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Merlin’s Curse Part 5.

September 16, 2012

Earlier parts can be found here

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4) Evil is Unleashed

Even the cannibal perched beyond the vomit-spattered window seemed impressed by the sheer determination Flaps showed while he dragged his pubic-hair brush to and fro, smearing pure evil across the feature wall.

Although waves of cramps and an ominous gurgling in his belly assailed him at every turn, Flaps painted on. Through the cold sweats, the gassy eruptions, the hideous bowel movements, the projectile vomits, he painted, staring down the hardships he faced by forcing the same pleasing mental scenario through his head. He pictured the first guest arriving. Pictured their pert and perfect lips forming that perfect question, so what colour have you chosen? He replayed his reply a thousand times in his mind, seeking the perfect tenor, the perfect pitch, just the right enunciation. And in every replay of his mental scenario, his stance only got more and more dramatic until it resembled less an action and more an overlay of all Shakespearian plays. He’d made a lot of sacrifices already –- not least the shaving of his pubes to construct a new brush after Mrs Nub had eaten all the bought ones in a last ditch effort to halt him -– and despite the pain that infused him to the very core of his being, Flaps was determined to finish.

Time had become a vague concept. He had no idea how long ago he’d levered the lid from the tin and the hideous hue had been revealed, only that the effects had been strong and immediate. As it had been revealed, it had been like the face of death itself, all pestilent and rotting, had reared up at him from inside the tin, triggering a fart of such thunderous dimensions it rendered his pants but a distant memory. The effect on Mrs Nub was even more impressive. With a gurgling scream, the twin eruptions from either end of her anatomy had sent her rocketing like a pinwheel through the flat. She’d knocked over furniture and shattered his statuettes of Meatloaf, all the while hosing the walls, the furniture, the windows and the roof with her pungent effluence. Briefly recovered from his own discomfort, Flaps had been overwhelmed with concern for his elaborately framed collection of spatulas that held pride of place on the kitchen wall. Fortunately before the swath of destruction reached them, Mrs Nub unleashed a further eruption of thunderous dimensions and, trailing a greenish-brown, gaseous vapour cloud, propelled herself across the room and smashed through the kitchen window to land in their small rear courtyard.

Flaps assumed she was still out there now. An occasional whimper from that general direction caught his ear but he didn’t dare stop painting to check if she was alright. If he halted now he was pretty certain he would not have the strength take up his brush again.

He’d already nearly stopped twice and almost certainly would have if it wasn’t for the kind gestures of the cannibal at the window, admiring his determination — although Flaps was also fairly certain a ruse might be in play there. The man eyed his hairless balls with a little too much relish for his taste, as though he merely used his admiration as camouflage to reconnoitre a possible haunch sweetener. But even knowing that, Flaps still couldn’t bring himself to let him down and even added an extra layer of determination to his already encased in determination features, solely for the cannibal’s benefit.

You’re so close to finishing, he kept telling himself. There was but a thin swath of the wall left unsoiled and even that was disappearing beneath the curly bristles of his brush. The cheery, well-proportioned cock and balls he scrawled in a failed attempt to bring some levity to the situation was nearly completely obscured now.

Think of the majesty! He buoyed up his flagging spirits. What does it matter if the back of your thighs are caked in excrement? Or that it feels like someone’s flossed your sphincter with razor wire? Soon the feature wall will be complete and then the people will come. Come to pay homage to the sheer coolness of the paint colour. The thought brought a vomit-dribbling smile to his lips. He’d already constructed a fairly snazzy “Homage Box” (he’d used both stickers and glitter) to store their kind words in and he fully expected it to be brimming and overfull by nightfall.

And then Mrs Nub would see, Flaps reassured himself. She’ll see how worthwhile this has all been. He knew his homage box would shortly be a sight to rival the wonders of the store-keep’s rectal vault and as the last strokes completed the abominable tapestry on his wall, Flaps let his dreams run wild.

Then it’ll only be a matter of time until people start arriving to pay homage to the homage box…

* * * * *

When he was finally done, the matte finish, unbroken for the length of the wall just seemed to amplify the effect. For a second his earlier resolve wavered in front of the sheer vileness of the finished product. It was ungodly. It was an orchestra of erupting pimples and infected sores. It was rivers of pus, full of viscous little lumpy treats, running down a funnel directly into his maw. It was the hacked flesh of grandmas, pulped down and administered enema style to a giraffe and then expelled straight into his eyeballs. It was acid thrown over a maternity ward for venereal infected babies. It was…

Gagging and panting, Flaps turned away from his handiwork, unable to bear the sight of it anymore. His stomach, bowels, even his throat seemed to rumble with a force that suggested deadly consequences if not relieved as he crawled towards the door in search of Mrs Nub. Despite his best efforts to clench, he left a thick, snail-like trail of sludgy muck behind him.

* * * * *

He found Mrs Nub twitching on the cobble stones outside and, ignoring the filth that pooled around her, squelched his way into her embrace. For the longest time, they just held each other as they stared off, glassy-eyed into the distance, each lost inside their own personal horror.

NEXT TIME: Of Failed Lamingtons and Fearsome Machines

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