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"The Galloping Gourmet Treat" by Fisher Thompson

Fisher lives in Southern California.


© 2005 Fisher Thompson


During the ever widening and travelogue cum day trip along the Inca Trail I met many strange people over the course of a few days.  And while part of me was paying attention, shaking hands, wagging tails, listening to the many insipid details each provided as a prelude to crotch scratching and armpit sniffing which was the de rigueur method of introduction, the other part of me was far away, laying on Fiji, naked bronze female natives lathering my massive Herculean body with coconut juice, 95% grain alcohol, whipped egg whites, and Machu Picchu Honey. But in all of those many meetings, none impressed me as thoroughly as one superlative, enigmatic man: Long Chin.  The pygmy squat hexagonally inclined Punjabi warrior supreme, 12 million dpi, ultra-memory enhanced, 50GB chromium density cranium, multi-peripherals included, racked, packed, and stacked into polyurethane, polystyrene, mold-injected cylinders which have been designed to withstand up to 10 megatons of vertical force, intergalactic rotational flux, and mammoth reptilian fecal discharges, all here, all now, all in the comfort of your insulated bio-enclosures—Long Chin: protoman of the future...


The crowd clapped politely, a few coughed, some produced stethoscopes, digging deep into their neighbors' pants as they checked for hernia.


"Hello," he said, bending at the waist while he scratched the huge planetoid-like extensions growing from his kneecap area.  "First, let me say, I am proud to be here, though not entirely glad.  Second, a brief summation of my qualifications." At this point he stuck a thick, stubby finger into his drooling mouth, extracted it, held it up to check the wind direction and proceeded.  "My teeth have been dentally engineered to cut through composition board, plywood, thin non-ferrous metals, plastics, laminates, Plexiglas, and other stubborn materials, while my jaws are capable of maintaining the equivalent pressure of a two-ton press.  And, as a bonus, I have a conveniently located
trigger switch on a large, rigid grip,T-shaped auxiliary handle for working comfort and accurate control. 


Needless to say, but I'll mention it anyway, my head is a high speed orbital action roller and ball bearing mounted swivel unit with external collar (to prevent spinaways), adjustable torque, and manual override.  In addition, my lower intestines function as a 35 speed QuisinartBlender.  All for the incredibly low call your orders in now price of $29.95!"

The crowd lay stunned as they pored over this marvel of human achievement. All could see Chin, his lineage proud and long, honorable family pointed to by the Imperial Chinese Terra Cotta Army, remnant of the Dynasty of Chin; Big Chin, Little Chin, Magnificent Chin, Wipe-The-Dribble-Off-Your-Stupid Chin: The first Emperor of China, whose 7,500 plus eternally silent of the underground army still guard the empty palace in memory of his grandeur, his pointy beard, his incredibly prodigious body odor. So stand the legion of Chin's army, builders of the Great Wall of China, the masterwork, assembled piecemeal from fragments of driftwood, soda bottles, marshmallow candy wrappers, fingernail clippings, calcified pubic hair, and semen from Tanzanian Orangutans.

Meanwhile, I was far away, laying on Fiji, naked bronze female natives lathering my massive Herculean body with coconut juice, 95% grain alcohol, whipped egg whites, and Machu Picchu Honey.


On the other side of the intergalactic plane, my girlfriend, Marga, was busy serving up her own inimitable treats. Marga lay back on the hot, summer sheets, watching as the smoke rings from her panatela lingered lazily in front of her bare chest, tauntingly circling around her erect nipples before floating away into the blackened doorway.

This morning she was in slow recovery, shell shocked form the previous night's bout of Manhattans, DeathRattleSkullPuppy recordings—masters of debauchery—and various lewd activities too involved to regale at such a tender hour of the day.


She wondered often about moments like these, times that in retrospect always appeared as things existing extrinsic to her, as if she were reviewing historical film reels, dusty and splotchy, of someone else's life. "Did I really do THAT?" She blushed as the hairs on her legs bolted to rigidity.


Bringing her hand to her vagina, she felt around, exploring as if some artifact could be extracted in disputation of her memory.  No luck. Had she really inserted, lit, then puffed that $20 Cuban cigar, using her well developed vaginal muscles in a perfected Kegel grip?A picture of the sparkle in Zoc's eyes as he watched her triumphant exhalations told her this was no dream.


Yes, Marga.  You did this thing and who knows WHAT else! The TV played in the background, sound muted, while the garish, white, what-the-hell-creature-is-THAT face of Silo Jonguit, snarled and sneered into the foggy-lensed close-up camera.  Pull back, wide shot now, as Silo jumped and danced into the flaring streetlight, judo stepping, jitterbug hopping, leaving Arthur Murray in the dust, as his nimble Astairian toes swished and glided across the checkered sidewalk, mimicking floatation on a cushion of air.

The music thumped and grinded, inspiring him to the trademark pelvic thrusts the female contingency had come to expect. Marga knew this music, she was embarrassed to admit, for she found the jocular voodoo child of media molestation repulsive in a reptilian sort of way.  But how could she avoid his aberrant image?  Ubiquitous as it was, the feat was near impossible.  Yet even within the pitiless stare of this brutality, a theme park, Silo World, was in the negotiating stages with a large, multinational concern.

Who would go there? She mused, unconsciously letting her hand drift to her swollen nipple.  I mean, children?  Not any of mine! She clamped down hard at this thought, a wincing ripple of pain surging through her center, lighting her spinal column from the fifth vertebra down to the coccyx like a row of pinball bumpers. But of course, she didn't have children.  No relationship had ever sustained long enough to consider such fatalistic options.  Although, there was one she had sensed, hoped, believed, maybe one day, would materialize into a picture of domesticity where offspring were not only possible but inevitable, an epitome of conjugal bliss that none save Cinderella had witnessed.

Yet that vision, like all the others in this transitory world she called home, had fallen into the rubble of hurried footsteps, leaving her here, on a hot and humid summer's morning, alone with her naked redemption, smoke circles rising and falling, strange extraterrestrial creations ogling at her splayed vulva from the enclosed security of a soundless TV, while her youthful eyes of jaded wonder, stared into the vault of her own eternity, questioning the wisdom of remaining among a population that had released  command of  her devotion.







All work is copyrighted property of Fisher Thompson.






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