair of gorilla arms reached from the recesses of my nearby closet, grabbing me by the neck and playing my spine like an accordion with a pair of brass knuckles. Thinking quickly, I whipped out my pistol, and let the mugger have it, point-blank in the chest. He staggered backwards, and collapsed on a trash heap, dying in a pool of his own blood, mingled with the filthy muck of the city's refuse. Good riddance.
As I searched his body for two forms of government I.D., I realized that he was a member of the Phartknockers, a notorious local gang.
Before my thought processes could progress any further, however, I was unceremoniously bludgeoned from behind.
When I finally came to, I found myself sprawled on the floor beside my bed, a sheet twisted around my ankles and a pillow stuffed halfway into my mouth. The pounding had subsided, having been replaced with meek voice which wafted under the locked bedroom door, pleading for a roll of toilet paper.
Ugh.
Saran Wrap
Lee came over, bringing her eternally-crippled laptop, and we went out to eat. We considered going to the China Buffet, but ultimately, we settled on the somewhat-tamer Mercury Boulevard McDonald's. As a side note, this particular McDonald's has the dubious distinction of being the exclusive fast food establishment in the immediate area featuring what used to be a stripper pole in the dining room.
Rock on.
After a lunch consisting of soggy fries, a burger that had been exposed to more radiation than the workers at Nine Mile Island, and iced tea that tasted like bat shit, we made our way over to the humble abode of Lee's grandparents so that she could pick up a pack of CD-Rs. Her grandparents are some of the most eclectic folks I know. They save everything, from unopened cans of Spaghetti-Os that date back to the early '80s, to empty boxes of Kleenex, and the inside of their home reflects the achievement of over thirty years of faithful conservation. Ever see Sanford and Son? Fred's crib had nothing on the Wang household.
The Wang family rubber band collection. See the big blue one in the lower right? It held Captain John Smith's broccoli together on the Jamestown expedition.
The McDonald's food left me feeling rather ill, so I raided the Wang's refrigerator for something to drink. I use the term "refrigerator" loosely, since everything - and I do mean everything - stored within looks more like a high school science project gone haywire.
I should preface the above statement by saying that very little of what's actually in the fridge has any sort of English labeling on it, so I don't have hard proof that experimentation is, in fact, taking place in Wang Laboratories, LLC. What I can offer up as circumstantial evidence, however, is the unusually large proliferation of Saran Wrap and rubber bands being used in ways heretofore unheard of. I'm convinced there's a higher agenda at work here.
This madness doesn't stop at the fridge. Everything in the house that's food-related and has not been packed in a resealable container has had this do-it-yourself shrink-wrap treatment applied to it. Frosted Flakes, baking soda - even kitty litter - all of it resides beneath the impenetrable Shield of Wang. Evidently, Saran Wrap possesses some sort of otherworldly quality, known only to residents of the Far East, that allows it to function as an all-encompassing barrier against the elements, as well as the occasional plague.
I felt the need to investigate further. However, before I had the chance, I was unceremoniously bludgeoned from behind.
The Garage
The parking garage in the building where I live is not just a poorly-designed menace to society. I have, in recent months, become entirely convinced that it is also a direct portal between this world and the bowels of the fiery inferno where demons torment sinners, and "Hey Ya" is played on a continuous loop.
Spiraling five stories into the earth, this monolithic structure was designed and built in the '80s by a deranged Indian architect with a penchant for abusing LSD and a quasi-religious belief that all Americans drive sub-compact cars. I believe the elevator system in our building was also conceptualized by the same maniac.
As you can see, this reversed "2" (one in a series of reversed numbers applied throughout the Garage) serves as great supporting evidence that the contractors working for Howroyd-Wright Property Management are dedicated to quality and reliability. It also serves as evidence that satanic rituals are probably taking place in my parking spot while I'm at work.
The ongoing number of abandoned vehicles appearing throughout Satan's Passage (referred to as 'Tower Parking' by those who wish to cover its true identity) is alarming. I first noticed the phenomenon in mid-December, when renovations began on the Garage's upper decks. The work being done involved a substantial amount of drilling and repairing, and I believe this disturbed some supernatural balance of power, sending the Garage into panic mode, as it sought out new victims to bolster the ranks of its twisted army of the Undead.
The homeless folks who used to inhabit the entry deck, and who had taken over one of the parking spots for their own personal use, were the first to disappear. Soon after, the Garage claimed the driver of a '77 Monte Carlo, as well as the master and commander of a piece of crap Kia, and, most notably, the owner of The Motorcycle.
I am evil. Hear me backfire.
Scary-looking, isn't it? Whoever owned this thing before passing into the Great Beyond sure knew how to pick-em. The Motorcycle simply oozes evil, and rules the Garage with an iron fist. I believe that this maniacal vehicle was originally sent forth from the Abyss to manifest on the Earth in the form of a rampaging, horned beast that would be the next Plague on Humanity. But something went wrong, and instead, the Creature materialized in the form of a fairly ugly bike on the floor of Crusty's Motorcycle Mania.
This thing is a doozy. It has no headlight (and looks like it never did), the seat is basically a piece of molded plastic, and the kickstand is little more than a bent piece of metal extending from the center of the bike's body to the floor. I bumped into The Motorcycle while photographing it, and it very nearly toppled over. Were it not for the bike's satanic tendencies, I believe that it would make a great 'starter' ride for the little Hell's Angel in YOUR family.
In case there was any confusion, this is the "ass" of the bike. It's not for wimps.[/i]
The Motorcycle hasn't been moved in a LONG time. Its tags expired last Thanksgiving, and its city sticker is so out-of-date that it would be seized immediately if the authorities ever tracked it down. There is also a parking ticket stuck in The Motorcycle's seat, but it will probably never get paid. The ink wore off a long time ago.
We may never know who this bike's unfortunate final owner was, or what fate had in store for him. However, based on his half-assed parking job, I've managed to track down the most likely suspect:
How do I know?
He's the same guy that did this:
I don't know that I've ever been able to truly enjoy Sundays. When I was a kid, Fridays and Saturdays would draw to a close with the promise of a gentle awakening the next day by the smile of the sun pouring in through my He-Man curtains, gently coaxing me from my bed, and ushering in a fun-filled day packed with sugar-fortified cereal and midday cartoons.
Sunday evenings were typically filled with terror, however, as unfinished homework lurked in the shadows, and the only smile I had to look forward to the next morning was the tobacco-stained grimace of my antisocial school bus driver, terminally poised on the brink of a massive nervous breakdown as she shuttled us off to the elementary school like a truck full of cattle bound for the slaughterhouse. Bedtime prayers typically included a plea for a stay of the inevitable execution - but usually, the Governor wasn't feeling very merciful.
This morning, the executioner started sharpening his axe extra-early. As I lay half-awake, feeling the cool breeze of the forty-dollar-an-hour air conditioner wafting across my face, and the rays of the morning sun playing across my bed, I was suddenly jolted violently from my idyllic state by a thunderous pounding, and thrown across the bedroom, where, upon my impact with the wall, a pair of gorilla arms reached from the recesses of my nearby closet, grabbing me by the neck and playing my spine like an accordion with a pair of brass knuckles. Thinking quickly, I whipped out my pistol, and let the mugger have it, point-blank in the chest. He staggered backwards, and collapsed on a trash heap, dying in a pool of his own blood, mingled with the filthy muck of the city's refuse. Good riddance.
As I searched his body for two forms of government I.D., I realized that he was a member of the Phartknockers, a notorious local gang.
Before my thought processes could progress any further, however, I was unceremoniously bludgeoned from behind.
When I finally came to, I found myself sprawled on the floor beside my bed, a sheet twisted around my ankles and a pillow stuffed halfway into my mouth. The pounding had subsided, having been replaced with meek voice which wafted under the locked bedroom door, pleading for a roll of toilet paper.
Ugh.
Saran Wrap
Lee came over, bringing her eternally-crippled laptop, and we went out to eat. We considered going to the China Buffet, but ultimately, we settled on the somewhat-tamer Mercury Boulevard McDonald's. As a side note, this particular McDonald's has the dubious distinction of being the exclusive fast food establishment in the immediate area featuring what used to be a stripper pole in the dining room.
Rock on.
Cartoons and zombies, but nary a buffet in sight. Your results may vary.
After a lunch consisting of soggy fries, a burger that had been exposed to more radiation than the workers at Nine Mile Island, and iced tea that tasted like bat shit, we made our way over to the humble abode of Lee's grandparents so that she could pick up a pack of CD-Rs. Her grandparents are some of the most eclectic folks I know. They save everything, from unopened cans of Spaghetti-Os that date back to the early '80s, to empty boxes of Kleenex, and the inside of their home reflects the achievement of over thirty years of faithful conservation. Ever see Sanford and Son? Fred's crib had nothing on the Wang household.
The Wang family rubber band collection. See the big blue one in the lower right? It held Captain John Smith's broccoli together on the Jamestown expedition.
The McDonald's food left me feeling rather ill, so I raided the Wang's refrigerator for something to drink. I use the term "refrigerator" loosely, since everything - and I do mean everything - stored within looks more like a high school science project gone haywire.
I should preface the above statement by saying that very little of what's actually in the fridge has any sort of English labeling on it, so I don't have hard proof that experimentation is, in fact, taking place in Wang Laboratories, LLC. What I can offer up as circumstantial evidence, however, is the unusually large proliferation of Saran Wrap and rubber bands being used in ways heretofore unheard of. I'm convinced there's a higher agenda at work here.
Check it out. Saran-wrapped Pepsi cans. Trippy.
This madness doesn't stop at the fridge. Everything in the house that's food-related and has not been packed in a resealable container has had this do-it-yourself shrink-wrap treatment applied to it. Frosted Flakes, baking soda - even kitty litter - all of it resides beneath the impenetrable Shield of Wang. Evidently, Saran Wrap possesses some sort of otherworldly quality, known only to residents of the Far East, that allows it to function as an all-encompassing barrier against the elements, as well as the occasional plague.
I felt the need to investigate further. However, before I had the chance, I was unceremoniously bludgeoned from behind.
The Garage
The parking garage in the building where I live is not just a poorly-designed menace to society. I have, in recent months, become entirely convinced that it is also a direct portal between this world and the bowels of the fiery inferno where demons torment sinners, and "Hey Ya" is played on a continuous loop.
Spiraling five stories into the earth, this monolithic structure was designed and built in the '80s by a deranged Indian architect with a penchant for abusing LSD and a quasi-religious belief that all Americans drive sub-compact cars. I believe the elevator system in our building was also conceptualized by the same maniac.
As you can see, this reversed "2" (one in a series of reversed numbers applied throughout the Garage) serves as great supporting evidence that the contractors working for Howroyd-Wright Property Management are dedicated to quality and reliability. It also serves as evidence that satanic rituals are probably taking place in my parking spot while I'm at work.
The ongoing number of abandoned vehicles appearing throughout Satan's Passage (referred to as 'Tower Parking' by those who wish to cover its true identity) is alarming. I first noticed the phenomenon in mid-December, when renovations began on the Garage's upper decks. The work being done involved a substantial amount of drilling and repairing, and I believe this disturbed some supernatural balance of power, sending the Garage into panic mode, as it sought out new victims to bolster the ranks of its twisted army of the Undead.
The homeless folks who used to inhabit the entry deck, and who had taken over one of the parking spots for their own personal use, were the first to disappear. Soon after, the Garage claimed the driver of a '77 Monte Carlo, as well as the master and commander of a piece of crap Kia, and, most notably, the owner of The Motorcycle.
I am evil. Hear me backfire.
Scary-looking, isn't it? Whoever owned this thing before passing into the Great Beyond sure knew how to pick-em. The Motorcycle simply oozes evil, and rules the Garage with an iron fist. I believe that this maniacal vehicle was originally sent forth from the Abyss to manifest on the Earth in the form of a rampaging, horned beast that would be the next Plague on Humanity. But something went wrong, and instead, the Creature materialized in the form of a fairly ugly bike on the floor of Crusty's Motorcycle Mania.
This thing is a doozy. It has no headlight (and looks like it never did), the seat is basically a piece of molded plastic, and the kickstand is little more than a bent piece of metal extending from the center of the bike's body to the floor. I bumped into The Motorcycle while photographing it, and it very nearly toppled over. Were it not for the bike's satanic tendencies, I believe that it would make a great 'starter' ride for the little Hell's Angel in YOUR family.
In case there was any confusion, this is the "ass" of the bike. It's not for wimps.
The Motorcycle hasn't been moved in a LONG time. Its tags expired last Thanksgiving, and its city sticker is so out-of-date that it would be seized immediately if the authorities ever tracked it down. There is also a parking ticket stuck in The Motorcycle's seat, but it will probably never get paid. The ink wore off a long time ago.
ATTENTION! Just kidding.
We may never know who this bike's unfortunate final owner was, or what fate had in store for him. However, based on his half-assed parking job, I've managed to track down the most likely suspect:
How do I know?
He's the same guy that did this:
