Chief Upper Bounce used to wear moderate fur made of banana skins and lived on a rooftop in North Dakota. There was a ditch in his life, carefully constructed by psychological rain water, and he felt that he had indeed earned it. On quiet nights, he'd lay on his back on the roof and listen for the monarch's sigh, a sure sign that physics was beginning to recover. It hadn't been that long since he'd been blackmailed by his neighbour's shrubbery, an event that was suspected to be well-orchestrated by the composite singer who lived in the basement of the Higgins' home down the street. One day while it was raining, the composite singer left a suspicious container near the east gutters of his rooftop, not far from where his air mattress, desk lamp, and night table were set up. It was a clear container, not unlike tupperware, and one could easily see that there was some sort of rolled up paper inside, possibly bearing a message or a recipe or maybe a list of favourite sports legends. But to be frank, Chief Upper Bounce didn't really know the composite singer so very well. He did know these things about her though: She was an acid jazz violinist before the war, she made her fortune by finding pirate treasure in the waters of the baywatch lifeguards, and she used to own a nail farm that was run by complementary insects. She also created a cult called the Cult of Insults in which the members would constantly insult each other at meetings, but as soon as Mercury got out of retrograde, she shut it down, turning it into a lemon steam engine and a contemporary citizen. So, at any rate, Chief Upper Bounce opened the tupperware, unraveled said scroll, and lo and behold found he was getting blackmailed. The note said: 'I know all about your rubber tears and the tome that you wrote while you had an itchy rash. I know that you imagine plastic, and at the stroke of midnight you get pinched by sound. I know that your sterling carriage used to parade around on the fringe circuit, and that you have a symphony in your elevator. Now do as I say, and none of this gets leaked to the National Multiplier. Sincerely, the shrubbery.' Needless to say, it was a strange note indeed. One illogical layer after another showed the chief that the woman was off the rails, but still, in the end, he said nothing in response to the woman's claims and threats. Instead, he passed the news of this over to his cousin, Captain Tender Hooks, the owner and editor-in-chief at the National Multiplier, and when the supposedly damning letter came through the magazine's mail slot, Captain Tender Hooks turned the accusations into a charming short story which he featured on page 2 of his upcoming issue. Neither Chief Upper Bounce nor Captain Tender Hooks ever heard from the woman again.
#surrealism #absurdist #abstract #strangehumour #ridiculous #microfiction #microstories #minishortfiction #bizarre #strangefiction #fiction #prose #dada #surreal #nikthursday
Here's another zanily brilliant sentence: "It hadn't been that long since he'd been blackmailed by his neighbour's shrubbery, an event that was suspected to be well-orchestrated by the composite singer who lived in the basement of the Higgins' home down the street." Encountering this proposition in the text makes me feel as lucky as if I had discovered some rare, exotic flower while strolling thru the rainforest. I also love this line of the blackmail scroll: "I know that your sterling carriage used to parade around on the fringe circuit, and that you have a symphony in your elevator." And it's hilarious how the message is apparently doomed, no matter what, to be funneled toward publication in the "National Multiplier"; and I'm extremely pleased with the course that events took: If I myself ever get caught "imagining plastic" or "getting pinched by sound", I'd prefer that my scandal be "turned... into a charming short story" by Captain Tender Hooks.