The Novel Heard ’round the World, Page 2

In lieu of editing my bunny post–as I wish to preserve it for posterity in its infamous original form–I hereby submit the following sincere apology, as per the request of “ZergKing.” It comes in the form of the second page of a “novel heard ’round the world,” devised by the ingenious Redleg (of the Enola Redlegs). Check out the rules, read page 1, then feel free to add your own page to the mix, whether it continues from mine as page 3, or goes in a different direction as another page 2. The more people are involved, the more fun the project becomes.The Rules (
Page 1 ( 2 ( THIS IS PAGE 2 “… I was reading a shitty novel called ‘Cemetery Tulip.’ The author was a high school friend of mine named Steuben Kobayashi. Being of Japanese descent, old Steuby used to bring a bento box to lunch every day at school.” She interrupted him. “A bento box is a thing? What the hell is a bento box?” “Oh, it’s like a little lunch box with rice, maybe some fish, and some vegetables…” Here McGillicuddy paused to hack up a lung. A comforting hand nestled his shoulder as his confidante asked, “Oh Bento, are you all right?” “Yes, my dear Pornitis,” he replied. “But you must agree that now is not the time to dillydally speaking of olden times. Not when the people out there need to know …” But rather than coherent words, phlegmy lung matter was all that he could make pass his lips. “There, there, Bento Box,” cooed Steph Pornitis. “We’ll always have Portland.” He paused mid-cough to remember that magical unworldly Oregonian evening of seven years past. Not for nothing did this Greek goddess of glamor rank number 3 on his all-time list of conquests. Although, as he pondered further, Harold questioned whether he might not more accurately be considered the vanquished party in this case, rather than the vanquisher. Five slender red-nailed fingers snaking through his hair did make finding the answer any easier. “As the world’s greatest rock-and-roll band says, you can’t always get what you want,” Steph said, patting the ailing diplomat’s head. “I beg your pardon,” Bento Box sputtered out. “The Beatles never said that, to the best of my knowledge.” He had collected all the relevant albums in vinyl, CD, and MP8 formats, and had been known to walk down the street singing “Hey Jude” while listening on his vintage iPud™ (circa 2028 model). “Ah, now I remember why we split up seven years ago. I guess despite the best intentions, we can’t work it out.” McGillicuddy laughed bitterly, or maybe it was another coughing fit. She abruptly let go of him and began walking away.  “Wait!” he called after her. “Don’t go! I need your help.” Spittle dripped down his smock.  She paused and turned her head back to look at him. “You know you look awful, don’t you,” she said. “That’s what she said, too,” he said excitedly. “That’s what who said?” “The old woman. The soothsayer. Oracle of Delta Phi or some such.” “Oh, you mean that hag down at the sorority house? She’s patunkus.” This, as Bento Box well knew, was Pornitis’s idiosyncratic slang for “loony; irrelevant; dismissable opinion-wise.” “I don’t know, Steph, she said some real powerful stuff. Stuff that made a whole lot of sense. Like that the machines are out to get us. That President Romney’s reign of tax-free terror was only the beginning of the madness.” “Posh. She don’t know her ass from a portal in the biodome,” Pornitis scoffed. “But you haven’t heard the worst of it. She…”