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E06: Origins Part One: Broken Souls 

Tuesday, May 16, 1989: On an island somewhere in The Pacific, two boys cling to a cliff in the pelting rain at dusk as carnivorous parakeets dive bomb them screeching. Wind lashes at their exhausted bodies while fingertips grasp ledges full of centipedes and snakes. This IS their story. 

Chucky Oysters met Ricky Biscuits when they were both around 12, though no one knew exactly how old either was. These were also not their birth names – which had never been officially recorded, and otherwise, had long since been forgotten. Both boys had never known their parents, bouncing from orphanage to wicked orphanage, foster to crooked foster since birth, with stops at farms, circuses, and various houses of vice along the way until they finally arrived at Broken Soul Manor within a week of one another. 

This was no normal orphanage. Notorious in the industry, it was hidden from the rest of the world and off grid, located on a rugged private island off the coast of Mexico, beyond the reach of local or international authorities. Here, no one could here you scream, or sing in the shower. It was in essence a slave labor camp, and a place of grave and persistent depravity. During the day the children mined the red sand quarries for minerals or worked in the factory making rainbow jelly donuts for export. At night they collected sperm from cave spiders to make glue for dollhouses, or processed local salamanders into stimulants for golfers and lacrosse players. 

Speakers were placed strategically throughout the complex, and through them, a mix of sirens and alarms, ominous drones, slaughterhouse soundscapes, and tweaked out vocal arrangements isolated from awful pop songs, was played at regular intervals to destabilize and demoralize the children, sometimes interspersed with wonky accordion riffs played by demented chimpanzees They slept in muddy holes infested with swamp lice and were fed one meal a day consisting of cockroach fritters, sautéed bat vaginas, or if lucky, cat food served in an old boot. Men with sweaty ball sacks, who smelled of burnt garlic and sour milk would sometimes come in at night looking for company, forcing the kids to play 20 questions (are you Engelbert Humperdinck), or Scrabble (Znorbalonk? That’s not a word!), or listen to their poetry (roses are red, violets are blue its been three days since my last good poo)

Chucky and Ricky immediately clicked and soon developed a strong bond. Chuck found comfort in the Rick’s kind, deep green eyes, and Rick found Chuck’s warm voice and sunny disposition contagious. As they shared fantasies of escaping and building lives outside, each found in the other a will that was not ready to be broken and the inherent confidence to take on absurd odds. For years they toiled while plotting their escape, waiting for the perfect moment. Till, finally, on a stormy Tuesday, during the peak of the yearly Salamader Races, which was the biggest social event on the calendar and a massive drunken gambling extravaganza, while all the guards were wasted and distracted, the boys took their chance to slip away.

The path ahead was fraught with challenges and dangers. First, they had to crawl through The Cave of Deep Dismay in the pitch dark, through mounds of bat guano so acidic it burnt the skin and choked the lungs, and teaming with billions of roaches that scurried into noses, mouths, and butt cracks alike. Then, they had to cross the Stinking Woods of Regret where spitting death unicorns roamed and ancient trees stole souls. And past the shrubs of grave temptation, which whispered in the wind 

Stay with us, play with us / sip of the nectar of the orchid of delight, your cares will soon disappear / let me show you the slit in my trunk. There’s no creamier slit in the world / Don’t be shy, big boy / Ever done it with a hermaphrodite forest nymph - how about three?  / we’ll let you do anything to us, baby! Even water sports! Even fisting!

In truth, and understandably they barely made it past those tempting shrubberies. Each boy perhaps wanted to stay, but would not allow the other to be led astray. Their unbreakable bond pulled them through and they would have to use it more, because the greatest challenges still lay before. Now they had to climb The Great Wall of Doom, an enormous steep cliff face home to giant centipedes and crevice adders, mega nests of killer hornets, and flocks of bloodthirsty parakeets that attacked at will. It was getting dark and the savage storm battered them with heavy rain and winds, and each boy almost fell to his death twenty-six times, but they made it at last, collapsing, exhausted on the plateau above. Now, only one thing stood between them and freedom: The Snartus

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OK, we are back. The Snartus was an enormous beast made up of equal parts dragon, lobster, ostrich, and squirrel, covered in festering wounds that stank of cheese. It had machete like claws and dagger like fangs, and could projectile vomit a deadly purple poison. The boys battled The Snartus for almost an hour, finally defeating it with a combination of quickness, distraction, Krav Maga, and luck. It was not a pretty scene and I’ll spare you the gory details, but Ricky eventually cut The Snartus from sack to throat with a chef’s knife he had stolen. Pulling out its steaming gleaming guts, and parading around while wearing them as an evening gown.  Chucky found this act just a touch excessive. The boys stumbled on, tired and injured, only pausing for a minute at Beelzebub Bluff to gather what was left of their courage and strength, before diving off into the dark churning waters a hundred yards below, to swim The Channel of Gloom, on into freedom. 

Yay! Woohoo! – OK, settle down. Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. 

Being free was no easy business. The boys were broke and disheveled, with only smarts and stubbornness to go on. After regrouping in a small fishing village where they cleaned windscreens and sold bags of gravy at traffic lights, they traveled north, crossing the border in a large vat of mayonnaise on the back of a mule. They hustled their way through bigger cities, trying anything and everything to earn cash: first shining flip flops, then sandals and shoes, then selling old couches with pee stains to men with lisps. 

They tried their hand at busking- playing the didgeridoo while slapping a bass.  They posed naked for art students, dabbled in porn and cage fighting, and volunteered to take part in sketchy drug trials until they saved enough to start business ventures of their own, first selling bespoke, high end toothpicks, novelty tea cozies and unusual chutneys, (maple syrup and manure / lavender and fermented corn) then briefly running an auction that specialized in paintings by androids and walking canes for flamingoes, until finally finding their niche organizing pool parties with shitty music and bad drinks for douchebags and skanks. They were best friends and excellent business partners and they invested everything they had earned in the venture. This was it, and they were all in. 

Marking this bright new chapter in their difficult lives, the young men adopted professional new names: Chucky now went by Digger Mett, and Ricky became Vector Vein. This was also when Delilah Kola entered the picture. V&M Events was thriving and they hired her as the catering and drinks manager. She liked her martinis dirty as swamp water, and appeared black and white in color photos, and soon they both fell in love with her. Delilah was cunning, ambitious, and connected, and also a finance whizz. She soon tweaked the business model, redid the books to avoid taxes and brought in investors to take the franchise national. She also liked to party, introducing the boys to new music, drugs, and ways of life. And at first they were happy to share her, enjoying several utopian months as a power threesome spending money, getting high, hosting parties and orgies, and just living their best lives. But the shift had already begun. The end was approaching, and Digger Mett had no clue. 

And so, it came to pass, that on a sunny Monday morning less than a year after they’d welcomed Delilah into the fold, Digger awoke in a pumpkin patch on the outskirts of town with five missing teeth, wearing only a diaper and Viking helmet, but that’s a story for another day, because part one ends right here. 

-THE END-

E07 Origins Part 2: Vengeance

Narrator:

On a sunny Monday morning,  a man  awoke in a pumpkin patch on the edge of town with five missing teeth, wearing only a diaper and Viking helmet. He’d been in and out of hallucinatory delirium for over a week, no doubt drugged by a powerful concoction of substances, though he did not remember how or when. The mans name was Digger Mett, and this is still that story

In the city, Vector Vein and Delilah Kola were nowhere to be found. The office was deserted, with all furniture and equipment removed and dicks drawn all over the walls. But that was only the beginning. His car had been filled with dead toads and rotten guavas, and the contents of his shampoo bottles replaced with bat guano. His DVR had been erased and reset to only tape high school soccer matches and shows depicting close-ups of liposuction procedures. But worst of all, he had somehow been entirely written out of the company, with no more signing rights over any of the bank accounts. Overnight, he had been made redundant, and bankrupt. They had done it: Delilah, the woman he had fallen for, and Ricky, or rather, Vector, his best and only friend, and the person he trusted and loved like no other. It was a brutal, treacherous betrayal. 

And so, with nothing left to stick around for: no job, friend, woman, or assets, Digger Mett left town and began a life as a nomad, prophet, addict, buffoon. And thus he wandered the deserts, arcades and strip malls of the world empty in spirit and unsound of mind. To get by, he sold wobbly wheelbarrows and scoured beaches for scrap metal. He moved between flophouses, opium dens, and squats, and for a time, lived in a tent in the woods eating berries and wrestling bears. For years, his life limped on without meaning or logic, fueled only on drugs, kimchi, and self-loathing, till one day, while feeding the rats in the sewer behind the bridge, a thought burrowed through Digger’s mind and took root in the swampy depths of his brain, then grew into a purpose that would drive him onwards. That purpose was revenge. He wanted to find Ricky and Delilah, oh yes, and when he did, he wanted to kill them!

He reinvented himself as Rufus Nails, Private Eye, renting a small office above a vegan, gluten free mini cupcake shop and taking cases: kidnapping pet iguanas, framing the exes of jilted lovers, assisting in insurance fraud, but it was really just a front for the research he was doing: combing through records, following leads, checking out tips, chips and dips. In an effort to remain anonymous while tracking his nemesis he relocated again, altering his identity once more. As Jensen Cake, Private Dick, working out of a back room in a bowling alley, he took on new cases: recuperating sex tapes, extorting confessions from priests, blackmailing blacksmiths, all the while learning more about his target. And much he did discover! 

And now, to speed things up and add a touch of class to this two-bit production, here to summarize Jensen Cake’s findings, a former deeply undercover agent, an icon of culture and immaculate mistrust, a man who was once so constipated he had to have the nuggets removed by laser. Please welcome, fresh off a killer 92-week stint in the booming cruise ship entertainment space, friend of the show  and our guest presenter today, please welcome:

the reverend the governor, the shoreditch marauder

the goose vindicator, the hottest potato

the crisis averter, the army deserter

the deep sea mad hatter, no need to stutter

the one and the one only, the own and the onely 

the right and the wrongly, we sing him a songly

Sir Deklan Moper

Deklan Moper:

Thank you for that very hype and over the top introduction. Now do pay attention. I have the informationVector vein, Once ricky biscuits, had immediately sold the ultra successful events business he and Digger Mett had built together, and used the cash to fund various new ventures. In fact, in the years since the great betrayal, Vector had been playing the chameleon game too, changing name, look, habits and line of work repeatedly, ever building his shadow network. As Galapagos Bolé, he and Delilah had run various ventures of questionable integrity including: escape rooms for octopuses as a betting sport, and renting shorts and flipflops to people who had packed poorly for tropical holidays. As Stinger Bayne, he had put the skills picked up at Broken Soul Manor to good use, running factories that processed a type of stinky beetle into personal lubricant for sumo wrestlers, and milked blind newts for an essential element in cheap spray paint. 

Around that time Delilah Kola died in a freak acupuncture accident. Stinger Bayne took it badly. With no one left to anchor him to consequence, he dove headlong into a life of violent crime, both organized and gratuitous, laying waste to adversaries and slaughtering foes. He developed the habit of disemboweling them, writing haikus in the dirt with their strung out intestines, and taking artsy helicopter shots of each new death poem from above. There were rumors that after one particularly extensive killing spree, he had eviscerated so many people that he was able to write a full short story with their guts. It was about retired federal judge learning to love again by moving to the country and starting a ragtime band and had apparently been very well received by critic and public alike. 

And so, as Bayne’s legend grew, he developed nicknames: The Gut Slinger, Blood Poet, The Butcher of Pupi. There were rumors he was changing physically too. That one could now smell on him, the rancid musk of spent potpourri, and a hint of what never was or could ever be. 

His right eye went milky, his left eye turned black, and mushrooms had begun sprouting in his pits (mostly chanterelles and king trumpet, but the occasional morel too). That he’d grown two extra toes on each foot, scales on his back, and had to shed his dick skin twice a year, the way snakes shed theirs. …um, I mean shed their entire skins – like, from  their whole body. not only their dick skins – I can see hwo the wording might have been confusing –wait, not that snakes have dickskins- they don’t have dickskins do they? – CUT!

Bayne was into geriatric prostitutes, bare-knuckle boxing and injecting himself with salmonella for fun. He developed a taste for spoiled pudding topped with raw diced garlic, and had a pet marabou stork that was into flower arrangements. They said he recalled a guy taking a difficult shit on the lawn at a funeral, or a dude with dried out deli sushi on the counters of his soul, but it was hard to separate rumor from fact. One thing was certain: the man kept killing, eliminating, growing and diversifying his operations, till Stinger Bayne dissolved into the night and out of sight, and emerging in his place, through the toxic vapors of murder, corruption and greed, stood supervillain Stinko Fist. 

Narrator:

Thank you to the reverend, the guvner, the one and the one only Deklan Moper – thank you sir. But lets pause here for a second to pay the bills, because, today’s episode is brought to you by…

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Narrator:

OK, we are back. Anyway, Stinko Fist had become a criminal mastermind of great power and considerable stench. Humble sleuth, Jensen Cake kept tracking him, looking for a way, a time and place to exact his revenge, but it would not be easy. By now, a hand-picked security detail of monsters and mercenaries protected Stinko 24/7, and boy were they were a ruthless bunch. There was his right hand man, Asparagustav – a gigantic Swede with a chainsaw for a hand and really smelly pee. There was the Scum Bison, who had once died and been brought back to life by having his DNA spliced with that of a buffalo. He grew a fine set of horns and Stinko sometimes used his milk for mozzarella. May Maggots could commune with vermin and her cousin, Possum Plague, could inflict pestilence by touch alone, leaving you to die slowly and painfully in a puddle of your own stinking filth. They all lived together in a state of the art secure complex where Stinko’s pet stork, Hyacinth relentlessly patrolled the perimeter, dotting the land with huge wet white and green poops and looking for eyes to peck out 

This unsavory gang never let Stinko out of sight, making him almost impossible to get to; in fact, there was only one occasion when Fist ever let his guard down, and so, was vulnerable. Jensen Cake learned, through his incessant snooping, that Fist had buried Delilah Kola in a remote jungle location, and planted a fast growing sacred tree above her to enshrine her in its roots. On the third Thursday of every other month, Stinko went to this secret spot on his own to sit and think, listen loudly to a special One Direction playlist on his headphones, drink martinis dirty as swamp water, and mourn, raw and alone, totally exposed and unprotected. This is where Jensen Cake would make his move. This is where he would exact his revenge. Here, Fist and Kola, would reunite in death. 

Operation ThunderGoat consumed all Jensen’s time and effort. He spent months on meticulous planning, using burner phones and fake IDs, paying, sucking, and finishing people off, stepping on toes and busting skulls till everything was aligned. Then, on a savage Tuesday at dawn, he set off in his 96 Avenger, to avenge a decade of deceit and betrayal – to set his trap and kill his once best friend. 

His plans were tight and the passage was easy. He’d bought intel from a blind taxidermist on a motorized scooter, about a secret tunnel straight into the belly of this hidden sanctuary and now followed the crayon drawn map to access its concealed entrance in an old coal mine. The tunnel was long, dark, slimy, stinky, often narrow, and generally unpleasant, but, driven by the promise of pristine vengeance, Jensen paid no mind as he walked, climbed, crawled and slithered his way through to the other side. 

It spat him out into the gut of a lush shaded valley where a stream sweetly flowed into a crystal clear pool. It was Picturesque, and a fitting place for murder. For there, not 20 yards off, was Stinko Fist, kneeling shirtless in the sand, headphones on and facing away, vulnerable as a newborn unicorn. Stinko came to this sacred place to sit with his loss, and he always came alone. Now, poetically, serendipitously, the two of them were alone together in this mystical space and here it would be done. They were the only two players in this epic, cosmic narrative, the only two—

Wait a minute! What was this? How could it be? Asparagustav? Yes, indeed it was he! In one swift and deliberate movement, the Giant Swede Stepped out from behind a boulder, started up his chainsaw, and decapitated Stinko Fist – chopped that big old head right off. It rolled along the ground, mouth open, completing a most explicit assassination, and Jensen Cake had a front row seat. Stinko Fist was dead, by the hand of another. Revenge snatched away, and forever unfulfilled. Rendered purposeless once more, what would become of Jensen Cake now? 

-THE END-