How to write Pals
Posted: Thu Jul 21, 2005 3:57 am
It started to snow in Ontario as Darryl was shuffling down the icy sidewalk. He looked over his shoulder as he turned the corner to the street he lived on, his paranoia scratching away at the edges of his sanity. He pounded a meaty fist against a door. "Let me in mother, my toes have turned black!" There was a stirring behind the door as several bottles were knocked over. White flakes fell on Darryl's shoulders like dandruff as several locks were opened. A wild-eyed banshee stared at the man, curiously. "Fuck off!" Darryl screamed and pushed the door inwards, smashing his mother in the face.
Pouring himself a whiskey Darryl set to work on the next installment of Pals. I think I shall do something a bit more risque he thought, sipping the amber liquid. After puzzling over this for several minutes he flung the shot glass against the wall and watched the precious alchohol run down the wallpaper. There were several shouts from downstairs as the artist paced around his room, looking for inspiration.
This usually happened for several hours at each attempt of writing Pals. There was a cycle of pouring a drink, thinking of the comic and then pacing. It usually spiralled out of control into a drunken shamble downstairs to watch television and eat the stale filth his mother prepared. But tonight was different. There was a knocking on the door downstairs. Before his mother could stir from her slumber, Darrl jumped down the stairs and opened the door, glad to be freed from the shackles of writing Pals. "Wait a minute...what are you doing here?"
The vacant eyes stared at the 120 pound canadian homosexual. The form lurched into the house, his bloodied nose dripping cocaine onto the ancient floor-boards. "Atoga! Get the hell out of my house!" Saying his name seemed to stir the drug-crazed behemoth. As he opened his mouth to speak the dried vomit cracked and splinters of it rained onto the floor. "Subhuman...I've come to help you write Pals!" Darryl frowned at Atoga, at first ignoring his charity. But he decided he had nothing to lose and lead the wild man upstairs.
They both stared eagerly at the screen, hoping it would provide answers to the questions which they seeked. How to write Pals! Atoga fumbled with the last of the whiskey while Daryl simply stared into the abyss, dreaming of several acts of sodomy that may take place if enough drugs were provided. Then suddenly Atoga sprang into action. He drew crude shapes, his shaking hands trying to hold the mouse like a pen. "I can't draw Hannah! I just...can't seem to have...!" The baked stoner slumped forward, unconscious. Darryl sighed, throwing the man over his shoulder before throwing him onto a yellowing matress. He rubbed his eyes before going back to work.
It eventually stopped snowing early morning. Darryl awoke with a start, his eyes wildly looking around and a smile on his face. And then reality hit him. It seemed as though Atoga had gone and with it, his computer. Darryl sighed, picking up the empty bottle and then throwing it in the trash. He left the house without saying a word and walked down the empty streets. The virgin snow crunched under his sandals, searching for Atoga.
He eventually found him sleeping in a garden under a table. Darryl gently shook him, but he seemed to be stone cold. Dead. Next to him sat the computer with a note scrawled in what looked like feces. "I FINISH PALS". Darryl smiled, tears rolling down his face. Dragging the body across the grass he started digging. It would have to be a shallow grave, he didn't have the time. But at last he finished Pals. And that was all that mattered.
THE END
Pouring himself a whiskey Darryl set to work on the next installment of Pals. I think I shall do something a bit more risque he thought, sipping the amber liquid. After puzzling over this for several minutes he flung the shot glass against the wall and watched the precious alchohol run down the wallpaper. There were several shouts from downstairs as the artist paced around his room, looking for inspiration.
This usually happened for several hours at each attempt of writing Pals. There was a cycle of pouring a drink, thinking of the comic and then pacing. It usually spiralled out of control into a drunken shamble downstairs to watch television and eat the stale filth his mother prepared. But tonight was different. There was a knocking on the door downstairs. Before his mother could stir from her slumber, Darrl jumped down the stairs and opened the door, glad to be freed from the shackles of writing Pals. "Wait a minute...what are you doing here?"
The vacant eyes stared at the 120 pound canadian homosexual. The form lurched into the house, his bloodied nose dripping cocaine onto the ancient floor-boards. "Atoga! Get the hell out of my house!" Saying his name seemed to stir the drug-crazed behemoth. As he opened his mouth to speak the dried vomit cracked and splinters of it rained onto the floor. "Subhuman...I've come to help you write Pals!" Darryl frowned at Atoga, at first ignoring his charity. But he decided he had nothing to lose and lead the wild man upstairs.
They both stared eagerly at the screen, hoping it would provide answers to the questions which they seeked. How to write Pals! Atoga fumbled with the last of the whiskey while Daryl simply stared into the abyss, dreaming of several acts of sodomy that may take place if enough drugs were provided. Then suddenly Atoga sprang into action. He drew crude shapes, his shaking hands trying to hold the mouse like a pen. "I can't draw Hannah! I just...can't seem to have...!" The baked stoner slumped forward, unconscious. Darryl sighed, throwing the man over his shoulder before throwing him onto a yellowing matress. He rubbed his eyes before going back to work.
It eventually stopped snowing early morning. Darryl awoke with a start, his eyes wildly looking around and a smile on his face. And then reality hit him. It seemed as though Atoga had gone and with it, his computer. Darryl sighed, picking up the empty bottle and then throwing it in the trash. He left the house without saying a word and walked down the empty streets. The virgin snow crunched under his sandals, searching for Atoga.
He eventually found him sleeping in a garden under a table. Darryl gently shook him, but he seemed to be stone cold. Dead. Next to him sat the computer with a note scrawled in what looked like feces. "I FINISH PALS". Darryl smiled, tears rolling down his face. Dragging the body across the grass he started digging. It would have to be a shallow grave, he didn't have the time. But at last he finished Pals. And that was all that mattered.
THE END
