HOW MANY DEMON ROBOTS, MADAM?
The high that Charlie's two favourite drugs unleashed reminded him of when, as a child of eight years, his mother freed him from his straightjacket and shoved him face-first into Kumar's Cavern of Candy, at the time the happiest sugar-rush place in town.
As Charlie bit into the Wonderbra Bar, a salivating taste explosion of marshmallow, caramel, and hazelnuts that formed two distinct mounds, his teeth encountered a highly unusual sensation: it felt as though a large snowplough's loose wire was scintillatingly licking the inside of his mouth, sending zesty low-grade shockwaves up his teeth and into his gums, like gingivitis but less stigmatized.
As the gooey gooey goodness sleepwalked dolefully into the netherlands of his extended upper thigh, Charlie wondered how long it would be before the experience of the gooey gooey goodness permeating through his body was ruined by an arsehole whose idea of minding his or her own business centred around asking as many pointless questions as he or she could.
It wasn't long before duck-diving purple elephants and squid, whose sole source of pleasure was to tickle the underarms of chocolate craving misfits, guided Charlie telepathically along the uneven footpath to a distant beacon of light. Tepid brown ooze eased itself from his pant pockets, dousing retired professionals who called the footpath their free tanning salon.
As Charlie was being beamed towards the piercing light, his aroused mouth drooled succulent strands of sugar induced death while gusts of wind circled to entwine their rights to the victorious prize.
It was enough to send many a Five Word Stories procrastinator into a dizzying tailspin, wondering what the fuck was happening, and when, or perhaps if, a lunatic with frantic questions would enter the story.
"Whatcha doing there, mister?" a barefooted man with a long dark brown cloak said.
Charlie's view of the diamond encrusted sky was interrupted in an unsavoury manner, though his buzz was as intact as a top-end hair piece in a light breeze, which didn't stop him from inhaling 8 ounces of rocky mountain bear fuckers through his left nostril, before repeating the process in his right (only substituting broken down golf carts for rocky mountain bear fuckers). The barefooted dude was starting to get the picture and had just decided to head back to Amarillo when Charlie remembered he was there and slurred coyly, "y'thin' tha's a big mammal you were'n' aroun' for the crush-ayy-shus period."
Charlie knew exactly how to handle the situation. Issuing a clarion call to a band of undead pieces of machinery buried under Old Man Mumu's back-farm graveyard (below the elephants), he cried "transponders, more than meets the ire!" like a badly drawn Hercules raising his metallic ring in a lightning storm.
Verging on the spontaneous-meeting-the-instantaneous, Charlie boy spread his pins apart beyond shoulder width and remained rooted on the spot of a lush uppermost portion of the soil as rain crashed down around him with an extended roar of approval from the gods to guide its teeming path. The transformation had been set in motion. The proverbial shit had been flung with righteous intent and the fans were ready for an impact which would be referred to throughout mankind's finest moments of evolution as 'The Great Browning.'
Charlie beared his mighty fangs and extended his curled fingers skyward with the purpose of a surgeon in the midst of the ultimate test of skill. Rising in every direction from the boggy marshes were glistening silver machines with Mephistophelian expressions, applied centuries ago in a spectrum of waterproof acrylic paints by slaves with profound acne scars.
Then, just to prove all the afore-described happenings were nothing but pissant mundanities, the unthinkable happened: A flock of seagulls flew into Charlie's face. Each seagull took turns, as though guided by sonar or instinct or radio control, careering beak-first into Charlie's nose, which was quickly swelling to the size of a mellon-or pumpkin-that the folks at Guinness would wish to run a tape measure over.
Wave after squadron after bullseye, each gull claimed its share of flesh.
It wasn't until this moment that Charlie finally realized the functionality of his all-consuming addiction to processed cocoa in all its fun varieties. His high hit a brick wall as the sugar and cocoa seeped from pores and various other holes slightly larger than pores.
Within the time it takes a gay squadron of butterflies to extrapolate a worm from a hungry baby bird's beak and toss it to the ground like a slice of ham wrapped in a soiled nappy, Charlie's skin had metamorphosed into a solid compound of cocoa, sugar, milk, emulsifiers and traces of nuts.
"That's disgusting," said Hal, while himself chronically deteriorating from the effects of wafting shoes left on the doorstep to his pigeon coop, which in their own turn and stylistic rhythm, had mystical powers of (BB/CB/WE)
(them mofos think they know tie-bow? U-freakin-gene knows tie-boe, mofo!)