Blort blort fnerk.
Blort blort fnerk.
Marian Wesley and Silence Waters decided to go camping together. It was fall; it was cold out but very beautiful because the cold weather caused the leaves of the trees to turn to all sorts of abnormally brilliant colors, reds and golds and oranges. They lived fairly near a set of mountains in which there was located a good number of government-managed campgrounds, in state or national parks or forest service areas or wilderness preserves, and so they set a date on which Marian would ride his bike over to Silence's apartment, put his bike inside her apartment, and then he and her would take their stuff and themselves and put them into Silence's car and then drive out to the mountains to the national forest Forest Service campground where they were intending to be staying that night, which is to say the night that they had set for the first of their camping expedition, out across the mountain pass and then up the skirts of the mountains on the other side and then back into the mountains along a long and winding dirt or gravel road which went for miles and miles and miles but actually had no outlet nor civilisation located anywhere along its course. If, while they were driving along this long and winding dirt or gravel road and something happened to go wrong with the car, such as it having run out of gas or the car having got a flat tire, which Silence did not have a spare replacement for in that event, then the two would be stranded in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by hostile animals and with no way of getting food or shelter or assistance for their poor troubled automobile - but worst of all, they would be stranded miles from the nearest bathroom. Which would be a bad thing. But of course nothing would go wrong with the car along that long and winding dirt or gravel road with no outlet and the two of them would arrive at their camping destination without incident, safely, and have a good and fun and happy and romantic weekend out among the trees with a lovely Forest Service pit toilet only a few dozen feet away from their campsite.
I'm sorry, I oughtn't to mention the presence of bathrooms - waste disposal facilities, if you will - or the necessity thereof so explicitly - such a behaviour isn't usually considered a good and ladylike behaviour in most polite social circles. However, I am only attempting to add a touch of much-needed realism to the tragic little tale of mine, all right? I mean, come on now! It's only freaks like you folks who don't eat or drink and plants and fungi and microbes who don't need some means of sanitarily and modestly disposing of the waste products of their bodies' digestive processes, and among most civilised persons such a place as a bathroom, be it a biffy (a Bathroom In the Forest For You) or a bidet (actually, I lied - that's not for waste disposal, it's just a weird French invention that I kind of tend to find disgusting myself, though my uncle claims to like the fresh clean feeling such a device apparently imparts - which is probably - nay, definitely - way the hell more than you or anybody else, myself included, ever wanted to know about my uncle or anybody else), being a walled enclosure for the deposition and removal of human wastes in a sanitary and modest fashion, is a necessity for life. Except when backpacking or wilderness camping, but that's beside the point and I've gone on way the hell to long on this rude and digusting topic, and needlessly, too! Gah! Just- just listen to the story, okay? Don't be a five-year-old dumbass, okay? Jeez louise.
Her name was Silence, Silence Waters. She was not old, but again neither was she particularly young. She was one of those people whose age cannot be accurately guessed at, not from their appearance and not from their bearing, not from their demeanour and not from their speech. A person might even call her ageless, but that would suggest that she was some kind of peculiar mutant who neither aged nor grew old and died, and who probably didn't eat or drink either, and may even have been able to read minds and possibly even to control the weather, but such a suggestion would be both absurd and erroneous. Silence Waters was merely a normal female human like you or me (unless you happen to be male, or an alien, or an abnormal human, in which case I do apologise for making such a rude and unfounded assumption as to your nature - I didn't mean to be a bigot or anything, and really I am very sorry - please forgive me), and she ate food just like you or me (unless of course you happen to be some kind of a freak like, ahem ahem, cough cough, in which case I repeat the apologetic message given in the preceding set of rounded brackets - parentheses, I mean - that's what they're called - parentheses) and got older just like you and I (unless you don't age, which although peculiar is a state of being to which I am entirely open and have even a good amount of respect for, and in which case that same apologetic thingy of two sets of parentheses or brackets or whatever earlier is repeated for your benefit), and, eventually, she would die. But to look upon her one would have some good deal of difficulty in attempting to pin down exactly how old she actually was to within a few decades. She had grey-brown hair - mousy brown, some call it, because apparently that is the color of the fur of some particular variety of mouse, though which variety it is escapes me. Her hair had a rather obnoxious tendency to frizz out easily, and so for this reason she most often wore it in a tight bun at the back of her head in the manner that the scary nanny from the original version of The Omen wore her hair, or the German lady Frau Blucher from Mel Brooks' film Young Frankenstein, or pretty much any stereotypical spinster, schoolteacher, nanny, seamstress, upright German lady, or turn of the century ma'am tends to wear her hair in a Hollywood production. This look, however, fit Silence quite well. She always got more heads turning in her direction when she wore her hair in a bun as opposed to when she wore it down, or in a ponytail, or in a braid, or in pigtails, or loose and flowing with a headband to keep it out of her eyes. Also it kept her hair from frizzing, which she didn't like her hair to do, so naturally she preferred it.
Silence Waters worked at the high school downtown, filing away books and old paperwork and checking children in to the school nurse's office and even occasionally playing at being a substitute teacher when all of the regular substitute teachers seemed to have made a pact amongst themselves to make themselves as scarce and unreachable as possible just when flu season had struck and all of the normal teachers were being struck down ill on the left and on the right and so the school needed to find substitute teachers more than ever to fill up the many myriads of flu-induced teacher voids. She had a car, but it was old and loud and the muffler was breaking and the brakes squeaked something awful, and they only squeaked worse when the weather was wet and it rained. Her car was blue, but a person could hardly tell to look at it, what with all of the rusty spots and corroded spots and the bleached out spots from when some random graffiti artist had decided that her beat-up old car would be the perfect surface on which to spray his tag in neon orange paint - his tag being the word "fuck" in huge avant-garde block letters - and then she'd had to wash it off, but her car's paint had come off with the letters, so she'd had to take off a bunch of the car's paint, too, in order to make sure that the ugly white patches the cleaning solution left behind in its wake were simply amorphous blobs and didn't still spell out the word "fuck" in huge block letters or cursive or any other kind of letters at all. It had worked - the white spots didn't spell out the word "fuck" any longer - but she had been obligated to remove about half of the paint from her car in order to make certain of this. Silence Waters thus developed a sort of vendetta against graffiti artists after that, but as this peculiar interest or hobby or whatever of hers has actually no bearing on the plot of this anecdote (and there is one, rest assured - a plot, I mean - it simply hasn't had an opportunity to evidence itself as of the moment) I do not intend that we should go into any further detail about it. Slip it from your mind; it means naught, naught at all.
Silence Waters had taken tap dance as a child for exactly one year, ballet for exactly one year, gymnastics for exactly one year, ice skating for one year and swim lessons for one year, and piano lessons for one year (these were all different years, too, mind you - she was never taking two extracurricular classes at one time). She had then discovered the guitar, which she found she had been given an extreme passion for, and after taking guitar lessons for exactly one year, she continued to take guitar lessons until she felt that she had sufficiently mastered the use of the instrument to entertain herself, and others on occasion, with it. Her guitar was acoustic, painted black, and was bought in a junk shop for ten dollars when she was eleven years old by her parents, Jim and Molly Waters. Her mother's maiden name was Doran. Her social security number was lost before she knew it by heart and so was never memorised. Her debit card's pin number was 2242. She did not like the taste of avocados and avoided them as if they were carriers of the bubonic plague. Her eyes were blue.
Marian Wesley was Silence's boyfriend, or significant other, if you will. Marian was in his middle twenties - twenty-six, to be exact - and had floppy blonde hair with natural highlights which he detested because he thought they made him look too much like a gay rocker and a member of a teenage boy band like the Backstreet Boys or N*Sync, both of whom he had always hated and despised with as much fervor as that with which his girlfriend, Silence Waters, avoided avocados. He said that he had green eyes, but really they were kind of muddy yellow-brown - Mexican water, his friend Felipe called it with a hearty laugh. Felipe was from Ireland. Marian rode his bike to work, but he had it tuned up once every two months and so made certain that his breaks were always properly adjusted, not worn down, and in otherwise altogether good shape, thus hoping to avoid, except if he happened to be hit by the least probable fluke accident, which he didn't happen to be, a situation in which he found himself, like the unfortunate biker of our earlier runaway metaphor, racing down a wet winding hill in the dark before the dawn without any breaks or batteries in his bike light, whose batteries he made certain to always keep well-charged. His bike was a Cannondale, and it was blue.
Marian met Silence at a poetry reading in a small cafe on the south side of downtown. The poem that was being read was of particularily bad quality, and in the act of rolling their eyes Silence's and Marian's eyes met and locked into each other and the next thing you know they were both going to poetry readings and art shows and live music performances together with a startling amount of frequency, and they were also almost constantly holding hands, as well as kissing in public places and nuzzling each other's necks and doind all kinds of other stupid things like that, which are called Needless Public Displays of Emotion, or "get a room"s, in public places. Obviously the two were quite violently in love.
Marian didn't own a car. Silence didn't own a bike.
These little anecdotes are just not even remotely related at all, are they? Not a one of them has anything to do with the others, has it? I think that the problem is that National Novel Writing Month has tainted my writing with its "Fit as Many Words into as Little a Space as You Can" stain, so that merely due to the fact that the document in which I am typing this nonsense happens to be called by "nano07" and happens to have been choked full of junk writing from the very first day and initiation of this contest like a clear pristine subterranean glacial stream into which a dump truck has dropped, like a bear making a diarrheal excretory deposit on some poor woodsman's car, its entire load of garbage - rotten vegetables, rancid milk, dirty diapers, feminine protection products, used contraceptive aids, broken glass bottles that originally held cheap alcohol, dust-filled vacuum bags and all the like, it has been polluted. So, in other words, I am attempted, by way of my recent skipping between these many unconnected incidents, to figuratively remove all of this figurative foulness and garbage from the figurative stream of my writing. Which is to say, in still other words, that I am currently attempting to backpedal and start over, like a bicyclist, racing down that awful steep winding hill a little north of here that I used to have to go down in the early early morning to get to an 8.30 am chemistry class when I used to ride my bike to school at six in the morning in the freezing cold and the pitch black dark that makes you need to have a light on your bike not so much to let the cars and other bikers and pedestrians know that you're coming but even more just so that you can see the road in front of you as you make your way and the wet rainy slippery awfulness that follows a night of downpouring water, who has just discovered that he has no brakes any longer because they have been cut by some undesirable element of a person who has it in for the bicyclist or else he simply let his breaks wear down because he kept meaning to change them, which is to say to get the brake pads replaced, but he kept just never getting around to doing it and procrastinating and so on until, on this fateful pitch dark morning, he realised that it was too late, because now he's careering down a slick winding road in the dark with cars coming out of everywhere and with speedbumps and potholes and stupid raised ridges of pavement intended to direct the flow of the water that runs down the hill at breakneck speeds, like our friend the bicyclist is now running at, during rainstorms. And then the bicyclist's bike light runs out of batteries and it flickers off and then he crashes and dies and-
Okay, sorry, but that metaphor got just a little bit carried away, wouldn't you agree? Good, because if you couldn't agree then I'm afraid I'd have to tell you that you're a freak. But you agreed, so that's okay. Anyhow. Moving on already.
How about a little bit of trash cleanup, eh? Metaphorically speaking, of course. Or was it figuratively speaking? Oh well, whatever. You get the idea.
Dear Lord, make it stop.
That was what Deneb Blookoblooko D'Bink D'Bonk D'Bank Ganooda Fronsniggle Bing-Tog Fliggitypuss Pop Snot Morglepookie - also known as Kevin - was thinking when the cassette tape finished playing out the silence at its end on Side B and switched back to its start on Side A and began to play over again what it had been playing in an endless horrible continuous loop for the past three days, or maybe it had been months, or maybe it had been years, or maybe it had only been a few hours, or maybe it had been even less than that - but the truth was that he simply couldn't tell because the cassette tape's contents had caused him to lose all sense of time and being and existence and consciousness and volition and defiance and sentience and so on and so forth.
What has caused poor Kevin to find himself in such a desperate predicament as all of this, you may ask? Well, in that case, I shall tell you. You see, poor Kevin happened to be the Chief Executive Officer, or CEO, of a Big and Powerful Company called Big and Powerful Company, or BPC for short - not to be confused with the British Petroleum Corporation, which did not exist in this time and place, or at least not within Kevin's experience, but did however happen to have the same initials as his own Big and Powerful Company, and which was, like Kevin's company, also a Big and Powerful Company, at least in its own time and place, if not in Kevin's experience. Because Kevin - also known as Deneb Blookoblooko D'Bink D'Bonk D'Bank Ganooda Fronsniggle Bing-Tog Fliggitypuss Pop Snot Morglepookie - jeez louise but I love the copy and paste features on these new-fangled text editors that computing machines have these days - but I digress - because Kevin was the CEO of BPC, he happened to have all of the authorization codes and pin numbers and other top secret information about his company and its finances and funds and so on stocked up in that little head of his, and unfortunately for him there were some other people who wanted to get that information from him even though he was unauthorised to give that information out to them, and so they had locked him in a small windowless cement room with embedded flourescent lights in the ceiling and cameras and speakers hidden somewhere behind the lights and had told him that those hidden speakers were going to continue playing the exact same sounds - there were not a great variety of these sounds, either - on an endless loop until Deneb Blookoblooko D'Bink D'Bonk D'Bank Ganooda Fronsniggle Bing-Tog Fliggitypuss Pop Snot Morglepookie started telling them the codes and other secret information that it was that they wanted to know. Kevin had been brave - he had told them that he would never tell and that they could do whatever they felt like doing because he wasn't going to even so much as pay attention to it - but then those speakers began blasting those horrid repeating sounds into the room from somewhere that he couldn't sound, the same four awful noises, just repeating again and again and again forever and ever and ever and so on, on unto eternity, and then Kevin almost immediately regretted what he had said to his captors about how he wasn't going to tell the codes and stuff to them no matter what they did, because it was so horrible he couldn't bear it any more, not even so much as another second longer. And this was why: because of what those four repeating sounds were.
They were the sounds of the Pikachu.
Once upon a time there was an extremely unfortunate young man - well, okay, he was a teenager, really, not so much a young man as an old boy, or actually essentially just a boy boy, but yes - at any rate, there was this very unfortunate young man - boy - whatever - he was fifteen years old, by the way - but anyhow, there was this kid who was from this one world called The Land of Adventure - no shit, that's really what the place he was from was called, officially and certifiably and everything, it really was called the Land of Adventure - anyhow, this kid was from Adventure (The Land of) and he was training to be young badass a la young Marth of Super Smash Brothers Land and other video games made in Japan which I don't actually know the names of - at least one other game besides Super Smash Brothers, anyhow - or a la Roy, Marth's gay brother, and while this kid was training to be a badass he happened to get kicked off of a three hundred foot high cliff. This is the first reason why he was such an unfortunate young person.
However, at the base of the cliff, rather than a raging torrent of water or a menacing outcrop of horrid spiky pinnacles of rock or the gaping maw of some ravenous and beastly animal all ready to swallow the poor boy up into its stomach, there was a swirling temporal vortex of time and space and other such multidimensional incomprehensible physics-type nonsense stuff. And so, rather that falling to his untimely and tragic death, the teenaged boy fell into the time vortex thingie and landed in another world. Now, this other world was a horrible post-apocalyptic place ruled by bitchy and mostly incompetent teenagers, and this place was called The Place Where Star and Bend Live, because there were two boys who lived there called Star and Bend, interestingly enough. Anyhow, The Place Where Star and Bend Live was currently, because its creator and controller was currently participating in National Novel Writing Month, and was her friend, the author and controller of this particular and ridiculous narrative, in the middle of a great power struggle between two bitchy teenage girls, one of whom was considerably more incompetent than the other, who were called, respectively, the Empress and the Priestess, or Castania and, uh, some other girl whose name starts with a Pr sound (Preden?). Unfortunately, because I can't remember the one chick's name and because I don't want to call the friend of mine who happens to be the creator and controller of these particular females, seen as, you know, they live in the world that she created, because she is currently in the middle of matters of much much greater importance than anything so stupid and frivolous as this pathetic little work of literature - such as, dying - and I am pretty darn sure that it would be pretty darn rude and selfish of me to call her and ask what that one Priestess girl's name is at the moment and so I'm not going to call her up and find out what it is until the life and death and horror situation that she is dealing with has been cleared up, and because I don't was to have to go back and find and replace every instance of my possibly (and actually quite likely) erroneous name for the girl at a later date, and because I can't write what it is that I was just about to write because I can't remember that girl's name for the life of me and her name (and, indeed, she herself) were kind of essential to the plot of what it is that I was just about to write and so I can't maintain inspirational drive without it and so can't write the thing that I was just about to write about just now, because of all of these things, I am now going to go and try to write about something else and then return to this later.
I am tired. I wonder if I went to bed right now - it being only seven o'clock in the evening - if I would sleep through the night up until the morning arrived? Somehow I doubt it. Oh well.
Man, okay, so I'm going to do something really really cheap here and go all meta on you all for a space of time. You see, I had this genius genius wonderful idea for how I was going to possibly be able to make it through this whole stupid National Novel Writing Month without either giving up or shooting myself in the head (or at least wanting to shoot myself in the head) because this stupid dumbass thing that I've been writing for a few days now (I would hardly call it a story, my dear) is so incredibly inconceivably unbearably awful that I simply cannot live with the knowledge that I had some part - indeed, the better part, if not the entire part - in creating it - in creating this- this- abomination! But now my genius genius wonderful idea seems to have faded and gone up in a whiff and a poof of smoke, smoke and mirrors. It was nothing, don't you see? It was all just a stupid cruel illusion! And I hate it, I hate it all! I don't want to do this! ARGH!
Yes indeed, I really do like to eat potatoes. Do you know why? Because they are so amazingly good, that's why! Especially with salt and olive oil and a tad bit of cilantro or some such similar spice, broiled at five hundred degrees in an oven for twenty minutes. Or twenty-one, although I kind of doubt that that one extra minute actually makes and kind of meaningful difference in the way that the potatoes actually end up turning out cooking and thus also in the way the potatoes end up tasting. I mention all of these things because I ate, recently - very recently, actually, at the time of this writing, although I imagine it's a fair bit further back in the past at the time of this reading - the very same potatoes which I have just described to you above, cooked to the same specifications and seasoned in the same manner so lately explained to you. At any rate, I thought you all might like to know what was the reasoning behind the creation of this little chapter here, which is now finished. I will now return you to your regular programming, or at least some slight approximation thereof. Thank you!
As I said, the world ended long before I was born, but I know how it came to be ended because it has been passed down mother to daughter, father to son, down through all the generations of all the tribes of all the people who remain so that the tale might be preserved as an oral tradition, for we no longer possess the power to write things down as text and thus preserve them indefinitely, and anyhow it's a cautionary tale to the people of the future that they don't do anything that might cause such a bad awful happening to happen again, and it's also just a good story, and it is quite obviously not the sort of thing that one really wants to let it be forgotten. Not to mention that writing is a tedious and stupid activity, and no one has the time or the expertise to do it anymore. Never you mind that I'm writing this - I'll get to the reason for that later. The point is, that I know how the world ended because my mother told me, because her mother told her, and her mother told her, and so on, all the way back to Delicia Macdurgle, who told the story to her daughter, Mareen. And now I am going to tell you, my most beloved one, how it happened, so that you too might know the tale of the end of the world.
It was in spring that the world ended - spring was one of four seasons, which were time periods that were characterised by certain suites of meteorological conditions and weather patterns and other such phenomena, that repated themselves in sequence each year. Spring was the season in which the plants and trees and flowers that had been dormant over the winter, which was cold and dark and not particularly amenable to providing good conditions for the growth of living things, began to emerge from their dormancy, which they had adopted in order that they might cope with the unpleasant weather patterns and such of the winter season. Because it was spring the flowers were beginning to poke up sprigs of green through the dirt and the trees were beginning to get little delicate pink flowers on them and the weather was starting to get warmer. It was a pleasant and happy time of year. The cold dark winter season often caused people to become unhappy for its duration, but the advent of spring allowed these unfortunate people to become cheerful and happy again, as they had been back when the weather patterns were last more amenable to light and sun and warmth and plant growth and so on. There was a young man who had been made very sad indeed by the darkness and cold of winter - they called it seasonal depression, and said that it really was a disease and not just a stupid state of mind - and he was beginning to be made very happy indeed by the new arrival of the spring season and by the sight of the little green shoots of plant life poking up out of the dirt and by the delicate pink flowers that were popping out of dormancy upon the tree limbs, and his name was Bobby Little.
Bobby Little didn't know Delicia. In fact, he never once met her, not once in his whole entire life, but Delicia knew who he was because she happened to find his journal in the wreckage of his destroyed apartment building (an apartment building was an edifice in which many, many people made their homes, with all of their houses connected and stacked up on top of each other, with only thin walls to separate them from each other) after the world ended, after Bobby had died. She kept the journal, because she read it - Delicia Macgrudle knew how to read, as did most people back then - sometimes, and she liked the way that Bobby wrote, and there was not much else for her to read, as books were made of paper, which as we all know is very easy to set on fire, and so there were many books that were destroyed when the world ended, for there were many fires that raged when it happened. At any rate, Delicia found Bobby Little's journal (which was a written record of everything that happened to him and how he felt about those things, updated each day - people still make them on occasion, but only the weird people who think it makes sense to write, or the people who record it in pictures on their walls or on bits of plastic or steel - but I digress), and the more she read it, the more she began to feel that she knew Bobby - even more, that she loved him. Bobby was a lovable person. He was very quiet, very sensitive, and a little odd. He had, it seems, few friends. We still have Bobby's journal, though the pages are cracked and the ink faded, for it was handed down through the family over the years, and indeed I have even read it myself, written in Bobby Little's own hand, and so I can attest that he was a real person, and that this account that I now render you is indeed true and factual, though it may perhaps not seem so to you at times.
Bobby Little worked at the office of a very wealthy, very powerful man - a politician - whose name was Gariss, Gariss Munkoe. Gariss Munkoe was unkind and dishonest and did not seem to think much of poor Bobby, though from what I gather from Bobby's writings, Bobby thought very much indeed of Mr Gariss Munkoe. You see, Gariss Munkoe was tall and dark of hair and blue-eyed and very purposeful, in his middle thirties and very fair to look upon, or so I gather from what it was that Bobby wrote about him. Indeed, from the way that Bobby writes you might even be led to believe that Bobby liked Gariss in a very different manner than that in which most men like and appreciate other men. In fact, Bobby Little writes about Gariss Munkoe in much the same way that I will write about your father, Aega Monch, in a few chapters - that is, I believe that Bobby Little was romantically attracted to his employer - indeed, I might even go so far as to say that the poor lad was infatuated with him. Which is unfortunate, because even through the fog of the journal writer's adoration and love, I can still tell from it that Gariss Munkoe was a real jerk, I mean, really just not a nice guy at all. And so poor Bobby Little, even if he had been a cute and pretty young girl, would probably just never have stood a chance at fulfilling his romantic dream. Also the relationship, as the one was in the employ of the other, would have had some bad power relations involved. But I digress.
Bobby Little went with some fair frequency to a nearby gym belonging to a man named Jingolf – a gym was, of course, a place where people (mostly men, as it were) went with some fair frequency to use their muscles to do stupid and pointless tasks that required much effort, such as lifting large pieces of metal and setting them back down again, or running on a rotating surface so that you never actually went anywhere but instead were merely running in one place the whole time, for the purpose, ostensibly, of improving the capabilities and strength of those muscles. The place happened to be called, unsurprisingly, Jingolf’s Gym and Full Body Workout Station, and Bobby loved to go there. But Bobby’s main reason for going so often to work out at Jingolf’s Gym and Full Body Workout Station was not to improve the state and capacity of his muscles, but rather for the single reason that his employer and romantic interest, Gariss Munkoe, also attended this same gym. Bobby would go and work out and get very sweaty and hot, and then he would take off his shirt and make lots of grunting noises as he lifted the heavy pieces of metal in hopes that Gariss would hear them and look over to see what it was that could be making such noises and then he would see Bobby and, and this more obviously was Bobby’s intention at doing it, hopefully he would notice that Bobby was fit and attractive and also happened to be glistening with sweat, and Bobby hoped against hope that this observation would make Gariss Munkoe then become interested in pursuing a possible romantic relationship with Bobby. Unfortunately, this did indeed turn out to be an unfounded hope, and Gariss never once looked up to see what it was that had been making the obnoxious grunting noises that he kept hearing while he himself was working out (and also making grunting noises as he did it, but more subdued than the grunting noises that he kept hearing coming from somewhere nearby were) and so he never noticed that Bobby had taken off his shirt and thus exposed his bulging, glistening, marvelous physique to the world for all (but especially for Gariss Munkoe his particular mad crush) to see and look upon and admire.
It was here, at the health club and exercise establishment, that Bobby Little came to meet Bobby Massive.
The world ended three hundred and fifty years before I was even born. My mother told me about, as her mother had told her about it before, when my mother was a little child, as my grandmother too had been told by her mother before that, and so on, back to my great-great-great-great-great grandmother, who had lived through it. Her name was Delicia, Delicia Macgrudle, and she was very beautiful, every person who met her said. She had long golden hair that fell in great waves about her face, which was formed perfectly and beautifully, as if it had been chiselled out of white marble and then breathed upon by her sculptor to make her warm and soft instead of cold, as stone is wont to be. She also had lovely eyes, which were pale blue and fringed with long black lashes, like an icy pond in the midst of feathered reeds, and dressed fashionably, for she was doted upon by many wealthy men because of her remarkable good looks. Delicia eventually married a very rich man named Dongo, Dongo D'bokbok, who came from Norway and was, as I have just said, very rich. Dongo fell head over heels in love with Delicia at the very moment, the very instant, the very MILLISECOND that he set eyes upon her (which is to say immediately), and he knew right then that he must marry her, for Delicia Macgrudle was the most beautiful, most lovely, most utterly desirable woman that he had ever in his ninety-four long years set his eyes upon, and he could not possibly allow her to escape like a ghost into the reaches of his memory without at least so much as asking her out on a date with him. So he did ask her out on a date with him, because this was, as I've just said, an opportunity he wasn't about to let himself miss out on.
As for Delicia, she noticed that there was an old man at another table in the restaurant she was in - she was in a restaurant at the time, by the way, an Italian restaurant, eating spaghetti, or at least that's what my mother called it - a restaurant was a place where people went to eat food that had already been cooked for them by somebody else, which they paid more for than they would have if they had simply bought the food at a market or something and cooked it themselves (the whole concept of the restaurant seems silly to me, but apparently people used to go to them quite frequently, and there used to be quite a lot of them around, as well - I suppose that going to such a place was some way of showing the other people of the world that you were wealthy enough to be able to afford that kind of an excessive activity, which might make them somehow think better of you, or something like that - though I still say it's silly - but I digress) and spaghetti was a dish that looked like worms in blood but was in actuality something made out of grain paste, like thread-shaped bread (which I also can't imagine) in a vegetable sauce made out of an extinct red fruit called a tomato, and Italian was the name of a particular suite of foods made or invented by a particular ethnic group or tribe who came originally from a place called Italy - but I've gotten so far astray now that I have nearly forgotten what I was originally saying - which is that Delicia Macgrudle happened to notice that a man of some years was seated at another table, situated not far from the table where she herself was sitting at, was paying quite a lot of attention to her. Now, Delicia had had attention directed at her by men of all ages at many times and on many occasions throughout her life of thirty long years, so she had of course come to recognise the signs that told her that this man, like the majority of the other men who had paid her more attention than they really ought to over the years, was romantically interested in her, and she, being a savvy young woman and experienced in the ways of the world and how to turn them to her own advantage, decided that she ought to use this attention, and the man who was giving it to her, to her own personal advantage. She first summoned the waiter - who was a man who worked at the restaurant bringing cooked food dishes to people and clearing away the empty receptacles which had held the food from the tables where the patrons of the restaurant sat once those patrons had completed the consumption of that food and the dishes were empty - and asked him if he would please to very kindly take a message to that nice old grey-haired fellow sitting at that other table, that man right there, yes, that was the one - if he would be so kind as to tell that man that she was interested to know if he might possibly be so good as to grant her so much as a single dance out on the dance floor - which is to say, a portion of the restaurant set aside for the patrons to dance on when they were not eating their meals, thus allowing men who had taken prospective mates to the restaurant to impress them to further their efforts to achieve a romantic bond with their prospective mate through dance (I have been made to understand that these restaurants, and in particular the better and more expensive of them, were often host to various bands and musical performers, who would serenade the people who went to the restaurants with various songs and melodies while the people ate or danced or waited for their food to be cooked and to be brought to the tables where they sat waiting). To this request made by Delicia the waiter replied that he would like nothing better than to deliver her message to the old man seated at the nearby table, and with that he went of to that same man and delivered the message which was described just now, and the man, being interested, as we have been told already, in procuring Miss Macgrudle as a prospective mate, and seeing how a dance (he was quite a good dancer, if he did say so himself, which he did) might improve his chances of accomplishing this goal, ultimately, of course knew that he could not have asked for a better means of bringing down upon himself all of this lovely woman's precious affections. Thinking thus, he instructed the waiter to, if he did not mind (which he of course didn't, as he was a good and helpful waiter and also imagined that serving as the courier between these two patrons of his restaurant, which is to say the restaurant where he had been employed, might incite them to give him some sort of bonus monetary reward, which was called a tip, more than the usual amount, for his troubles), to please go back over to the woman who had given him the original message to relay to him (the old man, Dongo D'bokbok) and to please tell her, if he didn't mind (which he didn't, as it has already been observed, for the reasons which have already been given) that he (Dongo D'bokbok) would be more than pleased to grant her a dance with him. Moreover, Dongo added, he would be more than willing to give her another dance following that one, and then another, and then another - why, he would like nothing more in the whole entire world, in fact, than to dance with her until the restaurant closed down for the night (because these restaurant places didn't stay open for business constantly, of course, just like markets and peddlers don't cater to customers now at all hours of the night and the early early morning and so on). So the waiter then relayed this other message, and the woman told him to tell Dongo that she accepted his offer of further dances, and then Dongo stood and went over to Delicia, and then he offered her his hand, and then she took his hand in hers, and then he led her down from her table to the dance floor, and then the band began to play a slow and haunting melody on strange instruments which no one has ever heard of since the world ended and which no one knows how to play anymore, and then Dongo and Delicia held each other close and then they danced, and they danced, and they danced, and they danced until the restaurant staff stopped taking new customers and the people who made the food stopped cooking it and the waiters cleared away the very last of the empty dishes from the empty tables where patrons had been sitting and eating all night long and the other people who worked at the restaurant started stacking up the tables and chairs and sweeping the floor clean and the band stopped playing music and went home. Then Dongo D'bokbok stopped dancing, and Delicia Macdurgle stopped dancing, and the two of them stood very close to each other and held each the other's hand, and then Dongo said very quietly, "I do believe that you are the most amazing and beautiful and enchanting woman that I have ever met in my entire life of ninety-four years. I would be exceedingly honored and exceedingly pleased if you would be so kind as to let me see you again, and perhaps go dancing with you again, at some point in time after this."
Delicia smiled quite warmly back at him, for not only was this exactly as she had planned (for it was obvious to her that Mr D'bokbok was very well off, monetarily speaking, and she knew that that money would most likely benefit her in the event that Dongo decided to attempt to convince her that he would make her a good mate), but also because she found that she actually quite liked the old man after all. She said to him, "Why, I would like nothing better. Of course you can see me again, and of course we can go dancing again - dancing until all hours of the night if you should so please. When would you like to get together and do something, such as dancing, again? How about tomorrow night? Surely that will not be too soon - for in my mind there can be no point in time that we see each other again after this that is too soon - indeed, I hardly think that any time will be soon enough."
Dongo D'bokbok was exceedingly touched to his heart by these kind and tender words, and so he smiled at her (and perhaps a bit more warmly even than she had just smiled at him), and he said, "Tomorrow night will be perfect, and I do declare that, if you so wish it, then we shall dance and dance and dance forever, into all the hours of the night and straight on until morning. I daresay I could dance with you forever and on into eternity, I do so love it so."
At any rate, Dongo D'bokbok was to regret this remark, and sorely too indeed, for listening to him expressing this sentiment to his new sweetheart and dearly beloved was an evil spirit named Bingoslick, who very maliciously decided to test out the old man's devotion to such a statement - that is, he imagined that Dongo was making a bit of an hyperbole by saying he'd dearly like to dance with Delicia until all eternity, which is to say until the end of the world, and so waited around until the two people returned to the restaurant on the following night and began to dance with each other. Then Bingoslick cast an evil and malificent spell upon Delicia and Dongo that would cause them to dance and dance and dance nonstop until the very ending of the world. Bingoslick the evil spirit had a good feeling in his heart that it wouldn't take very long - perhaps just a single night and day or two - for Dongo to realise how very stupid he had been to make such a claim as he had about dancing forever, because anything - even dancing with a hot chick whom you happen to have a mad crush on - begins to grow pretty darn tiring after you've been doing it constantly for hours and hours and hours, even unto days and weeks and months - and by the time it gets to be years and years that you've been doing it for, by that time the activity, even if it was once upon a time your favorite thing to do in the whole wide world, will begin to seem to you like a living hell.
Unfortunately for Bingoslick, Delicia and Dongo had been dancing for only a few scant minutes when the world came to an end.