I am a pure child. To me hallucinogenic is the word in the dictionary next
to hallucinogen. I wouldn't know a mind-expanding drug if you stuck a tube
up my nose, into my brain and blew into it with your skanky LSD breath. When
I answer the door to a man three quarters of the way up to my knee I have to
pussyfoot around pussyfooting around, making sure I do the right thing by
not looking like I'm trying to do the right thing; it's hard work being
natural, and I don't want to spoil all that by calling someone a
hallucination just because they're a fucking freak.
He (beard) introduced himself to me: "Sorry to bother you." Sorry, he
apologised for bothering me first, then he introduced himself to me: "I'm
Mugburn Forehead, but my friends call me a fucking freak - I think they're
joking, but there's always the fear deep within me that they really mean it,
that they really see me as nothing more than a fucking freak, despite my
best beard efforts." We shook hands, which I read as an attempt by him to
assert his domination over me by making me descend to his level, so I bent
his fingers back just a little bit. He refused to descend to my level, just
sucking up the pain and moving on - bastard. "My car's broken down," he
continued, still using his voice, "and I have to be back in heaven by 6:30
or God's gonna kill me." I am a pure child and yet this. Don't wake a
sleepwalker or they'll get cancer; don't challenge a hallucination or
they'll get violent and descend to your level. The back of my head was
rhythmically (un-un un-du-du-du-du) pummelled to the floor, the explanation
was spat into my ear.
God, so the story goes, contracted out breast designing after shouty shouty
cuntwank religious people got all shouty shouty cuntwank about a pure
supreme being having anything to do with breasts. God, so the story goes,
hates religious people, can't stand them, can't stand to listen to their
yammering, their petty pleas, their thoughtless thanks, just them. He can't
stand them, so he just ignores them, filters them away, but they kept on and
on about the breast thing, so he just walked away, contracted it out to
someone else, and got back to having a nice time. Mugburn designs breasts
for God, for women, for fat men, and then if he's got time, he'll play
around with the animals and tweak a nipple here and there. It's hard work
for someone who isn't a pure supreme being, it involves a lot of legwork,
especially if the car breaks down, hours of research, poring over books,
diagrams, prototypes, the real thing. It takes Mugburn twelve or thirteen
years to see the results of his work (sixteen or eighteen if he doesn't want
to get shouted at); he has to plan over a decade in advance, set styles,
fashions, trends, way ahead of time. God had it easy: whoomph, done; Mugburn
struggles against everything to create breasts, gets little thanks, littler
pay, littlest skeleton (no relevant reason, he just happens to be small;
you've got a fucking problem with that, you racist cunt?) It's hard for him,
but when he sees eyes light up he knows it's all been worthwhile and he
feels all warm and fuzzy inside like he's just eaten a kitten.
Blood was seeping out of my ears by this point, and I had a fucker of a
headache. Mugburn relented his attack and story and asked if he could use
the phone to call his breakdown service. Fucking painful hallucination,
y'know? Too fucking painful to try and understand anything, too fucking
painful to say no, just... just... keugh, y'know? How do you say no to a
painful hallucination or a painful breast designer for God? I am a pure
child; I let him use my phone - he said please.