Give Me a Burger and Hold the Fries
by Aaron Aaronson (from the book "Self-extermination. Sounds Like a Plan")
Roger felt the heat coming from the kitchen and he cringed. It was as if the walls themselves were sweating. He stood before the shutter like doors blocking entrance to the kitchen, light stabbing through the slits of the wood, piercing him with the reality he knew he now stood within. The cackling sizzle of burning oil from within the kitchen roasted his mind as it cut through the night. He knew it could be nothing else.
But what was there he could do? The only exit from the house was a door only accessed from the kitchen. A fire marshal examination of the structure might have at some point been a course of action that someone should have pursued but it really was a little late for it to do any good in terms of the current predicament. There really was no way around it. For Roger to make his escape from the house he would have to enter the kitchen. And if he did that, then...
Roger gripped his head in his hands, he shook it side to side, anxiety and fear pulsating, coursing through his entire body, his heart pounding inside as if about to explode, his mind racing, speeding off in every direction, looking for an answer, but all thoughts colliding with each other, like some demolition derby of futility, all answers going up in flames. From inside the kitchen sounded a rippling, heckling, cackling, crackle from the stove. There really was no answer to the situation except one. He would have to make his way into the kitchen and hopefully make his way to the door before it was too late. But if he did that, then he would have to…And then…
But he had to be certain, even though with everything in him he already knew that he was. He needed visual confirmation. And so he slowly, apprehensively moved his head toward the shutter like doors, so that he could peer through the slits. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He opened his eyes again and the picture, at first cloudy, soon cleared and there it was. He would be lying if he tried to claim that before looking through the doors he thought there was any chance it could have possibly been anything else.
There in the kitchen, standing by the stove, cooking an assortment of peppers, onions, and mushrooms was an eight foot tall, homicidal, psychopathic potato.
Really now, are you even going to attempt to postulate the ridiculous argument that, when Roger was hearing cooking sounds from within his kitchen it could possibly have been anything else?
Well, maybe it was just his girlfriend who woke up from a nap and felt like making herself something to eat, you counter.
No. You know full well that is a ludicrous theory. Roger doesn’t have a girlfriend.
Well, maybe it’s his ex-girlfriend who broke into his house, stole all of his underwear, urinated on the bed, rubbed all his personal belongings on her vagina, cut out the eyes of all the photographs of him, then set the bedroom on fire when she burned an effigy of him, but only after writing on the walls with her own blood “I would die for you. But will you die for me? Ha, ha, ha, die, die, die!!!!!!!!” Then writing on the walls on the outside of the burning room with her own feces, “I love you, as I hate your fuckin guts you miserable bastard. Die, die, die! Ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha. Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”
Um…Ah...O.k., that is admittedly a considerably more likely scenario than the previous one you offered. And, I do have to concede, one that is actually entirely likely to have been the case, but no, you are wrong. It was an eight foot tall homicidal, psychopathic potato standing in Roger’s kitchen, cooking that assortment of vegetables. And Roger knew this from the very first moment he heard the hissing sound and could smell the vegetables being fried.
You see, he could tell by the smell there were peppers being cooked. And, she always really hated peppers. Therefore your possible explanation for the situation was entirely outlandish and preposterous.
Back to the potato.
The mammoth figure stood there. It was using a spatula to occasionally press upon the vegetable combination, occasionally flip them over, so as neither side would be overdone. Aside from that it just stood there, humming to itself, as the hulking, behemoth monstrosity that it was. It was an ominous sight to say the least and Roger hadn’t a clue what it was that he could do. But he knew, he had to do, something.
But what? What was there he possibly could do? Sometimes when faced with an impossible situation you have to somehow dig the deepest into your soul to overcome all odds and so declare victory will be the only possibility, and nothing will stop you, absolutely nothing. But how? What to do to redirect a clearly unwinnable situation in your favor, turn the tables, and march out that seemingly unreachable door as the victor, triumphant?...But how?...What to do?...How to win a battle that could not possibly be won?...
“Well, I guess I could go in there and hit it with a chair.” pondered Roger out loud.
Hmm, just a suggestion, might possibly want to reconsider that course of action, just saying is all...
“O.k., that's it then, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to go in there and hit it with a chair.” Roger concluded.
Ah, brilliant move and a wise battle strategy I would say. Except that, that may well be the most entirely moronic plan of attack any half-witted dimbicile has ever proposed throughout the entire course of human history. But by all means, go, hit the eight foot tall potato with a chair, I’m sure that will solve the problem completely. Call me a misinformed prognosticator if that is what you wish to do, but I have this sort of funny feeling, this night will not end well for you.
But, back to the potato…
“Yeah, that’s what I’m going to do. I’m going to go in there and hit the eight foot tall potato with a chair.” announced Roger, again out loud and with increased certainty of the strategic intelligence of the plan.
Fuckin douche...
Roger slowly opened the door to the kitchen, edging the two parts aside, a glorious light shining upon him as if he were revealing revelation, stepping into the arena of the soul with the answer for his salvation. He was going to grab a flimsily constructed chair by the counter and knock the potato over the, the, look, fuckin potatoes don’t even have fuckin heads, so essentially he was entering into a course of action, thinking that by knocking the eight foot tall potato over the, over the, over the fuckin potato with a flimsily constructed chair, it was somehow going to solve all his problems.
“Come on baby, time to make some mashed potato.” snarled Roger through clenched teeth.
Um…Ah…Oh you are a fuckin douche.
Roger just stared at the potato with a forceful look and spoke, “Hey little robot, I'm going to turn you into a tator tot.” Roger flashed a sinister smile then walked to the counter, opposite the stove, grabbed a light wooden chair from it in his hands, raised it into the air, then stalked up to the potato, until he stood directly behind it, proclaiming, “Come on, let’s make some gravy.”
Um, make some, it’s a potato you fuckin moron, if you could be any more of a stupid douche, little moronic douche.
Roger, chair gripped firmly in his hands, above his head, ready to strike…
And then…
Down Roger swung the chair upon the potato’s, um, potato, with a loud shout and a trembling body to deliver the full force of the impact.
The potato?
Well, it didn’t flinch at all, didn’t move an inch or react in any way whatsoever, the blow did, after glancing off the potato, strike the frying pan, toppling the cooking vegetables from the stove to the floor though, at which point, after a few moments of silence and inaction the eight foot tall potato slowly turned around towards Roger and erupted with a monstrous voice. “You! Spill my spices! The spices I have been working on for over an hour. But you, you, you spill my spices!”
“Well, yes I did hit you with a chair, but, the spilling of your spices was an entirely unintended consequence of the proceedings.” countered Roger.
“But you spilled my spices!” the potato growled.
“Look, dude, the spilling of your spices was an entirely unrelated occurrence. I was merely trying to hit you over your, your, your potato. Look, potato, I never meant to spill your spices, so can’t we at least leave it at that?” Roger summarized, attempting diplomacy.
“No, we can’t leave it at fuckin that you fucker, you fuckin spilled my fuckin spices!” snarled the potato with seething anger.
“You know, I think I have to point this out, you have this absolutely unbalanced obsession with your spices.” observed Roger.
“But you fuckin, motherfuckin, fuckin spilled my fuckin spices you motherfuckin, motherfucker!” the potato bellowed.
Roger shook his head with somewhat dismay. “Um, I would say touché except there was no touché at all. You know, you’re actually being a quite belligerent and disagreeable eight foot tall homicidal potato so I think I am really going to have bring a halt to this conversation and bid you Mr. headless potato, good day. Now if you’ll excuse me, I do believe it is time for me to race from the room and hurry up the stairs for you appear as if you’re about to kill me. So then, with that I’ll be off.”
“My spices!!” unleashed the potato with a roar that shook the very house.
At that point Roger turned around and took off running, out through the now open shutter like doors that had previously been blocking the entrance to the kitchen, doors which, to be perfectly honest, to Roger, were entirely pointless, senseless and idiotic. They were also, the only thing she had ever brought into the house. She had always said she was crazy about them and needed them because they gave her this giggly, happy, wappy, shippy, whippy, blippy, kill, kill, kill, die, die, die feeling in her left calf and…Well, Roger figured, why not let her have installed the shutter like doors on the entrance to the kitchen if it would make her happy. To which she responded, “Damn right it would make me happy. Can’t you tell I’m happy you kill, kill, kill, die, die, die Roger? Love you Roger, hate you Roger, die you Roger! Forever Roger! Ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha, ha!”
Um…Yeah…
But back to the potato…
It stood there with its arms raised and emitted an earth shaking growl as Roger sped from the room, heading for the stairs, to hopefully make his way to safety.
He exited the kitchen, rapidly stepping from the tile to the wooden floor, at which point his foot slipped and sent him hurtling into the wall, his face colliding with the wall, opening a deep gash above his right eye. This, of course, would not have happened if the rug had been there. The rug that had been there outside the kitchen door was probably Roger’s favorite item of the house. It had this really cool coloring and patterning and he would always stop and stare at it before entering the kitchen, thinking to himself ‘You know, never really been a big fan of rugs, but that’s a damn fine rug.’ She always hated the rug. And when she left the house she stole it, wrapped it around a mound of dead, painted black flowers, poured gasoline on it, set it on fire, then threw it off a bridge, she then setting herself on fire and jumping off the bridge after it, shrieking “I love you rugger, I hate you rugger, die fuckin rugger, die, die, die, die, die! Why won’t you love me back rugger?”…
Eh?...
Details are murky about whether she survived the plunge from the bridge into the lake beneath it. Much like the murky depths of the lake her corpse shall forever remain within upon the floor. Or?…There are rumors, legend around the surrounding town that, every now and then, when a couple is out upon the lake for a leisurely, peaceful, romantic boat ride beneath a warming sun on a bright summer day, at times a completely fuckin insane woman will emerge from the water, grabbing them and pulling them into the lake to their watery grave, growling as she does so, the phrase “Die Roger, die”. Could it be her? Is it possible she survived that fall into the lake?...Who can say? It’s a mystery…Of course, the 532 ranting, hysterical, essentially incoherent voicemails she left on Roger’s phone last week might possibly provide some indication of what the answer to that question would be…Cheh…Cheh..Cheh…Huh…Huh…Huh. Several of the messages it was her just making those sounds.
But back to the potato…
Roger picked himself up off the ground and bolted to the stairs, knowing the potato was almost right upon him, the tension of the moment breathing upon his neck, Roger knowing that if he broke stride for even a moment the potato would descend upon him and it would all be over. He turned the corner and leapt up the first few steps of the stairs but lost his footing and slipped, his head slamming upon the steps, opening a gash along the side of his left eye, both his knees bloodying from the collision with the stairs. But Roger knew he couldn’t give up, he had to keep fighting forward to make his escape. So he gritted his teeth and propelled himself forward to evade what would be certain death. But as he re-engaged his ascent of the stairs he felt something latch onto him, just his clothing but the grip was tight. Was the potato already upon him? What was he to do? Roger instantly swung his legs around in a violent thrashing, twisting, spinning fury and when he did so, he heard a loud crashing sound behind him. Was he actually able to topple the potato? There was no time to look behind him and see the results of his desperate motion. What was clear was that it had provided him with the necessary time to create distance from his pursuer and so with determination
Roger again picked himself up to continue his ascent of the stairs. He knew he didn't have a moment to lose so he threw himself forward into a rapid stride but collided with one of the walls along the staircase, knocking him to the steps but he knew he couldn't break stride, so, up the staircase he then bounded on all fours, ascending in much the same manner as a toddler would. Bur he was propelled by fear not curiosity, so, oddly, the process was much more clumsily carried out than as performed by those who were just performing their first movements on the earth, and with each step conquered, he was forced to endure the crash of his knees and hands slamming into the wooden step with a jarring thud. But as he looked ahead, before him, he could see he was almost at the top, just a little more. And then, he had reached it, and he stood and quickly dashed to his left to get to his bedroom, close the door and hopefully figure out what to do from there. But, unfortunately for Roger, the repeated collisions with the steps left his legs weakened and deadened and when he tried to stand they quivered and gave out, sending him slamming to the ground, face first with a severe impact onto the floor, his teeth clenching together so viciously he could sense the smell of smoke when they connected with each other. But, even more unfortunately for Roger, when making his climb up the stairs in the manner of an infant explorer, he was doing something else those young adventurers were often apt to do. He had his tongue out...
Roger opened his eyes and raised his body to his knees. Had he been unconscious? Inside his mouth he felt a screaming pain as it was continuously filled with blood that he swallowed in a steady stream. And the stream just kept flowing and flowing.
"Hey there Roger, how's your day going? Me, I sure can tell you I've had better. I certainly have seen better days."
Roger looked down at the floor at where the voice was coming from. Upon the floor, at the top of the stairs there was a fish, who just lay there motionless except its gills pumping heavily, its eyes blinking rapidly.
"You know, how the hell did I wind up here? How exactly does a fish wind up stranded on the floor with absolutely nothing but solid land as far as the eye can see? I sure can't figure it out. I don't know, guess I must have swam into some vortex in the stream that doesn't confine itself to the laws of physics or space and time, causing some sort of shift in interdimensional object permanence re-appropriation or something. I don't know, just thinking out loud. The school I'm a member of, we are encouraged to approach intellectual conundrums with an open mind. Sorry if I'm boring you." theorized the fish.
Roger just sat there on his knees, looking down at the fish, which just lay there in silence, completely motionless except for the movement of its gills and the rapid blinking of his eyes. As Roger did so, staring down into the blinking eyes of the fish, he thought to himself, "I didn't think fish ever did or even physically could blink their eyes. O.k., this is a little weird."
"But what is it that you do when you find yourself in a situation there seems no way out of, a fight you cannot possibly win?" asked the blinking fish to Roger. "Do you just lay there and accept defeat? Do you just give up and let yourself die? What would you do Roger?" Roger didn't answer, he could only stare down at the fish, too entranced by what he was seeing. The fuckin fish was actually fuckin blinking, it was really freaking him out.
"Well, you know what Roger, I'm not going to give up. Damn it Roger, this fish is going to fight. Sure there is no available water for miles around, but damn it. I'm going to get to some body of water and swim my way to freedom. Now let's see here. I guess I just, and then." The fish began flopping wildly around on the floor, flipping over and flailing in all directions for about a minute until it stopped and just remained silent, motionless on the floor except for the movement of its gills and its rapid blinking. Then, again it spoke.
"Nope. That didn't work. Actually it failed miserably. Well then, I guess there really is nothing at all left for me to do but die. So, what are you going to do Roger?" With those words the fish's gills stopped moving and it was dead. Roger slowly extended his hand toward the fish and gently closed its eyelids.
He stared down at the fish and solemnly shook his head. Then the expression on his face turned to one of pure panic as he quickly darted his gaze around in all directions. 'My God, how long did I spend listening to the words of the blinking fish?' He wondered to himself, 'My God, the eight foot tall homicidal potato here to kill me has to be right behind me and patiently waiting with a sadistic sneer.' then sounded within his mind as he lurched around to stare back down the stairs he had climbed.
When he did so he saw there was no eight foot tall homicidal potato standing there and waiting to kill him. There was instead...nothing. Just the staircase he had climbed, surrounded by the walls on its sides. He shook his head with confusion. There was also, as he scanned the area before him, the railing along the right hand wall, an extremely heavy fixture, uncommon so far as these things usually go, that had somehow become dislodged from the wall, a railing such as that when separated from the wall and striking the wooden stairs certainly would make quite the thunderous noise, a noise that might very well simulate the noise that, say, an eight foot tall homicidal potato would make if toppled to the ground by a chaotically violent swirling kick. And, as Roger looked closer at it he could see a section of cloth that appeared quite similar to the shorts he was wearing, then he looked down at his shorts, and yes, coincidentally, there did happen to be a section of his shorts that was missing, but somehow the section of his shorts was snagged upon the banister.
'Weird' thought Roger to himself. Though even stranger to Roger was that the eight foot tall homicidal potato was nowhere to be seen, that who's only essence is the pursuit of his prey and the thrill of the kill was nowhere to be found. 'Why the hell didn't the eight foot tall homicidal potato cooking spices in my kitchen follow me up the stairs to kill me?' Roger wondered to himself. 'This doesn't make any sense at all.'
He then spoke out loud. "What could possibly be going on here?", asked as further self-commentary. He then spit out a mouth full of blood, having grown tired of the charms of just washing it down his throat. He then just stared ahead with a peculiar look, shaking his head with confusion. 'This really didn't make any sort of sense at all.' There then came the sound of a voice from downstairs.
"You know, after you so rudely left, I just figured I would make myself something to eat. Had some of that pasta dish with eggplant in it. And man let me tell you, it was good, I mean better than good, it was great! The way it had the two kinds of peppers, the red and the green, loved that, absolutely loved that. Man, do I love peppers. You know, I really don’t hold it against you that you spilled my spices, it didn't need them, it was truly delicious. And the bread, where did you get that bread by the way? Gotta get me some of that bread. Now I know what you may be thinking, a carb eating a carb, then eating another carb, sort of carbabalistic, but you know what, fuck carbs. Oh, my name is Atkins by the way. Anyway, done eating, so I guess now I'll just come upstairs to kill you Roger."
Roger stared ahead with terror. In a moment the image of the eight foot tall homicidal potato, flashing a wicked smile, and carrying a butcher knife, appeared at the bottom of the stairs.
Cheh, cheh, cheh, huh, huh, huh. Cheh, cheh, cheh, huh, huh, huh...
To this, Roger responded, "Look, really, how many times do I have to tell you to not call me anymore? And trust me, now is really not a good time. And please stop stealing other people's cell phones to call me so that I won't recognize the number will you. And repeatedly mimicking that sound from the Friday the 13th movies, look sorry to have to tell you this, but you're not even very good at it. Look, I'm going now, goodbye."
Oh, probably should have mentioned, at exactly the moment the eight foot tall homicidal potato appeared at the bottom of the stairs, Roger's cell phone rang, and he answered it, because, you know, it could have been an important call, but it was instead, well, you can probably figure that one out.
But, back to the potato...
Roger put his cell phone back into his pocket. The potato began slowly stalking its way up the stairs, an evil smile on its face, dragging the blade of the knife along the wall as it did. Roger turned to his right, to the three steps leading to the hallway that led to his bedroom. With one fell swoop, he flew up all three steps but, unfortunately for Roger, it was an ill fated flight as he stumbled and crashed to the floor, his, o.k., this is admittedly somewhat ironic, his groin landing directly on a can of burn soothing spray that was in a bag he had not yet put away, the spray bought to provide relief for a burn he sustained on his groin when he, nothing sexual whatsoever to do with it please note, dropped a hot french bread pizza on it. What Roger was doing, eating a french bread pizza while naked, o.k., that would indeed be a legitimate question.
With his testacles now in his stomach, Roger picked himself up off the floor and hobbled as quickly as he could toward his bedroom. But he knew with his pace reduced, the potato could overtake him at any moment. He saw the open doorway of his bedroom, it was so close yet so far away and he desperately wanted only to make it through and slam the door shut, to rest for however long within the solace of his temporary freedom and figure out what to do from there. There were only a few steps remaining but he knew he could be brought down before traversing them so with all his energy and a torrent of fear propelling him he dove forward towards the doorway.
But, unfortunately for Roger, the distance of the dive was somewhat misjudged and he landed on the ground, halfway in the room, halfway in the hall. Though even more unfortunately for Roger, his stomach landed directly on a protruding nail from a floorboard he had been meaning for weeks to hammer down before it became a problem. He never actually did this. The protruding nail from the floorboard was now currently piercing and gouging his stomach, as blood from his stomach flowed onto the floor, or if you think about it, technically it could be blood from his mouth that had made its way to his stomach, hmm, really no need to debate ownership or origin of the blood, it belonged to the floor now.
But...back to the potato.
Roger lay there on the floor, knowing that in his attempts to speed his escape he had instead only wasted precious seconds and that lying on his stomach with a nail currently piercing his stomach was not exactly the stance he wanted to be in when the potato, 'My God, it has to be right behind me!', finally caught up to him. So he forced himself from the ground, stumbled into the room, slammed the door shut, turned the lock, then just stood there with his back against it, sighing then panting heavily.
He couldn't believe it.
He had actually made it.
Somehow, defying the unquestionable reality of the situation, he had managed to escape the clutches of the eight foot tall homicidal potato.
He wouldn't have thought that was possible. But he had. He had made it. He was safe.
Or?...
As Roger stood there with his back pressed against the door, his mind was racing, he thinking to himself, "What, are you crazy? Have you gone completely insane? You are standing with your back against your door to protect yourself from an eight foot tall homicidal potato. Give me a break man, they ought to haul your ass off to the loony bin. Wake up man. Come to your fuckin senses. I mean, this is reality talking here, there is absolutely no possible chance in hell there is an eight foot tall potato out there you've protected yourself from by closing your bedroom door, because come on man, reality, there is no possible way it isn't just going to break right through it, shattering it like it's a tooth pick, you as well. You're actually in the most dangerous place you could possibly be. So what to do? What to do?...Just get as far away from the door as you can...Just run away from the door and dive and do it as quickly as you can...So come on, now, do it...Go!"
With this Roger quickly ran away from the door and...
What a douche.
He ran as fast as he could and leapt as far as he could to escape the crashing, splintering of the wood and thus was engaged another flight for Air Roger and...
You know, they really might want to consider shutting down the airline because it's safety record is absolutely dismal, but Roger leapt across the room, landed on the bed, but bounced off, crashed head first into the wall, then crashed down into the nightstand and fell to the floor. And don't even think about any sort of deal for a line of Air Rogers, because, unfortunately for Roger, when he sat up after hitting the ground he also threw up on his shoes. But, even more unfortunately for Roger, when he crashed into the nightstand, he shattered a glass upon it, and when he hit the ground a large jagged piece from it was driven into the left side of his chest, directly above his heart.
Roger just sat there on the floor, looking down at the new wound on his chest. There was an awful lot of blood.
He glanced over at the wall then pulled himself along the floor and just sat there with his back against the wall.
He looked down again at the wound on his chest. There really was an awful lot of blood.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a pack of cigarettes, took one out, lit it, and took a deep drag.
Why not, one last cigarette for he about to die.
He looked down again at the wound on his chest.
The wound went very deep.
He took another long drag.
He let out a long, hacking cough.
The source of the cough? The lethal wound through his chest maybe? Maybe the act of trying to smoke without a tongue. Possibly just the wear and tear of a life long smoker about to die. Hey, take your pick, and when you got down to it, what difference could it possibly make?
Roger let out another grinding, hacking cough, even more violent and lasting longer than the one before. The end could come at any moment.
But, for any who might want to know the source of the cough. Well, it really wasn't for any of those reasons mentioned...
You see, Roger didn't actually smoke. This was actually the first one he had ever had. The pack was only in his pocket because when they were living together in the house he had taken it away from her and he had just never remembered to take it out of the pocket of the shorts he was wearing and hadn't washed them since. You see, she really did have a problem with smoking and Roger was just trying to help get her to stop. You see, when she was living in the house, she would walk around the neighborhood, and whenever she saw preschool children playing in their yards, she would go up to them and give them cigarettes, telling them it was candy, saying "But it's candy that you light with a match, so it's really cool candy!" She would then burst into her song and dance, singing "Who is the best woman in this world. It's the Candywoman! She gonna give you candy, and you'll be eating that candy more and more, every day, all your life, until you die, which the candy woman hopes will be much sooner because of the candy the Candywoman is giving you, you little fuckin, miserable shits...Huh, what's that? Don't think I don't see that look. Don't think I don't know. I see the way you strut around, the way you shake your ass and act all flirty when you're anywhere near my boyfriend. Yeah, I know you want him but he's mine you little bitch! You better not be fucking him because if you are I will kick your little ass bitch! Roger, why won't you have a baby with me? You really don't care about me at all. Oh why? Kill, kill, kill, die, die, die Roger! Hey, why you little brats running away crying and screaming. The Candywoman orders you to come back here now so the Candywoman can kill you, you little fuckin monsters. Oh why Roger, just have my baby Roger, please. I love you Roger?"...
'You know, we may have had our differences and things obviously didn't work out for us, so one could easily think I wouldn't care at all what happened to her. But God, I sure do hope she can one day stop and bring an end to her smoking problem.' thought Roger to himself, his final thoughts within a darkening box whose walls were closing ever inwards until there was only darkness and the box itself was no more...
Of course, should point out, for the record, she has, as of yet been unable to quit because that episode just detailed occurred yesterday, during her frequent times of trolling the neighborhood for any sight of Roger when she realized he wasn't in the house.
Oh, but, back, to the box...
The box had disappeared...
The box was gone...
There was a brilliant flash of light, then a drawn out sounding of a harp that led into a glorious, harmonic chorus of voices singing hymns. Roger opened his eyes and all around him was darkness He looked down at where his body used to be, and it still was there, though it was illuminated by a peaceful, other-worldly glow. It was a magnificent light and it illuminated his steps as he began slowly walking through the darkness. 'Where am I?' wondered Roger to himself. "Could this be, could this be heaven?" he wondered out loud. Roger just wandered then through the darkness, he the only light within it.
It was an amazing feeling. He felt an inner peace he had never before known when he was alive. It was a divine sense of euphoria he never before would have dreamed was possible. And all his physical pains he had sustained in trying to make his escape from the potato, all of them were just gone. And he could talk, not the phonetic, garbled word salad of trying to do so without a tongue, but clear, intelligible words.
"Could this actually, really be heaven?" Roger asked out loud.
Thing of it was, when alive, Roger had never actually believed in God or followed any religion at all. He was an unapologetic Atheist. He found the idea of faith or any sort of higher power to be an impossibility on the earth, life and all things being what they were. But still, that being so, still, here he was. In his attempted escape from the potato he had perished, but when next opening his eyes, here he was, in heaven. He couldn't believe it. And the sensations coursing through his body, and the wonderful thoughts within his head made it by far the greatest feeling he had ever felt. And so on through the darkness he just continued to walk, feeling as he did that he truly was in a better place, never wanting to leave.
After walking for a while, he spotted a bright, glorious light up ahead, and as he got closer he could make out an elaborate throne with a figure sitting upon it. The figure upon it wore a long flowing robe, had shoulder length hair and a goatee and wore a beaming smile. Roger walked up to the figure and just stood before him. At which point the figure held his arms out and began speaking. "Hello Roger, welcome. I am so glad you are here. It was your time. You truly are in a better place now. Do not worry or trouble your soul about anything for there truly is nothing to worry about here. And if you ever have even the slightest flicker of a concern about anything, please, take to heart these words I will now sing to you." The figure on the throne then began singing. "I am going to heal you, lift you up and help you up, fill your blood, drink from my cup, you're in the kingdom above the skies." The figure just sat there. Smiling welcomingly at Roger.
Roger looked back up at the figure and spoke, feeling awe struck, "So, you're God."
The figure replied, "I'm sorry child, couldn't quite understand you. Please, speak again."
Roger stumbled, trying to come up with the right words to say. "I was just saying, just, you know, sort of blown away, realizing that you are actually God."
"God who?" the man on the throne asked.
"Um, God, you." Roger replied, thinking the answer was, of course, obvious.
The figure on the throne looked at Roger with a perplexed look, "Sorry, you're sort of confusing me here."
Roger tried to clarify, but in doing so he found himself wishing someone could clarify for him. "I'm just saying that, you, you know, um, aren't you yourself God, or are you just a subordinate or something?"
"Yes, again, I apologize but you really have me at a loss. Who again is this God you keep referring to?" the figure on the throne asked.
Roger looked at the figure with consternation. "Wait, so then you're not God you're saying?"
"No, sorry for the confusion." the figure on the throne answered.
"Um, and your saying you're not a worker for God, an angel or something?" Roger enquired, still not understanding.
"Sorry, no. You must have me confused with someone else. I've never heard of or ever met this God person." the figure on the throne declared.
"Um, who are you then?" Roger asked.
"An alien." the figure on the throne answered straightforwardly.
"An alien?" responded Roger with disbelief.
"Yes, who else could you have thought I was. Oh, yeah, wait, sorry, I forgot, this God person. Maybe I'll meet him someday." said the alien.
Trying to comprehend the situation, Roger pressed, "But, but, but, in your song you said you're in the kingdom above the skies, that would seem an obvious reference to me being in heaven."
"No, it's a reference to you being on the planet Quaglarzar. "Kingdom above the skies" is the marketing slogan, pretty catchy isn't it?" announced the alien.
Appearing somewhat flummoxed, Roger stammered, "But wait, no wait. You also said it was my time. That's, that's a textbook saying that God has decided it's your time to go, you know."
"Well it was your time to go, your time to go to Quaglarzar. You see, we have allotted time slots for when each member of your planet is scheduled to be teleported to Quaglarzar, pin pointed to the second." the alien explained.
"And so, what, my time, pinpointed to the second just so happened to be as I lay there dying while trying to escape an eight foot tall homicidal potato?" Roger questioned, incredulously.
"Well, if you say so, you see we really don't concern ourselves with whatever events might be transpiring at the chosen moment, it's all laid out quite a while in advance. So if you're saying your time to go to Quaglarzar happened to come at the moment you lay dying while trying to escape an eight foot tall homicidal potato then that would just be the peculiar timing of coincidence. Though, still not clear what that would have to do with this God person you kept referring to earlier. Should maybe look into that." The alien's face took on a somewhat concerned look. "Though, if I might be so bold as to say so. This thing you are saying about being chased by an eight foot tall homicidal potato, you do have to admit the idea of that being real is a little odd. Are you entirely certain that was what was actually happening?"
Roger appeared even more discombobulated. "Wait, o.k., look, no, o.k., look, you also said I was in a better place. At least they're in a better place or they're going to a better place, those are things religious people always say about someone who is dying or dead. Do you deny that you spoke the words, "You're in a better place?".
The alien stared at Roger with a look suggesting Roger really should know the answer. "Roger, give me a break, you live in Detroit. The place is a fuckin shithole."
"But, but, wait, you also said "Drink from my cup". Drink from God's cup, That's like one of the most, I mean, completely religiously infused phrases there is." Roger pointed out, thinking he had made an inarguable point.
"May well be, can't attest to that, but Roger, you do realize that I never said drink from God's cup, I said drink from my cup. And by my cup I was referring to the cup of Quaglarzar which I, as a representative of the Quaglarzar government council am instructed to offer a drink from to all earthlings we teleport from earth so that we can put them to work in our slave mines while, in their spare time, using them as our test subjects as experiments for our biological weapons we plan to employ in our eons long battle with the planet of Withzuglugular so that we might wipe their existence entirely from the face of the universe. So come on now Roger, as I said, drink from my cup. Come on, you can trust me, this will be very good for you I promise, believe me." The alien reached out toward Roger with a cup in its hand, filled with some liquid.
"I aint drinking from your fuckin cup dude. I mean who the hell would actually drink from your fuckin cup after you declared in no uncertain terms what drinking from the cup would cause for them?" Roger asked contentiously.
"Um, mostly Donald Trump supporters actually. So come on, you're feeling thirsty aren't you? Go ahead, have a drink." The alien again extended the cup to Roger.
"I'm not drinking from your fuckin cup, motherfucker!" was Roger's curt refusal.
"Well then, I'm afraid your time on Quaglarzar is at its end. You will be teleported back to earth in just a few moments. Until then, some music for the road. Goodbye then, pleasure meeting you Roger. With that the government representative from Quaglarzar vanished in a poof of smoke. Immediately after, six mariachi singers holding guitars, dressed in traditional, old fashioned mariachi attire sprang up from the ground, three a piece to either side of the smoke still hanging in the air.
The mariachi performers began singing while strumming on their guitars. "Desperado, why don’t you come to your senses. You've been out pissing on fences, since before you were born." They all then started rapidly strumming their acoustic guitars, signaling a song change. Again they started singing, slowly strumming their guitars. "So long little pilgrim. It's that time again. So long little pilgrim. We'll see you again." The mariachi singers then let their guitars drop to their sides and waved to Roger, "Adios amigo."...
At that moment a trap door opened up beneath Roger, him falling through into a twisting maelstrom of flashing light and disconnected sounds, then into utter darkness and there he remained for a period of time which there was no way to measure, long or short, and then...He felt his eyes blinking, and then, he opened them fully, and then, he saw that he was sitting on the floor of his bedroom, his back leaning against the wall. He looked about the room, clarity coming into focus. He looked down at this body. There was a large pool of blood beneath him on the floor. At first, when just opening his eyes, there was only silence, but the silence slowly lifted, giving way to loud mariachi music sounding from downstairs. There then came a loud voice shouting from downstairs, "Arriba, arriba, andale, andale! Tito Santana. Would you say I have a plethora of pinatas? Si, si, indeed you have a plethora of pinatas, el potato guapo!" It was the voice of the eight foot tall homicidal potato, there could be no mistaking it. Even though it was the voice of the eight foot tall homicidal potato, mimicking an extremely bad Mexican ascent. Roger looked around the room again, then again looked down at his still bleeding body. He was still in his bedroom, which would mean he hadn't died in his attempted escape from the potato. And the potato was still within the house, and he was still alive. But then, what of that brief time he had spent in heaven, um, rather, that brief time he had spent on the planet of Quaglarzar before his body was pulled back to earth. How to explain that?
The voice sounded again from downstairs, rousingly and joyously. "Amigos, let us again sing the chorus of the song! But potato guapo, why not sing the entire song? You do not argue with potato guapo, only the chorus, so andale, andale, El Matador, Razor Ramon, mucho rapido! Si potato Guapo! Now then let us sing la pelicula!" The potato then started singing, um, the potato really was a lousy singer so it might want to consider singing lessons, and, second point, taking Spanish lessons as well. Anyway, el canto. "I am going to kill you, slice you up and dice you up, spill your blood, drink from the cup...Give me a burger and hold the fries!" There was then the sound of celebratory shouting as the potato repeatedly fired off a handgun into the ceiling.
'Oh that's just perfect.' thought Roger to himself. 'The eight foot tall homicidal potato who is here to kill me and is downstairs singing to itself and speaking Spanish, actually has a fuckin gun now. Could this day possibly get any worse?'
Roger just sat there, within the burning cradle of hopelessness and despair. There seemed no reason to go on, no point in fighting, no reason to try. As he sat there he lamented that he hadn't actually drank from the cup of the government representative from the planet of Quaglarzar and then been forced into servitude in the slave mines while simultaneously having medical experiments performed on him so they could totally annihilate the planet of Withzuglugular with biological weapons. At least there was the glimmer of a possibility he could somehow emerge triumphant within that situation. Here, it was a completely different story. I mean, come on, he had to figure out some way to make it past an eight foot tall homicidal potato and escape from his house. It was an impossible situation, there wasn't anything Roger could think of that he could possibly do. The situation was hopeless, utterly, utterly hopeless.
Even trying to think of a solution, Roger felt himself drowning beneath a sea of distress, and he just wanted everything gone, to be done with it all, to be free, for it all to be over. His eyes were slowly closing again as he spoke out loud, his voice but a murmur, "Hello, fair land of Quaglarzar. Your wayward son is coming home. I was never meant for this world here. Good night. May the masters of Quaglarzar, from my dear sweet home, rest in peace, and may the angels sleep with the sparrows. Farewell...Roger...is gone. There will be no more tomarrows." Roger's eyes fully closed, his head then slumped down upon his chest...
Um, why don't you just jump out the window dude? I mean, it's not like you live on the 53rd floor of some high rise tower. You're just on the second floor of a modest sized house. Really, dude, just jump out the fuckin window.
'Um,' Roger started thinking in his mind, his eyes opening, him lifting his head 'I do have to admit, there is a logic and a bit of sense to that.' He nodded his head with relief, thinking inside as he did, 'It really is a rather short drop to the ground, what's the worst that could happen to me, a sprained ankle? Whereas, if I was to try and actually get past the potato and out the door, the only possible result is certain death.' He nodded his head more emphatically then spoke out loud. "Very well then, I now know what I have to do. I have my answer. I see the solution. And the answer has been staring me in the face all along. So I just have to sneak up behind the potato with a chair and hit it with it."
What? No. Dude, what the fuck is wrong with you? What the hell is this perverse infatuation you have with hitting potatoes with chairs? What the hell is the matter with you, you douche?
Roger nodded his head and stood up from the ground with absolute purpose and determination brushing aside his various physical ailments. He grabbed a light plastic chair from within his room and made his way to the door of the bedroom, opened it, and stalked out into the hallway. "You're going to feel what it's like to be au gratin. Because your day is about to get a whole lot more rotten. You're so going down, because you're about to do battle with the prince of hash brown town. Come on baby, it's showtime."
Um...Oh you fuckin douche.
Um, and Roger's last comments, yes, that is what he said, but that was in no way what it sounded like what he said, because, kindly keep in mind, he has no tongue now. I just didn't feel like phonetically sounding out what it sounded like because though an unintelligible mess, the actual words are what really highlight just how much of a douche he indeed was.
Anyway...
Back, to the douche with a plastic chair, heading down the stairs to hit the eight foot tall homicidal potato with it...
Roger couldn't believe how different he felt on his descent of the steps versus the blinding fear he had felt during his pyrhic climb of them not that long ago. He nodded his head with a steely, forceful determination. His eyes were clear now. There were no more questions skewering him from within. He knew what he was going to do. He was going to sneak up behind the eight foot tall homicidal potato and hit it with a plastic chair, "They say, to the victor go the spoils, well that's what I'm going to be, the victor in this epic struggle, and you, my adversary, are going to be the spoils. So sorry to have to spoil your day Mr. Potato, but you're about to be one very spoiled potato. You know, like, those times when you leave potatoes in a closet for too long and they start growing those things out of them, I don't remember what those things are called, actually what are those things called? Doesn't matter, because that's going to be you." Roger nodded his head with even more confidence and determination.
You know, I'm not even going to bother commenting at this point...
Roger reached the bottom of the steps and stopped to come up with the specifics of his battle strategy. Immediately, he knew what his course of action would be. What was called for here was a truly surprise attack. So he decided he would turn the corner from the stairs and wildly rush into the kitchen and whack the potato with the plastic chair.
The time had come...
It was the moment of truth...
Roger counted down out loud...
"3...2...1...Show time." Roger took a deep breath then raced around the corner toward the kitchen, the chair raised before him, Roger screaming "Buoyzuy!" As he did, look, who cares, he was trying to say the word "Banzai" by the way, but it didn't sound remotely like it, do you actually think there was a chance in hell this was going to work?
But...back, to the douche with the plastic chair...
Roger frantically raced toward the open kitchen doors, wildly shouting, but he crashed face first into something solid, knocking him to the floor. He lay there on the floor and shook his head, slightly dazed by the collision. He then looked up before him to see what had blocked his path. And what he saw were two closed, shutter like doors blocking the entrance to the kitchen. He then heard behind him, heavy footsteps slowly approaching, he turned his head and saw the looming gigantic figure of the eight foot tall homicidal potato, smiling wickedly and holding the butcher knife in its hand.
Roger just sighed and shook his head dejectedly. He knew it was all over now. There was nothing left for him to do. In the end, he would not be the one to be triumphant, the potato had won. Roger looked up at the potato and spoke what would be his final words, "You truly were a formidable adversary. I thought I had you beat but you certainly had a few unexpected moves up your sleeve in the chess game of our battle of wits. I only ask one thing of you, something I full heartedly believe a warrior of your stature would extend to a foe he has felled upon the battlefield who freely admits he was defeated by one who was superior to himself. So, out of honor, I ask you, just make it quick will you?"
The potato looked down at Roger and nodded with the respect that one would deliver on the field of battle to a worthy, defeated combatant.
"Very well then" Roger nodded his head resignedly. "Get on with it then"
The potato raised the knife into the air and began to swing down, but there was then the sound of the door leading outside opening in the kitchen and a woman's voice could be heard, calling out from within the kitchen, "No, I got this." The potato stopped the motion of driving the butcher knife down toward Roger to kill him.
Roger looked ahead at the closed shutter like doors with a foreboding look and spoke dejectedly. "Oh shit. This day is about to get a hell of a lot worse."
The shutter like doors then slowly opened, a blinding light from the kitchen spilling from it into the living room. Sure enough, it was her, his ex-girlfriend, Joanie. She stood there, holding a butcher knife, very overdone mascara on her face to simulate tears, she had blood dripping from her mouth, and was wearing a long flowing black wedding gown. She cackled wildly then spoke. "What's the matter Roger my dear, you don't seem happy to see me. Don't you love your pooky dookums any more. What, are you surprised to see me, well, surprise, here's Joanie! Oh you make me so sad, so sad, I'm...Going to kill you my dearest! Ha, ha, ha, ha!" She then wildly and chaotically laughed with a shrieking, shrill voice while the eight foot tall, homicidal potato started laughing boisterously behind Roger. Then Roger could see three dwarf clowns go running behind Joanie in the kitchen and out the still open door of the house while a bright red elephant came slowly stepping in through the door wearing a tiara of leaves, making its way behind Joanie to the other side of the kitchen while a gaggle of green baby geese waddled behind her and out the door, and five bears riding unicycles and juggling flaming knives entered from outside and circled around the kitchen in a figure eight pattern while, behind her, Elmo from Sesame Street and Gonzo from the Muppets popped out of the toaster and joyfully began bobbing their heads in unison from side to side as Santa Claus, who had apparently been within the oven, pushed open the oven door and started waving like a robotic mannequin store display, repeating "Ho, ho, ho." Over and over. And throughout all of this, joining in Santa's soundtrack to the scene playing out was Joanie's and the potato's wild bellowing laughter.
Roger just stared ahead at the scene before him and shook his head, a completely aghast look on his face, then he spoke, "Jesus Christ, what am I, trapped in a fuckin bad acid trip?" Roger then felt himself growing faint, the picture started to swirl before him, and then everything went dark...
Roger opened his eyes and stared up into the darkness. He was shivering and covered by a cold sweat. He was on his bed. He quickly turned to his side, to the night stand, and turned on his lamp, he placed his legs over the side of the bed and just sat, breathing heavily. A hand touched his head and began stroking his hair. A woman's voice could then be heard, talking soothingly. "What is it my dearest, what's wrong?"
Roger turned to Joanie. "Oh, hi, wow, I just had the craziest, most bizarre dream I've ever had. It was, it was just, so help me I can't even begin to explain it. It was terrifying and, and, just absolutely crazy, completely insane."
Joanie stroked his hair even more vigorously then spoke, but when she did, her face had this detached, distant look and the words were mistimed with the movement of her lips and the words came out sounding monotone, empty and hollow, "Don't worry my dearest... It was all...just...a dream..."
At that moment Roger looked ahead and saw, rising from the floor to stand upright, the eight foot tall homicidal potato, holding a butcher knife, a sinister smile on its face, it began chuckling wickedly. Roger turned to Joanie who also had a wicked smile on her face as she pulled a butcher knife from beneath the covers, herself starting a wicked chuckle. Roger turned and looked at the potato again then back at Joanie then at the potato, then back at Joanie as the two of them continued wickedly snickering, the sound of it growing louder and more pronounced. Roger looked back at the potato then turned and stared directly at Joanie as she stared at him with maniacal eyes chanting "Kill, kill, kill, die, die, die Roger. Kill, kill, kill, die, die, die Roger!"
Roger spoke, "O.k., what the fuck are you even doing here? I have a restraining order out on you, you know?"
It was the potato though who responded to the question, "Yeah, but you don't have a restraining order out on me." The potato and Joanie then looked at each other, both of them erupting in wild laughter, Joanie screeching, the potato laughing boisterously, both of them gesticulating wildly, jerkingly as they laughed.
Roger looked back and forth at them repeatedly then spoke, "Fuh dis shih. I'm owa here. I'm sewwing da fuhhing hows. Jehus Crus I nee a guh rehhy fuhhin druh." Roger got up from the bed and put on his shoes then exited the room and made his way down the stairs, the sound of Joanie and the potato's wild laughter raging away as he did. He walked through the kitchen, opened the door to his house, stepped outside and closed it behind him.
The End