Butch Flabbacini and Ratso Haggisi.

by The Wandering Wastrel   

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So there I was, a young man… body glued to a sad sagging ragged couch, eyes glued to the omnidirectional garbage chute, which was currently feeding me my daily Simpson shaped dose.
By my side was my mate Shnarler, who was diligently rolling a fat twoskin Trumpeto, one of three we would hammer before the end of the show, Thus severing any ties to rationality that was left after the message bearing antics of the yellow folk had done their best.

There was a knock on the door. Curiosity and laziness getting the better of my paranoia I yelled “Come in”.

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In snuffling and snorting, shuffled a mountain of what I decided was a girl.
She was made huger by the gigantic gangster type jacket she was wearing. The type of jacket that makes the person look as if they should be inflated, branded with some kind of beer commercial and floated above a football stadium. She had a huge moon like yellowy waxen face, somewhere in the center of which hid two piggy little eyes (glistening with malice of course) a snout and a sour piggy mouth. She possessed a sort of a hunchdness and an inbreeding that was so profound that I was sure that her left eye was in the right socket and her right eye was in the left socket. Stubby little sausage fingers protruded from the arms of the blimp jacket and dirty little trotters poked out of what could have been baggy gangster pants to someone with out barrel legs.
My friends, always seeking to give new and exiting names to people, dubbed her Butch Flabbacini.

Shuffling in behind her was a specter… a wraith…a wisp… another thing that I decided was a girl also.
This one wore a holey Metallica t-shirt that would had once been a cool black and had now faded to a dismal dishcloth gray, the picture and lettering on the shirt had come away and now could only be discerned with the use of the most diligent connect the dots type imagination. It hung upon her skinny gray frame like a funeral shroud. She was so skeletal that not only could you see her bones, you could see the marrow! Tiny and pointy braless tits like sharpened witches hats threatened to poke out eyes. She wore a pair of rancid black jeans that she probably stole from a Barbie and on her head she had a black beanie that was (I am sure) disguising the fact that her hair was coming away in patches.

Her face was so narrow and skull-like, that you had to look at it from side on to get a good view. It was pocket with craters and newly forming pustules and cankers, a moldering cold sore started at the corner of her mouth and seemed to be threatening to engulf her entire head.
Her whole demeanor was permeated with rattyness from her yellow ratty teeth to her twisted ratty claws. A festa face whose only future prospects were either emaciated druggie or Hideous witchy scarer of innocent folk who are just trying to get along in life and don’t need such shocks. I was to find that she was well on her way in both these careers.
All you would have to do would be put a couple of bolts on her neck and the villagers would be after her with torches and pitchforks.
She was dubbed Ratso Haggisi

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They shubbled over to me and in the pained conversation that followed I deduced these facts.
1.  They wanted drugs.
2.  They had no money.
3.  They were friends of Timo the psychotic Samoan alcoholic baker and professional boxer from next door and he had sent them over here to get drugs.
4.  The huge one was 18.
5.  The waif was 14.
6.  The waif claimed to drink a forty-ounce of Jack Daniels a night (which looking at her condition was the only nutrition she got).
7.  The huge one wouldn’t stop seeping out disgusting farts and trying to secretly wave them away with her hand. The farts were so deeply from the graveyard of the long gone and were so festering that I was sure I was going to spew and actually felt the rise, the eyes water and the strange prespew saliva at the back of the throat being produced. The human body has honed spewing into a finely tuned survival mechanism with millions of years of regurgitory experience to draw from.
8.  Their personalities were so vile and the perverted statements they made were so profound, that all my friends had fled to their rooms on the hearing of once sentence from these handmaidens of pestilence. And to this day I have blocked the evil and pained conversation from my conscious recall, pushing it back and away into a dark dungeon-like corner of my mind where even my other bad memories fear to go.
9.  They wanted drugs.
10.                    They had no money.

Pure survival instinct kicked in and I suddenly said that I was very tired and had to go to bed because I usually go to bed at 7 pm because I work so hard and must get up at 4 am.

I pushed them out the door and fled downstairs to my room which was a large hollowed out carpet-lined cave under the house. I slammed the door and jumped into my damp moldy smelling but always-warm bed, to cower under the covers.

The whole experience of being subjected to those two had left me a husk. A drained shivering sick feeling ruin.
My sense of light and love in the world, a feeling that I tenderly and tentatively fostered over time, (because the soil of a mans heart is stony, but he grows what he can… and he tends it) had been cruelly snuffed and my mind had experienced such terror through being in the presence of these malicious beings for long enough for my sanity to be broken down into shards so small that the bits would have easily passed through the eye of a needle.

Well maybe not that bad …but I knew I didn’t want to ever see them again.

I hid in the darkness a while, then I heard it…the approach of cloven hooves followed by the clacking of bony reaper feet.
There was a knock on my door.
In reply I snored a terror filled snore.
They opened the door and came in anyway.
I felt their approach like a tidal wave of poisonous swill.
A stubby hand pudged me “awake”.
“Hey we were thinking…” a skinny voice cackled.
What followed was indescribable and I will not bring the conversation to memory lest I run shrieking from this world, yet I will tell you dear reader that the goal of the negotiations they embarked on was for them to establish some sort of “sex for dope deal” with me. At the start they were offering very little sex for lots of dope and at the end they were offering lots of free sex if we shared a thin joint.

My racing heart, my bile rising terror and my freezing sweat got the better of my miserliness and I gave them a hand full for them to promise to “Never ever under any circumstances come back to me ever again forever… that’s ever…I said ever.
I mean ever.

The next day my friends worked up enough courage to talk to me about it in the same way someone would talk to a sexually abused child.
When they established that I was ok they started in with a great story of how they crept down and listened in at my door and had heard a sickening orgy going on and how they were going to tell every one this great and crazy tale of me as the filling of a Butch Flabbacini, Ratso Haggisi sandwich.

I calmly went to the kitchen and got the sharpest knife I could find and then asked them to tell me what tale they were actually going to tell everyone.

They told me a new tale of how they had seen me running after them up the driveway, sending the two witches packing, with a knife in each of my hands and threatening them with dismemberment if they ever set foot on the property again.

“That’s better.” I sighed.

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