The Beginning of Something Else

In the days of the Vibrating Council of Thunder Popes, when the men and women of the world were brain-tethered by cracking hatred, running around in circles, cutting each others’ heads off with the dull limbs of shrubbery, there came a fool to the borderland and, seeing a river, crossed it. The river ran narrow at this juncture and was filled with farting alligators and motionless eels, glutted with cast off meat bits and each other. He didn’t have to swim, but rather crawled along the lazing beasts without true obstacle. A stinky eye here. A half-heartedly gnashing grin there. His jeans were wet, but little else, and he had kept all of his blood. He had some walking to do in the whistling breeze and would dry off in no time.

In front of him, that is to say, to the north, there sat a fat mountain or fat man or fat something large and looming on the horizon. He knew not what it was, but it wasn’t there before, so it was to there that he headed now. Penniless, weaponless, common sense abandoned some time ago, he decided to walk and to see what he could see before his bones ate the last of his meat and then his eyes and he’d have to stop seeing and living. But until then, he’d walk and look about. There didn’t seem to be much else to do in the strangled world around him and he’d received a new pair of shoes not long ago. Off he set along the only road he could see.

(These being the first moments of a larger story that I am writing for all of you, each and every one.)

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