Ravna and a ligature
Magic-marked on May 20, 2007.
I’ve always appreciated the sound of a man musing to himself quietly while waiting for a bus that will never arrive, and this very morning I was able to appreciate this experience first-hand while waiting for a large one to pull up and cart away all the sandworms that have been infesting my vestibules for the past few weeks. (The gorillas—and Ravna—have been so upset about this. Thanks for asking. They’re holding up just fine, though.)
I went out this morning to catch one—the big white one with the green stripe, that lurks around the corner from my house, hiding from the gorillas—but all I found were catfish askew and askitter in the street, and the Spice Girls dancing barefoot on the sidewalk. Although, I admit I may have imagined that last bit. I imagine a lot. It could’ve been five Britney Spearses instead.
“So there you are, you old hornswoggler!” I chortled when I found where Yappie, a bus driver by trade, had been hiding: His large carcass had stuffed itself (still breathing!) into my very own mailbox, his head nestled snugly under his tail and his four legs askew and asplinter above his head. They were broken. As was the mailbox. Yappie was still breathing gently, so I made sure he kept doing this for a few hours before moving on to the next pwee-tasting task I planned to conquer and leave for dead today.
That task involved Ravna Olegg-Thorssondóttir’s feet, toes, and the Latin conjunction et drawn as an elegant ligature between them. With a large permanent marker I did this, carefully illustrating her feet with dozens of tiny ampersands, from heel to toe—and then between each of them.
Ravna seemed to enjoy the experience, mildly, to put it mildly. So did I, and I put it not so mildly.
The gorillas, however, did not enjoy this.
Dealing with seven restive gorillas when a girl’s feet are in your hands is not an easy task, mind you. I had to call upon my old friend-cum-enemy Samuel Dreckers, highly-trained assassin of the fifth degree, but even that wasn’t sufficient to stop an onslaught of seven hairy apes bent on destruction and hungry for bandannas. When they come at you, howling and yowling in their gorillanese language, …hoo boy, man, oh man, do you just want to soil yourself and run away, squealing like a little girl still in her pigtails and riding her pig’s tails.
Samuel Dreckers got torn in half. Then into smaller pieces. Then… stomped on. Angry gorillas. Angry gorillas. Bad, angry gorillas, and yours truly (Pnårp) without a single bandanna in sight. Then he (I) remembered: Gorillas don’t like bandannas. It’s Habanas they like. Big, long, stinky ones that make your eyes water and set your smoke alarm off.
I only had five, alas.
Five gorillas pleased. Two intent on tearing yours truly (Pnårp…) into tiny little pieces, and trampling the pieces into the floorboards while whooping like, well, gorillas. Then—like any gorillas worth their salt—they probably had a mind to ravenously ravish Ravna, or something along those lines.
Fortunately, Samuel Dreckers, before his latest demise, had left behind his ninjas-in-a-box kit. Just add water, shake, and stir lightly, then roll it around on the floor for a while and shout random Japanese curses at it when nothing happens. I just added water—not enough to drown them, but enough to to… Oh, my God, the gorillas—!!