Don’t try to pull a fast one on us, obrkybmiy. We weren’t born yesterday! We happen to know that ‘aid’ means to pay tax to a queen. Well, you can just go back and tell your Queen Google that we haven’t sold enough of our books yet to be able to pay taxes to her digital majesty! Feh! — Tati & Tony (Desperate Seekers of a Skilled Tax Consultant)
or: EPISODE 8 // Where Tati Refuses to be the Mother of Mutants and Tony Pouts
In our previous episode, Tati and Tony discussed the state-of-the-art hamster porno industry, and proved that no one should buy super secret weapons from James Bond’s personal arsenal in a pedestrian subway in Uryupinsk.
“Please, don’t be a drama queen” growled Tati. “Or I will drop you.”
Suddenly, Tony stopped short. His eyes were as wide as hubcaps, then he began to gasp like a fish in a glass of tequila. He was clearly trying to speak, but couldn’t, mouthing the words instead. In fact, he was trying to draw Tati’s attention to something that was right next to them. Tati raised her eyes from his face to whatever had suddenly blocked the sun.
“What… what the holy, blue, actual huge fuck?!”
And that’s when the whale swallowed them. That’s right. A whale in the sky. A sky whale. It had flippers and it was flying.
Tati and Tony tumbled down the whale’s windpipe for what seemed like forever. There were lots of wet plops and bounces all the way down, until their moustaches and hats disappeared and they were coated with thick layers of saliva. They finally came to a stop in a giant chamber full of a bubbly liquid that was caustic to the touch. Tati clambered up a fleshy protrusion, dragging a hapless Tony with her.
“Shit.” Tati looked down at herself. Her clothes had completely disintegrated and dropped right off of her. She looked at Tony. Him too.
“I am ashamed!” squeaked Tony, immediately hiding his very tiny manhood behind one hand. The other hand was covering his face.
“Well, at least the umbrella’s still okay,” sighed Tati. She didn’t feel the need to comfort her friend in his time of emotional need. There were more pressing concerns.
Suddenly, Tony dropped his hand to reveal a faraway look on his face. “Adam and Eve,” he whispered. “We’re like… you know, Adam and Eve!”
Tati looked at him as if he was a complete, Old Testament bedlamite. She snorted derisively.
“Well… I may not be a Bible maniac,” she said, “but I do believe the ‘Jonah’ analogy is more appropriate here.”
Tony pouted. Obviously, in his wacky mind they’d already been through the Fall, and were ready to provide the whale’s innards with future generations of sticky, mutant inhabitants.
“Fine,” muttered Tony. “Then let’s get the hell out of here!”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Tati, cocking her head to one side. She was studying the umbrella with renewed interest.
Tony noticed this. “What?”
“This umbrella has a special function. I just don’t know if it’s safe to activate it inside the belly of a flying whale.”
“What does it do?”
Tati glanced at her pathetic friend, then realised something awful. He was bald. The bubbly liquid stuff had eaten away Tony’s beautiful long hair. And his eyebrows. And, presumably, his pubes? In fact, there was not a single jot of hair left on his entire body!
“Why are you patting your head?”
Tati ignored his question, alarmed that she no longer had hair either. Nowhere, actually. She had hair nowhere. What the freaking fuck…
“Well, it looks like I no longer care if it’s safe to activate the special umbrella inside a whale.”
And before Tony could protest, Tati pressed a button on the handle. The umbrella flared wider than before. Sparks flew from its tip and canvas edges, sending what looked like streams of fireworks into the walls of the whale’s insides and gloop. Then everything around them grew brighter and brighter…
Okay, are you scared now? Yes? Now you know how we felt. We were so scared when we saw how many amazing submissions there were for the previous instalment of Open-Source Poetry! How on earth were we going to pick just one to add to this new lyrical masterpiece? It wasn’t going to be easy.
So, after a great many incantations over blood-soaked prayer beads ripped from the entrails of a satanically depressed gerbil, we eventually settled on Munira Ezzi’s sparkling contribution. Well… we’re kidding, of course. How could we rely on silly bloody incantations? Only a coin toss would do. (Although we do find it rather strange that the results matched.) Anyway, her lines felt like such a logical progression from what had gone before, so we ended up agreeing with the aforementioned incantations and coin toss outcome. How could we not use her contribution?
Now, if you would like us to agonise over your contributions for the next part of this poem in a similar fashion, we suggest you pay attention to the following rules:
1) Read the current version of this communal poetic effort below, and marvel at how scarily good it is (or is that goodily scary?). Then submit your own line or two for our consideration. 2) If we like your line (or two) the best, we’ll add it to the poem, then we’ll publish said result in a follow-up post. 3) Then you keep submitting frightening wordage aplenty in an attempt to chill us to the bone some more! 4) And so the whole process of submission and rejection is repeated until we finally have a horrifying new masterpiece!
PS: For those who may still be recovering from their New Years hangover, we remind them of the topic to the poem… It’s in the style of a good ol’ horror movie!
hm, what should I draw?
maybe a hairy monster with a furry claw
or a demon crow that sticks in the craw
or a huge bloodstained saw
hm, what should I write?
maybe a slow growl will stir up a fright
or a girl will be twirled by a meat-eating kite
or grandma pole-dances in a bikini too tight