From: gooley@netcom.com (Mark. Gooley)
Subject: armpit resorts amaze jaded jades of jade
Followup-To: alt.fan.gooley,alt.spleen
Organization: The Gorilla-Shaped Cookie Trust, GmbH
Date: Tue, 29 Dec 1992 03:31:13 GMT

	She had had a splenectomy for fun, and now the spleen was one of
the ingredients of the sausages she stored in her giant freezer.  The
obligatory reference to spleens out of the way, I transformed her into
an aspirin tablet which I wrapped in aluminum foil and taped behind the
portrait of Verdi that faces the toilet in my guest bathroom.
	That evening I was getting drunk on homebrewed melomel.  It
tasted foul or perhaps fowl (I had put a chicken in the fermenter) but
it had high alcohol content.  There was a knock on the wall, and I
clumsily but obligingly chipped a two-foot hole near the source of the
sound.  A small and lovely albino woman crawled in, her face crimson
from the effort and her hair paper-white as a narcissus but shiny, so that
I suppose that paper-white is a bad term in this case, unless one means that
glossy paper that is anathema to recyclers.
	"Hello, there," I said to her.
	She stood and drew a picture of herself and herself up to her full
height: five-two, five-one on weekends.  She glared at me with her superb
pink eyes.  "Why did you change my sister into an aspirin?" she asked.
	"Oh," I said.  "Sorry about that.  Once I got in the bit about
spleens, I was getting bored with her, and so I thought that it would be
a good way to write her out of this."
	"Couldn't you have made her live happily ever after?" she asked,
delicate pink hands on her generous hips (they had given thousands of
beer-drinkers to charity).  "Only a matter of a few words."
	"You are trying to compromise my artistic integrity," I said,
suppressing a belch and my unauthorized biography by Kitty Kelley (tm),
in which she allegedly states that I have forty-three bastard children
by fifty-one different mothers, that I dress in a form-fitting Miss Piggy
costume on national holidays to visit opium dens, that these honored dead
shall not have dyed in veins, and that I am tetrasexual.
	"Artistic integrity, my backside!" she cried, her voice soaring
like an eagle and a well-wrought cliche' into stratospheric and Stratocaster
(tm) soprano-istic heights that made me catch my breath and a case of beer
and crab lice.  "You miserable little hack!  Unpublished hack who has to
distribute his twisted, dull creations for free!"
	"They cost the net hundreds if not thousands of dollars," I
retorted, brandishing a retort and a spare Erlenmayer flask.
	"So did Carasso," she said, with a haughty curl of her lip that
I had tossed out of my hackneyed-phrase bucket.
	I was insulted, but drunk.  "I am weary," I said.  "I do not need
beautiful fictional women entering through my walls.  Let's see what I
can do about your sister."
	We went to my bathroom and I found and took out the aspirin (tm,
for Canadians -- excuse me, but I should have been calling it acetyl-
salicylic acid, or ASA as you North of the Border folks have to call it)
tablet.  The albino woman seized it and swallowed it without water or a
qualm.
	"You lied!" I cried, just for the annoying rhyme.
	She gave a wicked grin, which she popped into a vial, corked with
a stopper, and labeled "Wicked Grin."  "Yes, of course I did.  Do you
know how much a month I spend on sunscreen?"
	I realized that her sisterly ingestion was intended to cause a
metamorphosis -- so predictable when I'm writing a story.  "You evil
little wretch of a fictional character," I said.
	"No," she said.  Her hair was turning the rich blonde of the
woman she had swallowed, her eyes the corn salve or -flower blue.  "No,
please don't."  Her tones would have melted a heart of iron, but fortunately
mine is solid tungsten and it was never at risk.  Misogyny has its advantages,
though offhand I can't think of any others.
	"Serves you right," I said, and I took her head in my hands and
began to squeeze it.  It shrank obligingly.  I worked my way down her body,
compressing it into a mouthful of flesh, which I ate, chewing enthusiastically.
I had her flesh taste like Chicken Cordoned Off, and guaranteed that it
would cause no metamorphosis in me.
	The next morning I woke up with cornflower-blue eyes, but I popped
out the soft contact lenses.

Mark., people who eat people make the best cannibals in the world
gooley@netcom.com
Newsgroups: alt.non.sequitur,talk.bizarre