And Fuff Went a Fuck Butlering
by Craig A. Buckley
Fuff a-slipping now from Granny as she processes and crumbles, dirt fostering warmth as it swirls. And, of course, he hears a chiming as he does. His toes sniff the cream settling around the hog hives as the trees splay erect, clicking into place on the vertical horizon with a plastic boom. Granny got made into a Dislocated Processing Unit back when the wind fell about, heavy as hammers and the sky needed the capacity of our spinal columns to interpret the new day appropriately for the Come Down and Get it Christ and his deboned bride, dressed up nice with sage and bread crumbs when Fuff first heard her meat cool beneath the chimes.
Fuff kept the wind chimes clean, like to hear them when the bricks of air migrated up. Chimes were the only tinkling he let in since Granny sent her chuckles through the distortion parcels and her messages came out more like star roar and angel screams. The tinkling was nice and the chimes let Fuff close his eyes without the Damned Equations giving him too much mind in his own darkness. He’d take the darkness and scrub it while the chimes played the oldest song he’d heard (clingclingclangdingdongclingclang).
Birds would sue the chimes on occasion and Fuff would have to load up his Lawyer with shot and put on his old dirt and go out into the chum fields to sign their affidavits with fire. The Lawyer looked good when Fuff pulled the trigger in the back of his head. The vomit was nearly pure bird shot with only a bit of olive mixed in. He’d change his dirt and ram out the carbon scoring from the Lawyers hole before putting it away in that coffee coffin he’d called down last rotation from the wires. Never did move it over next to the chimes like he dreamed he did once, that dream where it all gelled up and became a respectable mold and they wrapped it up and put it in the cold to keep. Nice if that would get done, Fuff thought, before the tinkling came soaring in and the chimes told a different tale for once.
Fuff took his wand out and dribbled a bit of serum onto his hand. It would know the chimes when they talked sideways. It knew a bit of a little of all or so it claimed. Serum stood black like a pawn and begin biting sigils into the flesh of Fuff’s hand. Hair began to grow the cloud and went waving about, tickling Fuff’s ear tops and he knew that the serum was bringing about some sort of Awful.
Cloud opened up its pussy lips with two hands and the hair presented a face. Oh but if it ain’t that Awful slumber slut the Big Bomber himself, man what made the worms quit and go back to asteroid surfing. Man what held the king as a child and slipped a demon into his veins so that the money would fall asleep and swords begin their vengeance whispers. Big Bomber, that sparkly no good do-gooder from cloud pussy town that does the good to prove the evil, like the time Fuff saw him give a pyramid to an orphanage for Christmas and tell the tired nuns to initiate the blameless when all they’d sent letters for was knives and sharper knives to teach the small ones to bleed faster. Big Bomber, if Fuff could drag the man’s mind down to the floor and get his fingers on it, was the Creator of the Official System of Measures that made the sky laugh every night until the trees shut off. Interrupted Fuff’s precious chime time and he’d about had enough so when Big Bomber came growing out of that cloud yonder, Fuff didn’t but look at the blind idiot before declaring everlasting war on the giggly toothed fascist.
He’d had enough creation. Enough staring and cleaning off the darkness and interacting-processing. Felt like Granny, the way the world was. No sense feeling like senseless old Granny and her forever files. Fuff was stepping out and Big Bomber made a nice lawn the way he whistled and winked. Welcoming those big old feet of Fuff’s to come dancing. He even pulled out a leg for Fuff and flung it around the canopy, hitting all the popular stars before bringing the sweet smells. Fuff couldn’t just fold the darkness up and be done with it, sail into the blackened sun and hope to Glob the waves stopped rioting. Didn’t have the proper forms for that and Central Unit was somewhere up and over there where the sky twisted widdershins and the skull was on everything. He’d just have to do it the corporeal way for once and move.
He took the chimes from their space. The vibrating of the metal cylinders set hand hair on end. They clanked once or twice as he wrapped them and tucked them in his armpit. Couldn’t have the chimes telling anybody the news with the tinkling. Fuff took silence seriously when silence started listening back. Hesitation is a four letter world down here. They spell it Unit.
Fuff shook on his finest travelling dirt, an anti-microbial dirt blend made just for active use. The Lawyer he left behind. Wouldn’t be laws where he was off too, no birds either, and no need for protection. The buttery bits of all the goo wouldn’t let Fuff see harm, he knew it and Glob knew it (although Fuff couldn’t have known this, Glob being a thought-form more than a thinker these days and quiet about doing either). Closed up the darkness and threw a sheet on it to keep the mothmen out.
Big Bomber had dwindled among the trees as they clicked into noon position. Fuff crept, but they did what they always did at his approach and began digging up bones with their roots and gluing them with honey and silk to their bark, fleshing up from the marrow out and blooming mouths to warn Fuff that his medicine wouldn’t be strong enough. He’d be infiltrated, they said as the wind crushed limbs away in a sudden onslaught, mouths mumbling mud that weren’t still leaning the world up. Infiltrated before the moon stopped in to shit weak coffee and bean burritos everywhere. Granny’s chimes wouldn’t keep the balloons away once they saw him crawling about.
Nearly puked did Fuff as he thought on balloons and their terrifying persistence. Bouncing off the hammer winds and shrugging off mothmen harpoons. Ever dangling, waiting for him to look left so they could tangle up his hair in their tractor strings. Pull on it something awful, nearly get his good gristle out. Been done before, but this time he had Granny’s chimes and them balloons could probably smell that too.
Fuff kept on, his journey a castle of the heart, walls making a man’s eyes go up and up until he’s so little down there. He’d have to start eating the hearts out of his steps then if he was going to grow big enough to keep after Big Bomber and show him the chimes in his last moment. So he’d step and grab it up with his pinchers, right through the cage of his step and around, pluck that little throb knob up and crack it in his teeth like a peanut. Took some doing, some fancy stepping and nimble pinchers, but soon old Fuff was on his way and even if he had had a sail of clean darkness, puffing up when the light hit it, he’d not have felt any better than he did right then.
But the wheel keeps coughing as it spins and forest let out into a expanse of glass where the sun would set it’s crown on a sun mannequin and lounge about to keep the shit off its face when the moon came barfing and farting up the channel. Big shiny throne sitting there propped up on a mountain or two, shining from the reflection of the sun in the glass just as much from the sun itself, which sat upright for a while, then relaxed and slouched. Fuff couldn’t dig the hearts out of the glass so he gave that up and went walking right up to the sun, him not even half as big as the nuclear king.
Fuff was used to royalty being a butler and all, but that don’t mean the sun didn’t start to burn off his fine hairs at his approach. Face like ten thousand lions ripping into one thousand antelopes. Fuff didn’t blink, knew the sun would just shoosh the darkness and upset it. Just stared like he hated doing and then took out his chimes, unwrapped them, and let the sun melt out a melody (dingdingadongdingclangaclang) that was inappropriate in front of guests but the sun’s court was made of mummies and other dried bits and they couldn’t hear for their ears were right up to Death and that motherfucker was loud. Fuff took up his chimes again, put them under his armpit, and calmly walked into the sun. A small door (but big enough for Fuff) stood beneath the left cheek of the sun’s ass and through hear climbed Fuff.
Fuff floated impatiently down from the void and looked about Big Bomber’s mind map that he’d had printed across the land in rivers and such, only visible from way out. There he was and had been and there he was going, noted Fuff, and floated a bit faster by beating his arms against his thighs. Looked left and there it was, a tractor string, tugging at his hair halfway around the back of his head. Damn void balloon, one of the weird ones that didn’t care for the excitement of the hammer winds but would rather stay out there, bulbous.
But even the bulbous void balloons would want them chimes for their own perversions, Fuff knew, so when the second void balloon took up a forelock, Fuff hooked an eye on Big Bombers back pocket and, using the struggling void balloons against one another, managed to spin out of the void like a errant seraphim caught in a tailspin. Landed, of course, right in Big Bomber’s Blasphemy Burgers, a grease joint that catered to the cool human sacrifice freaks that had never seen a real human in their lives but liked to bleed out of their dicks onto pictures of goat tits and septagrams of ill-repute. Their mothers would roller skate around in mini-skirts, showing off their moth cleavage.
Big Bomber himself sat fatly on the counter and boiled his beard in holy water to get the hitchhiking orgonauts out that might have jumped ship from cloud pussy and, sure enough, a few fell out and flashed blue as they came apart.
Fuff went ahead and walked up, chimes in hand, and said:
“Well, Big Bomber, these are my Granny’s chimes and I know that you mean to have undone the creation you once put sweat into so I came to play you a song. But take heed: this song is a war cry. The sun done told me the darkness was mine to keep clean and Glob damn if I’m gonna let you undo few doings I have left now that Granny’s gone Unit. I know gods like you that step smartly from the vapor and wear a smile just to remind a man of the sharpness of everything don’t need no music to do their dirty dancing but I mean to play you this anyway. Aww fuck, but I talked the wind away. I suppose I’ll just have to blow on them myself.”
So Fuff took them chimes and blew like a hot shrimp had fallen in his hand unexpectedly. Big Bomber closed his mouth for the first time in a million years and just sat there listening.