Appleseed
I snap awake suddenly. The lecture hall is filled with sleeping bodies snoring away merrily. I pop a Benzedrine tablet and raise a wary hand. 'Yes?' asks a startled Hugo Muffington showing a hideous smile- crooked, discoloured teeth, receding gums.
'Was something just said?' I blurt out, still groggy from sleep.
'Poisoned Apple? Is that what you're Mmm-mmm asking about?'
'Yeah. I guess. I think I read about it somewhere...'
'Nonsense.' replies Muffington dismissively, 'It's not something civilians would generally read about. If, indeed, you do read at all.'
'I...read.' I reply, huffily.
'Look, son,' begins Finnegan Roquefort, bloated whale carcass and head of CIA operations, Europe, 'What my esteemed colleague is trying to say is; "Not Fucking Likely". May I?' he gestures towards the podium. Sir Muffington nods and takes a step backwards with his stilt-like legs.
'Thanks Muffins. Alls that's being said, son, is that Poisoned Apple is a fictitious secret society as far as we can tell. Ah have enough trouble dealing with wackos who talk about the Templars, Bavarian Illuminati, Elders of Zion, the Priori de Sion, Discordians, sinister phone companies, etcetera, etcetera that Ah don't want to have to deal with another group of losers who are out to rule the world or gain immortality or whatever. Why do they bother claiming that they are pulling the strings? We are the ones riding black helicopters. That's it. Period. Nobody else but us chickens.' He sips rum. Burps.
'Where were we? Right, Poisoned Apple. So, Leopold Grimshawe, a.k.a. the Alchemist, gets mighty interested in this fictitious-' he locks eyes with me,'-secret society that's supposedly been around since the 1600's. Due to him sniffing copious amounts of glue. Due to dormant crazy genes. Whatever. He gets interested enough that he starts recruiting from both agencies unbeknownst to us at this stage. Smart guys too. By '75 he's constantly going back and forth between the two agencies-simply unheard of usually- but since it's the Alchemist we're talking 'bout he gets complete carte blanche more or less. In '81 he writes papers, shoots it to the cigar-chompin' higher ups who give him the okay to go ahead with a project called FIFTH HORSEMAN. Now I, to this very day, do not have the authorisation to know what this super duper project is about. Folks talk about it in hushed tones like it's supposed to be the end of all our troubles- as if there is such a goddamn thing.' Sip. Burp.
'Grimshawe starts an intensive search across the globe for a particular liberry...'
'Liberry?'
'Where they keep books dunderhead! A Lah-berry! Supposed to have books (or scrolls Ah guess) that were apparently soggy from when Atlantis sunk, books saved from Nazis literature bonfires, papers smuggled from the Vatican, etcetera. Looks all over the globe, in every country, down crumbling alleyways and in places unmarked in maps. Zip. Meanwhile the Agency ain't getting much results from their former Em Vee Pee. Where's FIFTH HORSEMAN? they keep askin' him. Constantly knocking on his door. Grimshawe loses his temper one day and rips one of the bosses' arms off. He calmly packs his things and then leaves to parts unknown.' Sip. Burp.
'He pops up briefly from time to time. In Prague. In Hanoi, In Marrakech, In Melbourne. Never for long. No discernible pattern. Still lookin' for his stupid Liberry presumably. Along the way he kills a couple of dozen of our guys as well as SIS folks. Just 'cos he don't like being looked at. But as of 15:00 hours last Wednesday we have gathered his location. And we will set a trap for 'im. Yes indeedy.'
Raised in Captivity,
Fatman
'Was something just said?' I blurt out, still groggy from sleep.
'Poisoned Apple? Is that what you're Mmm-mmm asking about?'
'Yeah. I guess. I think I read about it somewhere...'
'Nonsense.' replies Muffington dismissively, 'It's not something civilians would generally read about. If, indeed, you do read at all.'
'I...read.' I reply, huffily.
'Look, son,' begins Finnegan Roquefort, bloated whale carcass and head of CIA operations, Europe, 'What my esteemed colleague is trying to say is; "Not Fucking Likely". May I?' he gestures towards the podium. Sir Muffington nods and takes a step backwards with his stilt-like legs.
'Thanks Muffins. Alls that's being said, son, is that Poisoned Apple is a fictitious secret society as far as we can tell. Ah have enough trouble dealing with wackos who talk about the Templars, Bavarian Illuminati, Elders of Zion, the Priori de Sion, Discordians, sinister phone companies, etcetera, etcetera that Ah don't want to have to deal with another group of losers who are out to rule the world or gain immortality or whatever. Why do they bother claiming that they are pulling the strings? We are the ones riding black helicopters. That's it. Period. Nobody else but us chickens.' He sips rum. Burps.
'Where were we? Right, Poisoned Apple. So, Leopold Grimshawe, a.k.a. the Alchemist, gets mighty interested in this fictitious-' he locks eyes with me,'-secret society that's supposedly been around since the 1600's. Due to him sniffing copious amounts of glue. Due to dormant crazy genes. Whatever. He gets interested enough that he starts recruiting from both agencies unbeknownst to us at this stage. Smart guys too. By '75 he's constantly going back and forth between the two agencies-simply unheard of usually- but since it's the Alchemist we're talking 'bout he gets complete carte blanche more or less. In '81 he writes papers, shoots it to the cigar-chompin' higher ups who give him the okay to go ahead with a project called FIFTH HORSEMAN. Now I, to this very day, do not have the authorisation to know what this super duper project is about. Folks talk about it in hushed tones like it's supposed to be the end of all our troubles- as if there is such a goddamn thing.' Sip. Burp.
'Grimshawe starts an intensive search across the globe for a particular liberry...'
'Liberry?'
'Where they keep books dunderhead! A Lah-berry! Supposed to have books (or scrolls Ah guess) that were apparently soggy from when Atlantis sunk, books saved from Nazis literature bonfires, papers smuggled from the Vatican, etcetera. Looks all over the globe, in every country, down crumbling alleyways and in places unmarked in maps. Zip. Meanwhile the Agency ain't getting much results from their former Em Vee Pee. Where's FIFTH HORSEMAN? they keep askin' him. Constantly knocking on his door. Grimshawe loses his temper one day and rips one of the bosses' arms off. He calmly packs his things and then leaves to parts unknown.' Sip. Burp.
'He pops up briefly from time to time. In Prague. In Hanoi, In Marrakech, In Melbourne. Never for long. No discernible pattern. Still lookin' for his stupid Liberry presumably. Along the way he kills a couple of dozen of our guys as well as SIS folks. Just 'cos he don't like being looked at. But as of 15:00 hours last Wednesday we have gathered his location. And we will set a trap for 'im. Yes indeedy.'
Raised in Captivity,
Fatman
posted by Fatman | 2:12 pm
5 Comments:
Piglet! I haven't heard peep from you since you left for Ireland. The CIA thing was due to boredom mainly but now I'm pretty wrapped up in it. It's a tad long (don't I know it) but it's going to lead into future projects and also tie in to the cloned Jesus saga. Somehow.
And I'm going to illustrate it. Yawn will distribute it (in mysterious ways), and Fatman will spend the rest of his days under heavy surveillance. Or was that sedation? I forget.
Anyway, keep going...
Couple of posts still left to go. I don't mind being sedated and under surveillance- it'd be Big Brother on lithium.
(From Home Surveillance! a new Reality show based on the life of Yours Truly):
10:05- Target is approaching the fridge.
10:11- Target at fridge. Looking confused.
10:23- Target has removed lasagna from fridge. He just looks at it. Possibly contemplating re-heating it or just eating it cold.
It's these intimate glimpses into your lifestyle that keep me coming back, Fatman. Well, them and that fantastic Random Surrealism Generator of yours.
Broadzilla- Can't really claim the Random Surrealism Generator as my own. I found it here and thought it would make a nice addition to Fat Ramblings. The reactions have been fairly mixed however as some of my friend who read the blog but never comment (they do exist. Honest Injun!) have told me that it looks craptastic.
Piglet- (For anyone else reading this far: Piglet had to ditch her previous blog after it was hijacked by a serial masturbator called Spanky)
The dilemma I tend to face is that if I write about what's going on in my life all the time it gets fairly repetitive and mundane very quickly. If I write about things like the cloning of Jesus or my life as a CIA pawn I find that it prevents me from writing about something that may have happened to me that week. So I try to alternate it every once in a while. (Some have suggested that I get myself another blog page for my purerly fictitious work. It seems like too much of a hassle) The current storyline got its genesis from an offhanded comment I made on this post about what it would be like to be an accountant working for a spy agency. I then thought that it would be fun to have the CIA depicted as surfer/frat boys who spend their days trying to get laid. Added to that is the secret society- the Poisoned Apple- that will feature prominently in a later blog post/s.
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