The Batlord cuts off his dick so he can **** himself in the ass
The peace died quickly within the Casa Fatlord, as the earth itself seemed to spasm harder than the Batlord's legs after twelve hours of Starcraft. Gaggles of doritos were flung through the air. Back issues of Miracle Man, or whatever that ****ing series he won't shut up about is called, were flung about and violently creased. Many a Steel Reserve did fall from the chilly belly of his mini fridge, spilling out the beginnings of beautiful new stains as they rolled across the piss soaked carpet.
And then the carpet was colors, and the colors were the unfolding geometry of the intrinsic programming of the universe. And that could only mean one thing.
Frownland had arrived.
"Shabaaaaaaaaaz!" yodeled the cosmic cartwheeler, sporting infinite erections as he appeared before the Buttlord.
"Oh, **** me," muttered Charles. "Not this god damn **** again."
"He doth well to damn me, that might slay all such conceptions," answered Frownland. "But enough about funnel cakes. I came here to show you something."
Sensing that this was going to be a long night, the Burger King grabbed the emergency toast that he always kept warm in his seat cushion. Too lazy to get up and walk to the kitchen for a spread, he simply scraped his dick across the flaky bread, putting the excess butter from his latest misadventure to good use. "Alright. Let's get this **** over with. What'd you want to show me?"
Even as he asked, the answer was before him; sitting on his keyboard was a plate of golden brownies.
Frownland was already holding one up, stroking his beard with the sensual pastry. "My latest creation. Or discovery, rather. I call them Frownies."
"That's it? Are you ****ing kidding me? You came all this way, interrupted my bants, shook the **** out of my house, just for-" His mouth was stopped by a Frownie. They were all around, a temporal flood, within and without. They were everywhere, everything, all. They always had been.
He saw his mother, her eyes, the same eyes that lovingly watched him play toy genocide with his green army men as an innocent child. Those eyes, the crusty golden flakes shimmering, turning, and the hunger, oh god the hunger, and
"Pretty good, ja?" asked Frownland.
The Butterlord shrugged. "Eh. Not your best. I actually came back from this trip."
"Did you?" asked Frownland, raising an eyebrow. "Curious. Anyway, enough about my Frownies. Pray, what're you up to? I couldn't help but notice your buttery member, and likewise the kitchen knife
the kitchen knife
so bad, the burning cold, when the room started
sitting by your keyboard, right by that book of matches. Were you perhaps up to another of your silly penis experiments?"
The Catlord shuddered. The silly string shuddered. God got bored and opened a tab of porn. But you didn't, and that's what matters. "What? No. Hell no. Nothing like that. I was just... uh... trying to dig something out of my keyboard. Some **** that got stuck in there. And, you know, knives are good at... that."
With a smile and a chiding shake of the head, Frownland whistled. The worm broke through the skin of the Batporn's arm, poking out its eyeless head. With a wave of the hand, Frownland brought it into his grasp, and did lift it to his ear, whereupon the truth of the Scatlord's situation was revealed unto him.
"I understand," said Frownland without judgment. "You must be terribly lonely. But you need not turn to mutilation of the self, when mutilation of the laws of the universe would suit you just as well. Until your distinctions cease, anyway." Snapping his fingers, he created a shimmering vortex.
"Holy ****," gasped the Shatlord. "What did you do? What the **** is that thing?"
"A temporal fold." Frown stretched out a hand. "Come. Know it further, and so know thyself."
And what could Badlord do but obey? He stepped towards the hypnotic whirl, peering into the glittering dust, until at last he saw through to the other side... and the other side saw him.
Twas a rip through time and space, leading back to the same time and same space. Which is to say, not a rip at all, but a fold of the fabric, an impossible fold in the eternal instant wherein
He saw the road. One forward, the other around. If he had been wearing pants, they would have dropped. The butter sang as he greeted himself. Again and again and
Frownland could scarce keep from joining them
Every direction, from every point, the heart beat of the universe, the spurting pulse, movement, life, again and again and
Explosion, matter outward, the inception of conception
Countless universes pushing onward through the cracks
Flopping to the floor, the Faplord lit a cigarette. "Well that was ****ing amazing."
Frownland, who was the cigarette, smiled at his naivety, at the pleasures yet unknown to him. Such wonders might he show him, if only he would lose his way. Yet, there was always tomorrow.
Always.
"Yo, mom," shouted Charley. "Make me a ****ing kool-aid and a sandwich. And bring some tissues. I just busted all over the ceiling again."
From within the living room, his mother sighed. "Alright, sweetie," she answered, her weary bones aching as she stood. Yet, ere she had reached
the Finding Nemo tissue box she had bought for him, she stole a glance back at his door
And smiled
Her golden lips flaking softly in the still air