When Das Terrible Minotour Risen’s in Off the Sea

By Jim Meirose

It wasn’t supposed to start this way, but since you insisted, here are your team’s assigned purposes. Nyah, nyah; get, from the kitchen, a raritangle of chopped bosnias served on a belch of kleenex on a clean plate toward each paying customer—who will be labeled as such—because, Das Minotour, risen in off the sea, told each quite clearly; here it is, citizens; Pacha’ pounded on, pounding, pounding out with, but ended up nonetheless shouting, like always, Everybody! All of you! Come here, get this drip; anyphase, after my establishblink up Back City, they said what d’we do for foodie and drankdowns, but—they are stupid. With rare exception—always very stupid. And, even though the big senior class mathematically specialized finals are over, but, still, always; yes, always. No egg’sathrecisation! Plus, my God, ‘s being me ‘ly myself, of course, as usual, it’s spilled out all over here. At exactly the next six p.m., like all of you do once a day. All of you, ‘cause of you. 

Spill it all out over here once a day!  

Jesus Christ! Swear to God! As D’ Spanish Tyrant’s big Rant’n Rave! Why must it take this to teach you? Why? Why? So? What the ‘uck?  

But. 

Even so, we’re confident the more robust among you, your quietly solid core of noncomplainants, will crisply start over, as, new fresh; so; so-o, this; so-o-o he, new fresh; as’d this; and as’d ‘it off-gain; so-o-o, and this restart’s well-advised at this juncture, partly because two time signatures are normally used in this kind of attempt, yas yas, so-o, to provide a satisfying end for each and every listener with no sexteptions.  

Hip!  

Fat hooey.  

You should not find this necessity surprising, since we all swore to God, then, that ess, God hun-self had made it so-so, guvvernmendt men thrust f’um his bush, stating, We know your plight, we are here to help, like all’s of those always react, of course. That’s their reason—though it seems most laborious, twisty and non-intuitiviteed. And, most of you already may know what we said, what they said, back then, that, Your Back City is speckulumly unicornique, and muss’ be hairy-served, often as daily r’ hourly or more, so—you need to know, eh, new fresh; got to know, eck eh, new fresh; will be told, rip, ‘cause that’s my mission. This swamp’s a devil; does not want you here; strains to—no, no, look into the black greenie face of the solidified stinking rotmass o’ Back City swamp and we won’t need to tell you, you’ll see for yourself, that it’s coming. It and all its big stink of a past implies, entails, or—quite simply, means. For God’s sake, insurer. You’ve a brain, you will see; day and night, it strives to take you. New fresh. It’s coming. Sure as knot soup. New fresh. Take you. Take you. What hard words these; it comes to take you. 

That simple. Simple as; 

‘m new lin-n’geries, to b-bail!  

Yope. 

As this’s-ll perfectly circular and intentavittebelle right now, contact local law enforcement immediately local law immediate-hic local enforcement. Local. Hic. Of the law. 

Yes! I said! Enforcement! With an e! Because, if Das Minotour risen in off the sea comes up to save, but can’t never, if that’s ‘t, all’s done for. You, too. Run fast now. 

What?    

Run fast. Right now—buh huh, wuss; huh. New fresh. Uh! B-b’, s’ ‘ot soo f’st; so what, ess, ‘s, so. Move over there just a tiny ‘fore you go, though, would you? I need to reach those things over there. Sure. But, I may not go. I really do feel good, but—someplace down deeper, I’m not glad I do. You know?  

Not really. 

You know? You know? You— 

Han’ d’ d’ palmup! 

Okay, Willy. Stop. Calm down. Der booster’s widdyu, okay? Now, anyway; so since you’re too stubborn to take the easy way out, gi’in that, then so, know that much like you, struggling Pachasandrim pushed on relentlessly with that very same shriek-type, waving down all the while; ‘cause it sank into her there’s a sea on the tipside, and a swamp on the glandside. If they press together, she might just canc-l-null downdyflop. Abracadabra! And so, then imagine, if their deeply elemental untiring strive to engulf Back City crashed together right ‘top your great big central city hall, and whirlwring yo’ round themselves big and tight, you’ll all engulf each other, and all you two ‘s well, transforming most instantly into multiple deep flows of peagreen calm slush! 

Oh—like slap? 

Yep! Like slap! And then, like probably, this Big One Production operation will, then, ‘ig its vacuum t’ rush in takin’ your surviving crowd, if any, down a murmur or two; here or there. Or partial, if s’. But—hope’s her-e, and hey. Read that off that tallyscroll up there. It says;  

Current denizens. Do it now. S’create non-account. 

S’create non-account. S’create it now. All current denizens. 

All currently registered denizens use “TFFKJXC376BQM24K37M89KMWM” to s’create your non-account now, or, yes be denied, yes, be denied, yes be-ee-e-e-e, denie—d-d-d-d— 

New fresh. 

What? Phooey! 

Schratcha-count newly cr-reated! Gosh oh gee. So jot down these details. Oop. Where’s my sharpened das yellowish pinckle? An m’ blankiedink’d-papro? There—one of those—of those nonessential kinds. That whole stack can be wasted without a worry. Write that down. That code’ll always get you in, but, my God, again. It’s spilled out all over here, again; what the ‘uc’? Oh, hokay. Blue bumble, by gosh, I always— 

Calm down. Sit that slap-panel. 

What? There? Why? 

Because. Do not always run off with yourself—stop! Bad habit. Here, do not worry. By use of your own fully exact unique key, regardless of your tote or your styles, you’ll always be let back in. 

Sure? 

Yas, see. See? Do you see? 

Of maybe, but. 

Oh, come on; what I mean, Martin. Get it up. Think a little. 

But; why? They said Das Minotour’s risen in off the sea. 

It’s—nah, nah. But hey. My God it spilled out all over here; what the ‘u’? That happens every single time. Don’t you care? Yes, of course; that happening every single time’s why we the guvernoir-mente hass com to bail from you. New fresh. ‘cause, Das terrible Minotour’s risen in off the sea. Eighteen-sixteen for the—wait, oh mosh, we need to survive, eh, but we just hit the bricks, eh, ahhhhhhh, ahhhhhhhhhh! Das terrible! Oh, Minotour’s mosh risen in we just off the t’ hit the sea bricks, ahhhhhhh. Too weak! Too weak! Why does this happen again and again? 

Who’s to blame? 

Oof! 

Y’ know. But—poor Martin. Good God, he ought of got it. Knew better. Y’ know? 

Yes. But not all can always be saved. 

‘n the truth. New fresh. Tube. Poor Martin indeed. But he’s only the first. When the killer which cuts its own arms with its knife makes long wet red lines down its forearms, it’s time then to immediately call the police. But, yet; it’s funny how I feel that’d also be—wrong. 

Overkill? That, you mean? 

Yep. The first. 

Nah. Nonsense. No one’s ever that simple; only Begobah. 

New fresh. New fresh. 

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