html> Domain Kain - Stories

Stapler


Written by: Spotlite



It was a fairly normal day. Then, it wasn’t anymore. What brought on this sudden change is yet to be determined, but I’m sure it’s around here somewhere.

Spotlite and Barbie Boy walked in silence towards the café at BTC, where their most certainly delicious grinders awaited. Oh grinder, with your thin layers of bacon and your smattering of mayonnaise! Hark, thy dead pig! Your flanks taste oh so delicious on my taste buds, where you are continually murdered even after death by my teeth so sharp and tongue so full of desire.

Standing, staring blankly, and drooling in the middle of the room 50 feet from the line, Spotlite’s deli meat-coated dreams roll about his head like a kitten with yarn. Barbie, on the other hand, lies bent over backwards, guzzling ranch much like the Middle East guzzles our money for oil.

Entering the school randomly is Transmetal and Cheesy Boy, confused by the instantaneous arrival to this place of which they have no recognition. Wandering the halls curious and wide-eyed like a pair of alzheimers patients, they manage to stumble upon the café, where Spotlite is still lost in his comatose dream of sandwiches. The tell-tale trench coat and disheveled hair draws them in to memories of an old classmate. A slight poke to the back of the head brings him out of his trance, followed by a needless stab to the eye from Cheese which brings forth the tears from the floodgates like tiny, salty pearls of pain.

“Oh GOD! What was that for?”

“I blame the internet.”

“What? I…oh, its you two. Long time no see. What are you doing here?”

“I’d ask the same question, but I’m still taking pleasure in the fact that I just got out of a test for no apparent reason.”

“And I just followed him…”

“Oh…well, help me find Barbie. He’s around here some-,” Spotlite suddenly cuts off to discover a ranch-soaked Barbie Boy sleeping at his feet, lying in a pool of his own urine. Why? Probably because the writer of this story decided urine was the least offensive of all the bodily fluids.

“Good ol’ Barbie Boy.”

Fast forward 4 hours later at the end of classes, and we find the dynamic quad…quado…at the local mall, feasting on crab and pasta sauce. Upon finishing his owl omlette, Spotlite jumps up and rejoices in the fact that he’s gained a new level. A rumbling starts, and a golden aura begins to surround the young lad. Receiving a hair-boner and a color treatment, he is now Super Saiyan-Jin II, defender of all that is good and cream-filled! Coat tails flapping and random debris rising and falling to the ground, he sits back down to continue his feast upon the mussels and raccoon tails of yore. This creates quite a disturbance at the table, seeing as how all the food had begun lifting and spilling from the immense amount of energy being released.

Pause.

A scream of pain and horror erupts from Spot and a shift in the tectonic plates tears the mall to shreds, triggering bellowed creaks from the deepest bowels of hell. Gasping and falling to the floor, he flails and chokes until a small chunk of fish is spewed from his throat, rocketing across the food court into the purse of an elder woman. Her blue hair flows unnaturally in the falling dry wall, and her wrinkled hands cover her head for protection amidst the chaos. She bounds across the floor to the exit, unaware that the rest of Burlington is receiving the same elemental punishment for Spotlite’s lack of chewing.

The earthquake stops abruptly and all regain their footing. Slowly, the dull sound of chatter and conversation starts up again, and all is forgotten with the skill and expertise of a goldfish’s own mental abilities. Panning back to the group, Cheese and Trans are now tangled in their chairs and Barbie clings tight to the ceiling not unlike a frightened kitty cat. Or a stalactite. Either/or.

All specific dialogue breaks down at this point in the story for reasons far beyond the understanding of any mortal man. Barbie Boy commences a shouting argument with the napkin dispenser for stealing his reflection, Cheesy Boy falls asleep and begins translating the American Bible back to Aramaic from memory, and Transmetal just forgets where he is and wanders off, the pale blue light from the local EB calling to him, to his soul. As for Spotlite, the limitless boundaries that have been set from his new ability tell him to go outside and try to power up. Doing so requires the ability to scream really loud for a really long time and to crouch in an awkward position for that extended period. The fruits of such testing result in the ability to fire a ki blast out of his feet, launching him miles into the air only to fall helplessly back to earth, for he has not yet mastered the art of flying or zwee-fighting. Even the addition of a tail would come in handy at this-

How convenient! Forgetting he was now something of a saiyan, he realizes the fact that a tail is included with the package, thought it remained hidden, snuggled under two layers of clothing. Ripping furiously at his pants, his descent towards the brick-paved roads of Church Street became more and more of a reality.

The sight of a falling man in a long coat and golden hair ripping his pants off to expose a furry tail, then fly away helicopter-style continues to be passed on through the generations to this day. Some call it a myth, some just an urban legend. But to those brave heroes that fought in the war on Turkganistany, the memories of a brave young boy with a heart of platinum and a tail of coarse hair will live on through their minds. For if it wasn’t for that chap, the Turkong would have taken siege over the US embassy of foreign trades in lower apparel and funny hats. Then how would he have gotten a new pair of casual, yet fashionable, untorn pants? Fighting butt-naked in the harsh desert forests of Turkganistany would wear even the most hardened of asses to bruised and bloody flesh. This was one of many reason the Turkong needed the power of lower apparel trades. For you see, they had no sewing machines. Or ANY sewing equipment for that matter, so all pants and/or shorts were held together with rubber cement and paperclips. Those, I’m quite sure, were not the most comfortable of outer wear. Not all too fashionable either; most men in the villages remained single due to their lack of savvy pantaloons.

This brings me to the terrible tragedy of the Butterfinger Crisp bar. Who decided that the crunchy, buttery center of a Butterfinger should be turned to a paste-like substance and injected between layers of thin crust? If I wanted that, I’d just eat a Kit-Kat bar. But I WOULDN’T because Kit-Kat bars are among the demons of the earthen choco-bars. Its brother-in-arms would be the infamous Three Musketeers. This candy bar I consider to be the retarded cousin of every other candy bar. All it contains is “creamy nougat”, yet the Milky Way holds nougat deep within its chocolaty womb along with other ingredients of deliciosity. After two bites are consumed of this hate crime against candy, you discover that its not going to get any better. The realization that you just spent 65 cents on a bar of nougat sinks in and you question your own sanity as well as the sanity of the bar’s creator. Was he just angry at the world? Maybe he just hated musketeers. The name itself is THREE musketeers, implying that there just might be three fillings, but alas, you are left with one mildly disgusting center.

Enraged as his own tangents, the writer desperately looks for a way to end the story without the loss of any limbs. Looking to his left, he spies a stapler, devoid of any staples. Reaching for it, he considers the practical use of an empty stapler, but no answer comes to his question. He raises his arm back and in a full swing bashes his computer tower with the mighty force of mechanized organization. Failing to end the story and only causing a subtle clicking noise within the depth of his hard drive, the writer rubs his unshaven chin in a most curious manner. Ways to conclude a story of epic proportions equaling this eluded his brain, leaving only useless questions that might never be answered. Why didn’t they ever make carrot soda?

In one final attempt to end this disaster of ink and paper, he clears his mind of all logical thought, all thought whatsoever. In fact, his mind became so empty, it created a vacuum folding in on itself. A portal to the darkest reaches of space formed inside of his own mind, pulling all that tucked away rational thought into it, as well as all the irrational thoughts too. Soon, he was completely lacking of any mind, memory, or imagination. Eyes glazing over, pupils disappearing into perfect white orbs, his body slumped over in his chair and his forehead slammed down into the keyboard. The erratic changes from present- to past-tense were too much to bear. In pure unadulterated coincidence, the randomly hit keys formed the perfect ending to a story this massive of a scale.

Billowflatscribbleball.