Monday, November 23, 2009

The Fantastical Duke of Losers, Part 1

The carnival was over. The freaks were in the barn having a drug-fueled orgy with the pigs and the cows. It was how they chose to live. The musclemen, each one a homosexual and a bro, chopped the heads off chickens and choreographed the resultant dance moves. Bearded women and rubber men had awkward intercourse in shit-filled troughs. "Baby we're in Xanadu! This barnyard is our pleasure dome!"

The Duke of Losers sat cross-legged with the rats in the dirt beneath the stage. He suckled a canteen of gin, convinced he was a visionary. He could see the course of things quite clearly. He saw the freaks were hopeless but my god they were having a ball and here am I drinking alone!

He worried about the little Indian girl. She once was a sweet tea-drinker but now associated with the freaks and donkeys. She occasionally runs off with Steve, a model citizen, but she always returns to the carnival. What one does in the past, mused the Duke, one will inevitably do in the future--unless there is a shock! And Steve is such a twat. And certainly not a duke. I'm afraid the carnival is in her blood.

He watched the passers-by. What an enormous gaggle of idiots!

Oh Steve... Steve Steve Steve... Living the Canadian Dream, wearing clothes chosen by your girlfriend, so proud of yourself because she tells you they are fashionable--you look like an overgrown child! Please tell me more about your mortgage and your magnificent home improvements! Oh oh oh and what's your favourite food!? Tell me how much you like to eat it!

Inside the barn, the freaks awaited for the arrival of Sammari, a hip-hop singer of lukewarm ability known for singing about women and fast cars and, occasionally, when he felt poetic, women-as-fast-cars. He, too, had his eye on the beautiful Indian girl. He would impress her with his phenomenal ability to party quite seriously.

Though reluctant to admit it, the Duke also liked to party--just never seriously. He had poetry power and a reputation for being a sad sack. No one likes a sad sack, a friend once told him, and that's exactly what you are: a big sack of sad and you stink like socks. The Duke immediately took a shower, quite conscientiously washing his balls, and made an oath never to be sad again.

That's how he became a duke.

In the distance was the squeal of a Japanese motorcycle. Steve noted how motorcycles often sound like their names--What a fucking idiot, thought the Duke. But enough of all that... We are all quite drunk and Sammari will soon be here!

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