Saturday, September 15, 2012

The Madness That Gibbered (Part 3)

Madness That Gibbered
Part Three

    The multitude of noises, from the susurration of insects to the bubbling pops of released swamp gases, quieted at the sound of the slowly approaching rowboat. The worn, moss-encrusted shack let out a groan, as if grudgingly anticipating that yet more weight was about to be added to its sagging structure.
    Goober, sweating profusely, slid the boat to a halt next to the dock while Amos eased himself out and tied it down. Both men silently made their way to the dilapidated porch and resumed their positions, Amos on his rocking chair and Goober cautiously leaning against the railing, and picked up their mason jars of moonshine. Gulping, wincing, and sighing, both men gazed out into the humid swamp with grim looks.
    “Well that could've gone better,” Goober said eventually, reaching for the shine jug.
    “Yup,” Amos agreed.
    “You know what bugs me most about that whole thing?”
    “What's that?”
    “He didn't have to be so rude about it, you know?” Goober said, offended. “We just asked him to maybe move along, do his racist little research in some other state or maybe just get his head out of his ass for a change. He didn't have to call us....What was it again?”
    “'Profane instruments of unknowable entities' or something like that.”
    “What the hell does that even mean?” Goober shouted. “If somethings unknowable, then how can you know about it enough to worship it?”
    “Beats me,” Amos reached for the jug and refilled his jar. “It's a good thing we brought the sheriff along though--I though he was going to attack us with that club. I think he thought we were there to sacrifice him or something.
    “Somebody should tell that guy,” Goober began, his voice slurring a bit from the alcohol, “that there is a big difference between being politely to leave town and being killed by mad worshipers of dark gods.”
    “Well, first he's got to get it into his thick skull that not all good old boys are deranged cultists who make odd pacts with unlikely entities.”
    “I bet if we were to audit him we'd find him lousy with thetans,” Goober said sagely.
    “No doubt,” Amos agreed, nodding his head vigorously. “The crimes of Xenu plague us to this day. But we can only save those who want to be saved, brother.”
    The two men continued drinking in silence while two more planks slid off the roof and splashed down into the stagnant water of the swamp.
Part Three

    The multitude of noises, from the susurration of insects to the bubbling pops of released swamp gases, quieted at the sound of the slowly approaching rowboat. The worn, moss-encrusted shack let out a groan, as if grudgingly anticipating that yet more weight was about to be added to its sagging structure.
    Goober, sweating profusely, slid the boat to a halt next to the dock while Amos eased himself out and tied it down. Both men silently made their way to the dilapidated porch and resumed their positions, Amos on his rocking chair and Goober cautiously leaning against the railing, and picked up their mason jars of moonshine. Gulping, wincing, and sighing, both men gazed out into the humid swamp with grim looks.
    “Well that could've gone better,” Goober said eventually, reaching for the shine jug.
    “Yup,” Amos agreed.
    “You know what bugs me most about that whole thing?”
    “What's that?”
    “He didn't have to be so rude about it, you know?” Goober said, offended. “We just asked him to maybe move along, do his racist little research in some other state or maybe just get his head out of his ass for a change. He didn't have to call us....What was it again?”
    “'Profane instruments of unknowable entities' or something like that.”
    “What the hell does that even mean?” Goober shouted. “If somethings unknowable, then how can you know about it enough to worship it?”
    “Beats me,” Amos reached for the jug and refilled his jar. “It's a good thing we brought the sheriff along though--I though he was going to attack us with that club. I think he thought we were there to sacrifice him or something.
    “Somebody should tell that guy,” Goober began, his voice slurring a bit from the alcohol, “that there is a big difference between being politely to leave town and being killed by mad worshipers of dark gods.”
    “Well, first he's got to get it into his thick skull that not all good old boys are deranged cultists who make odd pacts with unlikely entities.”
    “I bet if we were to audit him we'd find him lousy with thetans,” Goober said sagely.
    “No doubt,” Amos agreed, nodding his head vigorously. “The crimes of Xenu plague us to this day. But we can only save those who want to be saved, brother.”
    The two men continued drinking in silence while two more planks slid off the roof and splashed down into the stagnant water of the swamp.

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