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Vex, Further Vexed
Sep. 28th, 2005 03:39 pm(This is, in some terribly vague and unimportant sense, a sequel to Vex, Vexed, from last year.)
His nostrils redolent with the pungent scent of blood and toner ink, Delmar Vex returned to his office, determined to write up the results of his latest experiment in such a way that it would bring fame and fortune, or at least famous and fortunate women, hurtling like inexplicably gaseous daschunds in his general direction. Toward that end, he was trying to figure out how to avoid mentioning the giant sloth and its angry comments about the sudden disappearance of its 'Sex and the City' DVD collection, and thus distracted, he entirely failed to notice that he was not in his office in New York but was, in fact, in a rundown bar in Lumbar, Wisconsin.
"Janice!" he bellowed. "Take a letter!"
There were three other entities in the bar. One was a dog. One was a massive transcendent entity completely imperceptible to humans, only present because it felt like slumming. One was a bartender. None was named Janice, and none moved to take any letters from Vex. Vex was vexed.
"A letter!" Vex bellowed again. "Must be taken! The scientific world must be made to know... things! Things that it was not meant to know!"
"Like what?" the bartender-not-named-Janice asked, as he took down the shotgun from where it was mounted on the wall (just above the eerie and disturbing freeze-dried body of Spuds MacKenzie).
"I cannot speak of them!" Vex replied. His emotions were bouncing around in his head with the fury of pit bulls, the speed of cheetahs, the grace of dugongs, and the prurient interest of Baptists. He was in a state, he realized, where he might do something terrible, such as consume a 'light' beer.
"If you can't speak of them," the dog-also-not-and-we-can't-stress-this-enough-not-named-Janice asked, "why do you want to dictate a letter?"
This, as was the case with so many questions posed to him by beings without any discernible jaw structure that would allow the English language to be spoken, was a question Vex could not answer. To cover his hideously shaming lack of knowledge, he blustered a bit more. When it was clear that blustering had no effect, he tried fancying a bit.
"Go away," the bartender told Vex, punctuating his words with a blast from his shotgun. Vex, who had never seen a shotgun blast used to make a comma, applauded as he ran out of the bar.
In the end, Vex got what he wanted. Well, actually, he got run over by Jessica Alba on a motorcycle, but it was close enough for him.
His nostrils redolent with the pungent scent of blood and toner ink, Delmar Vex returned to his office, determined to write up the results of his latest experiment in such a way that it would bring fame and fortune, or at least famous and fortunate women, hurtling like inexplicably gaseous daschunds in his general direction. Toward that end, he was trying to figure out how to avoid mentioning the giant sloth and its angry comments about the sudden disappearance of its 'Sex and the City' DVD collection, and thus distracted, he entirely failed to notice that he was not in his office in New York but was, in fact, in a rundown bar in Lumbar, Wisconsin.
"Janice!" he bellowed. "Take a letter!"
There were three other entities in the bar. One was a dog. One was a massive transcendent entity completely imperceptible to humans, only present because it felt like slumming. One was a bartender. None was named Janice, and none moved to take any letters from Vex. Vex was vexed.
"A letter!" Vex bellowed again. "Must be taken! The scientific world must be made to know... things! Things that it was not meant to know!"
"Like what?" the bartender-not-named-Janice asked, as he took down the shotgun from where it was mounted on the wall (just above the eerie and disturbing freeze-dried body of Spuds MacKenzie).
"I cannot speak of them!" Vex replied. His emotions were bouncing around in his head with the fury of pit bulls, the speed of cheetahs, the grace of dugongs, and the prurient interest of Baptists. He was in a state, he realized, where he might do something terrible, such as consume a 'light' beer.
"If you can't speak of them," the dog-also-not-and-we-can't-stress-this-enough-not-named-Janice asked, "why do you want to dictate a letter?"
This, as was the case with so many questions posed to him by beings without any discernible jaw structure that would allow the English language to be spoken, was a question Vex could not answer. To cover his hideously shaming lack of knowledge, he blustered a bit more. When it was clear that blustering had no effect, he tried fancying a bit.
"Go away," the bartender told Vex, punctuating his words with a blast from his shotgun. Vex, who had never seen a shotgun blast used to make a comma, applauded as he ran out of the bar.
In the end, Vex got what he wanted. Well, actually, he got run over by Jessica Alba on a motorcycle, but it was close enough for him.
