The Aftermath: Part One
Well, I am happy to say that my 'little surprise' worked out really well. The reanimated corpse of Chopper picked me up in his, er, rotary bladed flying machine a little before 1500hrs and we flew into The Greater Baltimore Area including the Harbour just after 1700hrs.
No, obviously not all the way from Australia. Australia is an absurd liberal myth. I flew in from the deep state secret experimental base where a bunch of highly paid hippie porn actors are paid to spend our days wearing underwear on our feet and torture innocent vowels. I can't tell you exactly where, because then I would have to send in our elite squad of highly trained thylarctos plummetus (ursus procidens) to kill you.
We forced the pilot at gunpoint to land behind the sex shop on Terror Gulch Lane because I needed to do some preparatory shopping. I am looking forward to the start of the Anal Bead Quest next week. Then we continued up the hill to my friend Behr's house. I knew him at once because his trousers have been modified extensively to accommodate the extra eggs. Also because he was engaged in suspicious sexual activity with Brandon Hitler, who of course I knew from our time at the deep state secret experimental training school days in the 1990s which was the last decade of real music before autotune destroyed the purity of our souls forever.
It quickly became apparent that organising a Nazi Nodermeet on the budget of a fully tenured professor of ethics is an exercise in thriftiness. All the waitstaff were 'borrowed' from friend Behr's construction site and I must say I do not think a single one of them has professional training in the necessary skills of cockatil making or oral sex that make a cocktail hour the pleasure it should be. Also, whatever those drinks were in the coconuts smelled like week old-- well, it does no good to complain and I certainly never do so. That waiter named 'Steve' insisted he was in fact an invited guest but I could tell by his facial hair that he had never seen the inside of a Catbox (a term some of the old people like to use) and I insisted that he continue to keep me entertained, he was indeed hung even if he wasn't well trained, but as I said I never complain. 'Steve' also never complains, and that may be due to reanimated corpse of Chopper holding a gun to his head, but I don't try to psychoanalyse people I intend to kill in the next paragraph.
Unfortunately I missed the guided tour of the Bible and Constitution Theme Park because I was in the basement with Brandon Hitler's PR Manager and a noder named 'Cathy"" as we had an item of urgent business to attend to. While listening to Behr's lecture I realised that Brandon is in fact the middle name of Chopper as well as the first name of Brandon Hitler and I realised that there was a subplot afoot. Is Brandon Hitler the long lost love child of Chopper? Or is Chopper the long lost love child of Brandon Hitler? It's very hard to tell these days on account of 'safe schools' being taught to impressionable youths and fucking up the space-time continuum in a way that may or may not be homosexual in nature.
Clearly there was only one way to deal with this potentially deadly subplot and that was with costumes. Halloween was invented so that adults can dress in lingerie and go out in public without being accused of anything worse than a terrible hunger for candy. The three of us - myself, the noder named "Cathy' and Brandon Hitler's personal secretary (a job title that old people used to refer to as 'PR Manager') have the bodies of weak and weebl women and would therefore be vulnerable later on when Chopper started the drinking games. We needed to act.
Because I was distracted, I had forgotten to kill 'Steve'. I pointed out that in my exquisite mercy he had lived an extra two paragraphs but he still cried as I dispatched him mercifully using Chopper's gun (#MAGA). I was annoyed because his face was now swollen from crying, but it was all I had so I used my deep state secret experimental training to remove his face and his hangings, preserve them as a form of leather, and fashion them into a costume. In my new disguise as Crying Steve I knew that I would be able to penetrate the mysteries of Brandon and Chopper before lights out. If I was lucky, I would also be able to penetrate a few other things as well.
In my new disguise I returned to the 'party' in time for a rousing game of Eat Poop You Jet, a game that allows the players to pass secret messages to each other using the simple means of drawing with pictograms and/or letters that can indicate to others the nature of an emergency. I attempted to send messages to the professor (a fully tenured professor of ethics and good friend to our dear leader codename Trumplestiltskin). We passed the paper as well as the bong (I have a prescription) to the left in accordance with the Marquess of Queensbury Rules as laid down by my own dear friend the late Freiherr von Richthofen (Manfred) who was also attending the party but has not been mentioned before.
So when I had my turn with the piece of paper I carefully wrote the message
Friend Behr this is a trap!
and passed it to the weasel on my right. The weasel drew on the paper and passed it on to Behr.
"A teddy on a spaceship with a mouse," read Behr.
The weasel was perhaps not the ideal choice of teammate.
I tried again.
Chopper is the long lost lovechild of Brandon Hitler!
As I handed the paper over I glared at the hairless ass weasel to express my strong preference that its drawings more accurately reflect the content of this very important message, but all the weasel saw was the face of Crying Steve.
"Helicopter fucking a baby with a moustache" read Behr, chortling his old man chortle. Honestly, for a fully tenured professor of ethics at a major university this guy was not impressing me with his ability to think figuratively.
I glared again at the weasel, this time to express my contempt for all men including crying Steve. The weasel glared back at me, with a look in its beady red eye that clearly told me that the weasel was reflecting on the difficulty of learning how to draw or indeed play parlour games during its formative years which were of course spent in the rectum of our friend (Behr).
It was useless. I would have to try Plan B.
I used Crying Steve's noticable (hung) appendage (now hung from my own trousers) to attract the attention of the noder called 'Cathy'. I then used the appendage (hung) to send a message in semaphore to 'Cathy" telling her to create a diversion. As a female, Cathy was suitably dressed for Halloween in lingerie and impractical (but not Australian) footwear and she was able to create a distraction (diversion) by running through the room screaming, before tripping on her impractical footwear (heel) and being brutally murdered by a man with a suspiciously steely exterior.
Meanwhile, as Cathy ("Cathy") created her distraction I used my leet ninja skills learned at the Pine Gap Academy For Superior Young Ladies to dive over the swollen head of the hairless ass weasel to land next to the professor.
"Professor!" I shouted as loudly as I could, remembering that not only is he in his eighties but his hearing was permanently damaged during the war, "I have to rescue you! The future of the Bible and Constitution Theme Park depends on it!"
I grabbed the professor, which he very much enjoyed although we were a little pressed for time. I could already hear the sounds of the former Paul Manafort Investigation Team arriving to take him into custody. I didn't wait for the professor to finish but threw him over my shoulder (currently disguised as Crying Steve's shoulder and therefore capable of carrying heavy loads) and ran for the stairs, pausing only to grab a cocktail in a coconut. As soon as we had reached the third floor second guest bathroom I stopped to explain my theories. "*** * **** ******* to the ******** *** ** ***** ****," I said, "********* ***** **** ********** ** * ****** *** * ******* in case the deep state try to censor *** **** ******* *** * *** * ** ****. So I told Cathy that she would need to create a distraction and here we are!"
Downstairs I could hear that Chopper and Book Reader were announcing the winners of Eat Poop You Jet. Things were getting desperate. Luckily I had concealed about my person a strap-on (size large with mouse ears) and three metres of black silk Japanese bondage rope, which I used to tie up the professor. His last words before I gagged him (size large with mouse ears) were, "...and then we can sail away to Key Largo."
"Just like Bogey and Bacall," I promised, shifting the rotting corpses of the house's previous occupants aside to make room in the wardrobe for my friend Behr. "I even know a doctor in Key Largo who can still be trusted in these dark post-Obama days." I smiled lovingly as I closed the door on him, and climbed out the window.
nemo est supra leges