DQN Short Novel (Part 7)
The second half of the Venetian saga already shows signs of degradation in the new author's mental health. Shortly before this chapter began, a group of dokyuns staged a bet based on how long this author would last before inevitably committing suicide.
It contains 90 posts, 1299 words and 7611 characters.
Chapter 4: It's Always Sunny In Venice
Mr Gray was not having a good evening. His best jockstrap snapped, cheapest condoms were sold out, and his Thai masseuse inserted her cock into his rectum without even the common courtesy to give him a reacharound. He wasn't too sure whether the female pronoun still applied in this case, either. And to top it all off, Venice was still a rather shitty place to live. Super Mario, in short, wasn't feeling super at all today. Yet, the neko-android still decided to try to sell enough magazine subscriptions to win a pizza party. This attempt was met with ubiquitous disinterest.
The depressed Venetians were all blind drunk, alone in their own apartments, wishing they had felt instead of thought, and become tanasinn. But it was not to be. Their combined powers of loneliness, however, turned out to be the source of power for Italian Power Metal bands, who used that power to power their power-hungry amplifiers in order to show their audiences (with their strange insistence on attending concerts in powers of two) the power of RAWK. Powerfully. It was totally rad, but Islam has infused, absorbed, supplanted and dialoged with a pig's anus to such a degree that it is no longer of any relevance to this story.
The insignificant machinations of the poor wretched Venetians were about to be overshadowed entirely by Dr. Robotnik's elbow. In fact, it was around this time that Dr. Robotnik's elbow, Eddie, had gained awareness of itself and begun its journey of criticizing others. He had buried himself deep into the sunset sandbox of his childhood days, the cold wet sand tickling his nerve endings, when he felt a soft, fleshy sensation that was unmistakably the warm cheek of Venice.
Mr. Gray didn't even begin to care about questions like "What did /a/ think of True Tears? shughive". He was too busy plotting how to become an Earl and have a flavor of tea named after him. Unfortunately for Mr Gray, the predicament of such magnitude he found himself accost with thoughts that could only be described ( as per the words of James Goldstein III, writer for the Dallas Autismal Times) as "the most sadistic, violent, and erotic thoughts since..." [the rest of the comment was omitted by order of MODD].
In any case, the trap was set. And who better to trip it than the man himself - the one whom all those years before had lost himself in fantasy and lost sight of his true self.
Yes, years ago, this man had woven together an elaborate narrative in which he himself had posed as various characters, including a Panda, Beady Eyes, Chairman George Bush CXXVIII, George Bush CXXIX, Ran-tan-tan, the sexy nurse from pokemon, Franz Kafka, Lord "Cat Fanny" Catfannerkins, Robopa, Deequn, Clonepa, Grandpa, Arf, the great sky loli, Tristan, Claire, Reimu, Marisa, Gerald Jay Sussman, Roger Ebert, Dr. Robotnik, Snorlax, Sonic the Hedgehog, Knuckles the Echidna, Phil Collins, Takakazu Abe, Masaki Michishita, Porky Pig, Captain Gay Sparkle, Doctor Fujiwara, Mr. DQN Short Novel, DQN-kun, Woll Smoth, Wool Smooth, Sean Connery, Charles, Daddy Cool, Smug Fathead, PenPen, IsIs, Mike, the terminator, Richard M. Stallman, St. Shii DCLXVI, Marie Antoinette, Ms. Cho, a young man of Nordic descent, Aphrodite, Super Mario, the neko-android, Eddie the elbow, and of course, Mr. Gray himself.
But now Mr. Gray was about finally realize the madness in which he had been living. In his final dying moments after stumbling upon his own trap, all would become clear: he and these characters had been one and the same all along.
But just as Mr. Gray was about to stumble into his own trap, his evil twin brother wished him a happy St. Patrick's Day. Momentarily distracted, Mr. Gray took a run for it and somehow ended up in Timbuktu. The Malian Empire had waned, but the Timbuktu-to-Bamako rail line was the same it had always been. That is to say; shitty and in terrible condition.
It wasn't the only thing that was shitty and in terrible condition, as Mr Gray's mental health was in a similar state. Without a parasol to keep him from the rain, the drops smacking his bald head through the roofless train brought back terrible memories of his young life on the pigeon farm, where his parents raised him as a pigeon, keeping him in a tiny cage and feeding him breadcrumbs. Even today, he occasionally ate stale bread from a stainless steel bowl, while feeling rather self-conscious. Alas, said bowl―a family heirloom―was nowhere to be found among his luggage.
Suddenly, accompanied by wailing and gnashing of teeth, the train screeched to a halt as the driver had nodded off at the controls and slumped forward at an unfortunate angle. The passengers slowly looked up from the personal worlds into which they had each retreated and wearily eyed each other warily. Nobody moved, all waiting for somebody else to do their thinking for them. Finally a rugged man on his way to the Bamako salt mines stood up and said, "I'm tired of these motherfucking people on this motherfucking train!" He then proceeded to go back to doing his sudoku, looking somewhat self-concious. His outcry prompted Mr. Gray to open the emergency window, which caused a rogue stream of wind to whisk his sunglasses straight into the sky. "Penis!" he swore.
His sunglasses flew away unheeding. They were about to begin a voyage of discovery, in which the not-so-glorious god of lolis in the sky would battle with her own feelings of inadequacy. You see, even though she successfully annexed Poland, she still secretly wished to have breasts. Thus, upon discovering Mr. Gray's sunglasses, she took out her frustration on them by wearing them upside-down.
Mr Gray was not aware of these events transpiring; he was a penis connoisseur, well known for the lengthy reviews of not-so-lengthy phalluses he regularly publishes on his tumblr. Eventually, everyone's thoughts and train carriages simultaneously derailed and everything floated off into space, causing Mr Gray to wonder what had happened to gravity. He poked his head out the window to investigate, and saw that the cause of this madness was the great sky loli, whose bold fashion statement of twisted sunglassery had thrown the universe into chaos.
"Oh no!" lamented the Bamakonian salt miner, "I've been doing this sudoku upside-down!". Naturally, the rest of Mr. Gray's night proceeded in rather the same manner as always. That is to say, he began by pouring himself a glass of piss-poor quality Latvian wine and melting a chunk of butter in a saucepan on low heat. The deliciously putrid stench of gas was emanating strongly from between Dr. Robotnik's buttocks, along with a peculiar sound. These were - of course - obvious signs of an upcoming momentous GET. However unlikely it may seem,
( ・-・) 700GE-- well, poo.
said Beady Eyes, narrowly missing the GET and leaving it open for none other than the mysterious masked assassin Arf, who said, "Arf." before returning to his master: none other than the Bamakonian salt miner, who was actually a subordinate of Honourable Chairman George Bush CXXVIII, who had been subversively gathering GETs in preparation for a nefarious plot involving the Big Book Of DQN Mad-Libs, half a ton of rancid yak butter, and a very depraved Quake player. I cannot make sense of this story anymore. - interrupted Grandpa, "You, kids, got youself quite a vivid fantasy. When I was a young lad like you... and trust me I was..."
Without a word, the author stopped typing. He took the last two chapters, crumpled them up and threw them in the bin. Casually, with a practised motion, he then took out a lighter, poured a healthy dose of lighter fluid over it and set them on fire.
