Due to circumstances beyond remote control, I had a problem. What it was I was not sure, but there was that wasing sound continuing to was around, and it's usually a clue. A clue to be taken curiously, if not lightly. But I had my light along, Juztyn Case. My Juztyn Case Light, with fresh batteries.
In the event that anything needed battering, I was set. And then I set off. Set on discovering something. Something off, I suspected.
Off to the store, matey! Where I intended to purchase a selection of Dr. Killigram’s Moth Snappers. I needed more anyway, the cat having gotten into them last week. (He'll recover at a date to be determined later this year, he says.)
Once at the store, I stared. I do that a lot, not being able to understand the world I have been sent to live in. What, for example, is a "tit brush"? Makes me wonder. You can let me know its use if you dare. Send a manual if possible, for I am curious now, and am in fact a charter member of the Weird Old Guys Club (we meet on Thursdays if there is a full moon somewhere), and all of us would dearly love to know something, if not everything.
Before that (the Club), I was one of the Old Loners. The only one in fact, though I often whispered in the dark while pretending that I could understand what I might do if ever I heard an answering susurration. (Shush, Mikey, the void is talking. Step lightly now...)
Back before time began I had a close brush with the Club of One, which was never that popular, but very exclusive in its own ultimate way, and I went to great long lengths to keep it that way. Apparently successfully. Without using any tits at all.
That was again years before I met Monica Aswaggen and her Crockabilly Mountain Nippers. Those were the days, my friend. No one back then worried the least little bit about rabbit rot, or had even heard of it, and if so, where would one go to purchase neon mitts? Luckily life was easy and a short visit to the dinner hole was all anyone needed. Monica had it down cold, being verily the Aswaggen of Legend, and she could carry on all night, and even after the sun came up if the weather was cool, at least for a few breathless brief minutes.
Maybe instead of buying another dozen gross of moth snappers, I should re-read the "Tibetan Book of the Deadbugs". Have noticed a few around lately. Maybe that's where the wasing is coming from. Got to do something, and soon — the mirror is watching me again and it wants results.
Might be best to start with a bit of ham sanitizer and take it from there.
(From "My Life in the Bushes, An autobiography", by Creepy Ed. Not published yet, if ever.)
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Me? Found a quarter in my piggy bank, but had to reach in up to my elbow, and now my arm is covered in shit. Oh, well — it's a living.
