random

He was a big bastard called Norman who ate with his hands. Could have been court jester at the court of Alphonse IX if he played his cards right. No such luck. But his blood was medieval, plowman's blood, and it flowed through a stained-glass heart with a picture of Pontius Pilate At His Breakfast on it. I hated him. They said his brother was Norwegian, but I could smell the Balinese all over him. It stank in his hair like an imported tropical gel. Very greasy, very, very slippery. "No, not today, thank you," I told him. "We don't accept Balinesian coinage in this establishment. Not from the likes of you at any rate."
He tried to sell me a sledgehammer with a bit of the handle missing. No takers. It was solid oak, though, you could feel the quality, feel the width.
"I've got to get a bus to Omaha." he said.
So I slammed the fucking door in his face.
I heard later he took part in human pyramid scheme somewhere out in the desert. He was on the bottom as usual and didn't get a drink for fifteen days. That's his skeleton hanging up in the corner. We went round the medical college with it but couldn't give it away: too bleached, they told us, been out in the sun too long.
That's always the way. Bloody Norman. Useless to the last drop.
Meanwhile.
Attended a Satanic ritual last night. Here is what happened.
The moon was low, and a creeping mist enshrouded the hollow hill. Somewhere an enormous crow farted, then ruffled his own feathers and flew off into the ink black night. As usual, the Bretheren met in the sacred circle by the abandoned church. All were hooded except Brother Bartholomew, since he has a massive afro and cannot fit his hood over his head. The secret chant was chanted and the sacrificial calf was led into the center of the circle by a golden rope. Satan was summoned, the calf's throat was slit, blood flowed into the magical goblet and - Hey Presto! - the sacrificial calf was turned into instant roast beef with baked potato,
asparagus, and pearl onions! Hallelujah in reverse. All hail Satan - the Lord of Sunday lunch on Monday night.
But wait.... no gravy? This must be why Satan is known as the Evil One. Yet again we had been tricked by His diabolical sense of humor and His poor knowledge of sauces and appropriate garnish.