Suggested Audio Candy
 Talking Heads “Road To Nowhere”
 Talking Heads “Once in A Lifetime”
 Talking Heads “Psycho Killer”
“Cock and Bull Story”
The cock and bull story is an unbelievable tale; a fable which generally provokes raised eyebrows and much suspecting stroking of the chin. I have heard many during my years on this spherical palace we call Earth. The tall tale, as it is also referred, is normally something rather preposterous and outlandish. It’s the excuse you gave for arriving late for next period. You know, “I’m sorry sir. I was on my way but then a funny thing happened…” You would then proceed to concoct the most ludicrous explanatory drivel to back up your claim which ordinarily consisted of something along the lines of either or the three following feeble excuses.
I was almost at the school gates when I was flagged down by a gentleman on a llama. He had lean bacon hanging from both earlobes and wore a tank top smothered in lard and ostrich feathers so I figured I could trust him. He offered me a ride to school and I agreed to hop on but, as I did, the animal suffered a seizure and took off entirely in the wrong direction. I managed to dismount before it reached its maximum velocity and rolled down the nearby drainage system into a perplexing labyrinth of raw sewage. After several wrong turns and a fist fight with a rancid rodent, I finally found myself underneath the school grounds et voila.
A Gnatmare on Felch Street
I suffered a nose bleed on my way back to class and my head caved in completely. It would take a full ten minutes of reconstructive surgery to put it back together and, mercifully, a gnat was on-hand to fly me straight to the hospital as fast as his wings could carry him. Problem is, he felt peckish en route and swooped for a nibble. I fell off his back and landed in a pair of fluorescent roller skates but the wheels were made of Rubix cubes so it took a lot longer than envisaged. I did however complete a whole face of yellow. Do I get a gold star for that?
Shit out of Luck
I bought the new object of my erection a box of luxurious chocolate truffles and rode like the wind through treacherous storms just to get here and deliver them before registration period commenced. However, the sodden soil sent me careering downhill and straight through a freshly laid streak of doggy doo. I had to wash the smell from my trousers in the boys’ restroom before coming back to class as I smelled like the inside of a fart bubble. The girl didn’t appreciate the sentiment and, when I return home, I shall give the chocolates to my mother instead. She may want to give each truffle a sniff before consumption mind.
One of the above is actually a true story. No llamas, no gnats, but there was a streak of dog feces and I did make definitive contact with it that day. It was more butterscotch than brown which suggests it had been freshly and cunningly placed in my path by some meddling mutt. While I don’t claim to have ever been rolled up in a Persian rug and smoked by a simian, there have been plenty of other peculiar occurrences through my lifetime. This time my beloved Grueheads, I shall not be telling any lanky legends. Everything you hear from hereon in shall be wholly authentic and I will share with you a trilogy of outlandish scenarios I have been placed in which make my pulse quicken to this very day. Are you all seated appropriately? Your poison of choice prepared? Then settle in and I shall commence storytime.
Trolleyed: A Technicolor Nightmare
My first ever acid trip. What a head fuck that was. First off, I placed that freshly pressed Purple Ohm straight onto my tongue, and slurped it back. For ten minutes I had a strange feeling in my esophagus like I’d just swallowed a postage stamp and otherwise… nothing. After about twenty minutes I was feeling a tad bemused that I wasn’t being made privy to little fluffy clouds and kaleidoscopic colors as the brochure suggested. It had to be a dud surely? More fool me. Everything changed the moment my friends and I made the executive decision to take a stroll to the local convenience store. We swiftly exited our premises and… KABOOM!
It was as though we had stepped from a packet of ready salted potato chips straight into salt and vinegar. The trees were garish and vibrant and everything else in the vicinity was as intense as hell too. The skyline looked akin to a pop-up children’s book and I did not know where to feast my eyes next. We strolled around for hours and in that time I witnessed some fucked up shit. Waving our hands before our faces brought the most wondrous tracers and a visual orgasm played out for three solid hours, before the journey home, where I stood before my bathroom mirror pulling all kinds of ridiculous faces for at least an hour. Your skin appears filthy when you drop acid evidently.
My cock and bull story hasn’t yet began in earnest. I’ve waxed about my first acid previously so, instead, wish to draw your attention to my third escapade. This was my first bad trip, but it also provided one of the most hilarious moments in any fucker’s life and definitely mine. I was with three friends at a local multiplex cinema and we dropped an hour beforehand in the adjoining multistorey car park. The acid eventually took effect and all appeared suitably psychedelic. Then I spotted a shopping trolley and instantly I knew of my destiny. How could I possibly not clamber inside this glistening wagon of fun when on mind-altering drugs? It just seemed like a no-brainer.
My buddy grasped the reigns and proceeded to wheel me around the deserted parking lot like a mad person. I guffawed and clapped like an appreciative seal until I made the mistake of uttering the words “whatever you do, don’t let go”. I have since learned to keep my mouth shut at times like these as, at that very moment, he released me from captivity and I began my descent. After trundling down the slope, steadily picking up velocity as I did, I approached the cinema which was queued right back around the block that evening. I must’ve passed sixty people before reaching flat land and my final action was to perform a full 360 degree pirouette in my alloy chariot in full view of my unimpressed audience.
I was still holding onto the front bars, curled up in fetal position, and laughing so damned hard that my bladder began to capitulate involuntarily. Before I knew it, I had totally emptied my satchel and had to climb sheepishly from my vehicle doused in urine and mortification. I returned to my friends who were, by this point, rolling on the floor snorting like Colombians. Once inside, I was forced to perch myself far away from my associates as nobody could bear to sit next to me. By the end, even I didn’t wanna sit with me. To this day I still laugh regularly about that fateful extravaganza although it will always conceal a faint grimace.
Hell Joint: The Failed Serenade
I was always quite self-assured when it came to wooing random ladies. One evening my chums and I (five men, one car) went for a cruise to one of the more prestigious towns within a 100 km radius. When we arrived there we spotted a number of party animals making their way down the high street. Like typical alphas we all rubbed our knees excitedly and licked our lips as we spotted a group of ladies in various fancy dress attire. We’re talking nurses, suspenders and garters, six-inch heels, short dresses and a ton of make-up. What more could a cluster of eighteen year-old ejaculators wish for?
I was generally the one with the biggest cojones when push came to shove but it all went horrendously wrong by the time it came to breaking the silence. I was in the hallowed passenger seat so had dibs on these vixens. However, I hadn’t banked on my knees. Neither was exactly sturdy and they loved nothing more than to pop out of joint at inconvenient moments and send me careering to the gravel in intense agony. While they were courteous enough to pop back into place soon afterwards, I would ultimately be left with a dull ache which lasted for hours.
We pulled up alongside our quarry and I rolled down the window. I ran my roving eyes up and down their wares and liked what I saw. It was time to get my freak on. I was clad in my brand new Adidas, best denims,looking like the shit or, at least, in my own mind. They all appeared to be batting their lashes suggestively so I climbed out like Huggy Bear, ready to recite a verse from “ma bitch betta have ma money!” I soon wished I had his walking cane.
“Hello ladies” was my opening line and, alas, was destined to be my only spoken dialogue. As I turned to face my victims, my knee-cap dislocated and I dropped to the ground faster than a ho’s panties. After landing at their feet in excruciating pain, they decided that I wasn’t quite the cool cat I had boasted to be and vacated the premises, leaving me flapping in agony like a fish out of water. It smarted like all hell but the most disheartening factor was that all dignity had left the building. From Pimp of the Year I became The Elephant Man, and was soundly ridiculed by my associates all the way home. It was a long drive let me tell you.
Mistaken Identity: Tartan Terror
Picture the scene. I’m sixteen and full of zestful energy. It is the first night of the weekend and spring break is finally upon us. As the ringleader of my particular ragtag troupe I voted we should all go out and celebrate in style. We all got tanked up with cheap cider and were all a few sheets to the wind by the time I decided it would be a good idea to play a little prank on the girls. We made our excuses and made the short trip back to my abode where I proceeded to unearth some somewhat questionable garments.
In storage were a collection of relics which were ideal for the planned prank so I dressed myself up as a little old lady to pull a swift one on the unsuspecting ladies. My attire consisted of an old Parka jacket zipped up to its furry hood Urban Legend-style, a pair of Dunlop Green Flash (considerably out of vogue at the time), a pair of my mother’s old leggings, and a decrepit tartan shopping trolley, and I suited up with impish relish. I then did my very best impersonation of a dotty pensioner, obscured beneath layers of garments supporting my claim. The plan? To give our B-Team a little exhibition.
My chums assumed their positions outside the local convenience store in the high street and, when asked of my whereabouts, simply explained that I had drunk a little too much and staggered home. Meanwhile, just around the next turn, I lurked in the shadows waiting for the moment to get this show on the road. Ten minutes passed and the coast was clear for my plank-walk. I got the posture down, started mumbling incoherently to myself, and doddered around the corner, towards the large group of girls.
As I meandered past, seemingly in a world only I inhabited, the snickering commenced from the girls. My knowing alpha friends, on the other hand, pretended to take exception to the geriatric ghosting through their turf. They mocked as I passed then commenced towards me intent on giving me a bunch of bunches of fives as punishment for my petulance. It was all going marvelously to plan; I whimpered my way to a hotly tipped Oscar whilst my uncharacteristically unruly buddies hunted me down, with mortified gaggle of geese in tow.
As planned, they begun to lay in to me, a little harder than in briefing it must be said. I went down as the tartan trolley joined me on the concrete, wailing like a banshee but in just enough of a sniveling pitch to assure of my authenticity. As I laid there, soundly shell shocked, I discerned screaming coming from all around me. The vixens were incensed and wildly pleading for the beating to stop. There were tears, tantrums, and one set of fists thrown from the burliest of our femme fatales. I peered over the Tartan and it was then that I saw the illumination of an oncoming vehicle. Cavalry?
My knight in shining Ford Capri was a familiar face. The kind of Gosling who drove in fingerless leather gloves and was feared, nay dreaded, more than any other legend of local folklore. The wheels spun as he realized what was going down along his patch. Within what seemed like picoseconds he was out of his car and strolling rather briskly towards my bamboozled assailants to defend this poor old lady’s honor. My hero! The only snag was that, as he approached and my pals disbanded quicker than crack-whores in a police raid, I unzipped my coat to reveal my identity. Bad move. He realized he had been duped and, if there’s one thing the local hard man doesn’t like, it’s being made a fool of. The moment he turned his intentions to me, I fled at full pelt, sporting a number of badly bruised ribs and a handful of shattered dreams. I never did see that tartan trolley again.
That brings our storytime to a close my dearest Grueheads. I trust you’ve enjoyed my anthology of fables. I can assure you that all events are 100% accurate and that’s a Keeper promise. I have no intention of peddling mistruth and none of my parables are cock and bull. I have a lifetime of bizarre memories and would gladly share every last one with you fine people. Ultimately, it’s all in the way you tell them.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013