“Haugh llawng haz 7his bin?”

“Hav suhme hahm.”

“2dae i7 wuhze 73h sayme azzzs yes7erdae whuze allsew…”

“Hav suhme hahm.”

“Ahy gh077 up 7his mourning, did u n0?”

“Hav suhme hahm.”

“ahy uen7 0u7side, and made 73h k0wn7.”

“Hav suhme hahm.”

“3kzak7ly, Ahy k0wn7d haugh many karz whur 0hn fyre.”

“Hav suhme hahm.”

“And d0 u n0. 3vri kar whuze 0n fyre.”

“Hav suhme hahm.”

“A5 youzhual.”

“Rhillie?”

“yes.”

It began innocently enough, first only one car was politely ablaze, but soon there were many cars possessing equally as many redundant fires. Eventually and suddenly, much to the surprise of everyone who lived with or near cars, each and every one was on fire. It was on the news and whatnot:

“This is a reporter, Willfred Winnibeaner, coming to you live from the parking lot outside my large and sizably furnished condo. At eight o’clock this morning my car is on fire and as a result I cannot be at work. Also every other car is on fire, back to you Lixxxie.”

It was just like that, actually that was a pr0n on the pr0n channels. As far as quality is concerned, it was not really that good, but Lixxxie O’suckyourself is a naked fox and a talented actress. Anyways, that story has nothing to do with the dull main character that I am going to introduce. Look there! In the next paragraph!!1

Jimothy McO’Dougalmeyersonerrysen was a dull character and a genuinely poor choice for a protagonist, regardless of his rather long and captivating name. Some used to say that he had an infectious laugh, but that is lies, it was actually a terminal disease. Jimothy is beautiful in the eyes of his permanently blind mother and some large, black men named Bubba F. Johnson about whom this story will make mention of once and then maybe again.

Bubba F. Johnson is a large black man who is actually heterosexual but has a severe and mysterious attraction to Jimothy McO’Dougalmeyersonerrysen. He tips the scales at an average weight of 253.2 metric ulbs.

So upon sleeping for thirteen days to rid himself of a post-alcohol illness that could have only been described as the worst of its variety of ailment. Jimothy waked to find his car to be missing, and on fire.

“Oh fuck this.”

He did not really say that. That was dramatized. Jimothy is actually the sort of man that some people, like his mother, would call a tightwad little goody two-shoes piece of stupid. They do not say it to his face, save for one. Face.

7

So this morning saw that little tightwad in such a mood that can be compared to the mood a rhinoceros would feel if its car were stolen and aflame. The comparison is perfect and flawless.

Jimothy knew that such a mocking blow had ne’r been dealt before to anyone. He was flabbergasted, astonished, aghast, confused, bewildered and borderline comatose all at once. As a matter of true, Jimothy had not felt quite so catatonic since the day he was stillborn. That was a terrible night, many lit candles were opened.

Jimothy was so annoyed and unawake that he could think of nothing but copulation, particularly with infamous Lixxxie this pr0nstar, O’suckyourself. He went inside to have toast. Toast and T.

Before the sentence was over Jimothy had burnt the toast, spilt the butter and tried out for the football team. Needless to say he did not make varsity, his legs were too fat. That is another story. Entirely. Although he did manage to consume fifteen metric ulbs of lye in the process.

Unwilling or unable to cope with the loss, Jimothy wiped the T off of the ground with the burnt toast and took his daily suppository. He hefted his drippy toast over to the tell-a-vision machine and proceeded to console himself with excessive hardcore pr0nography. He thrice wank’d and his lust were sated. But then the tee-vee was all like:

“We interrupt your wank4ge for this gnus. Every car is on fire!!1”

“I am previously aware! Do let me to my wankering!”

“Sorry, please carry on, sir.”

“I shall.”

“…Are you to eat that drippy toast, sir?”

“Oh goodness, no. It’s all you.”

“‘Have a fig.’”

“In return?”

“yes.”

“kay”

“gee two gee”

Jimothy cautiously handed the drippy toast to his unexpected tell-a-vision machine peddler. Suddenly from the nearby tell-a-foan machine came a ring analogous to the sound of a telephone ringing. Jimothy answered in code:

“Blue falcon, come in.”

“I am a fan of your greatest album—”

“Thank you. If I had any albums I would sign you with them.”

“—but your others are inspire me to vomit.”

“I am sorry to hear that. We must part.”

“Yes but that would be best.”

Suddenly Jimothy hung up the tell-a-foan number. He was forlorn but also joyful and mildly aroused. He missed his soggy toast but reveled in his new fig. Before the paragraph was over something happened to the fig. Jimothy ate the fig.

He missed the fig right away but there were several important issues to be dealt with. Every cars were all on fire.

Jimothy stepped outside. His house, into the snow. Before he knew what was happened the snow were melted by the fire off the many cars patrolling the streets and byways. Jimothy went for a walk, pondering such things as the nature of every car’s fire and the texture taken on by pedigreed rhinoceros fur.

Jimothy ended up, as he usually did, ‘neath the blowing willow tree, twixt the gnolls and ‘tween the brooks. ‘Twas a foggy day, suddenly, which, considering that massive amounts of snow were just melted, it made a lot of sense. Outside condition was mimsy, but pleasantly thrifty. The temperature was nearing exactly 37 metric ulbs or something.

Jimothy became seated, he was growing old. At a standard 46 metric ulbs a second he was growing a beard. Jimothy shaved his beard and it was spoken of only once more. Jimothy shaved his beard.

Plot advanced slowly and poorly. Meanwhile Kronko the snail blew out the candle and woke up.

Jimothy woke up. 17 years ago had passed by seventeen years. Jimothy had been lapsed in a time/setting hole caused by the Kronko Effect occurring at a detrimental, malignant rate in the inner area of the writer’s thinking box. He didn’t mind, it was a bad story anyways.

Jimothy found that nothing had changed in his slumber save for the sky which was now shone a polished lavender with hints of marshmallow, but that will never be mentioned again. Every car, beheld he with astonished apathy, were still upon fire. Jimothy had no time to question make, as he needed to find a new pair of trousers straight away as his old pair completely had rotted off.

Jimothy raised the stakes and brought them down with murderous intent. Tragically he killed a neighborhood schoolboy and thereby received loot. It was underpants. It was booty. Jimothy’s share of the loot was 9 metric ulbs of iron cubes. His inventory was full. He was a nerd, many dismissed him. He pedaled his wares to the market. Save for seven burning vehicles, the market was empty.

Jimothy did not know at this point that thousands of people, either as a result of or during his absence, had died horribly and unceremoniously by leaping from several planes. The reason? Every plane was on fire! Save one. Face. Every face is on fire. No, I’m just kidding.

Jimothy found, inexplicably, that only people from the markets had died in such a way. The reason? The market had crashed! It was on fire! Every market was on fire!!!1 Hundreds upon thousands of innocent lives were needlessly lost. On the other hand the plot went on pretty much without falter. Some say that it was a fine plot. That is lies.

Jimothy exited the market and found the streets to be a typical busy bustle of traffic. Only instead of cars, the traffic consisted only of people pretending to be cars. Some of these were even on fire. It was an accurate description that I just made.

Jimothy awkwardly tried to talk to one of the imagining-car-people. The person inside the “car” rolled his window down. Of course, this window was pretend. Yet still the nigh-brain-dead Jimothy was absolutely convinced that the man was actually inside a car.

“How can this car be not on fire? I must smell terribly confused in the state I have taken.”

“This car is not real,” the man responded.

“My name is Jimothy, Jimothy, Jimothy McO’Dougalmeyersonerrysen. I would like to meet you.”

“You have to make an appointment with my secretary.”

“Where is she.”

At that moment a homely woman with little or no connection to the storyline pulled up alongside them in the driver’s seat of a less convincing depiction of a car. She was not Lixxxie but was her roommate, Miramakalakapo the secretary. It was a foreign name but she was actually not a foreign name.

“Secretary, could you please schedule this man an appointment,” curtly offered the man in the car.

“At what times are you free?” she enquired of him in a tone as lilting as she was a secretary.

“Now,” softly responded the car-man, keeling over. It was as if he were weighed down by the regret of his confession. As a point of reference this man’s name was Paul, which is pronounced pah-ool. It’s not important, I just sort of needed to give him a name.

“Alright,” Miramakalakapo turned with effortlessness to stare profoundly at Jimothy before crooning: “Paul will see you now.”

“God that was a long wait,” Jimothy complained to God.

“Shut up, I hate the shit out of you,” responded God. Deeply depressed, Jimothy cried himself to death. His corpse were discovered two metric ulbs later, wrought with termites.

Thend.

7