Fester, Part 1

RP couldn't make the Fest this year and began worry we'd have no story at all. We'd heard certain veterans behind the interminable rabbit hype machine were invigorated by last year's SWL gathering (the hangover from which was certainly evident throughout 2010), but would not be attending this year. Didn't seem like we'd miss much so our friend and confidant Brown Nose the Pirate promised to attend in our stead and fill us in on anything interesting.

When we didn't hear from BNtP by the usual Wednesday filing date we assumed he'd flaked out again and prepared some filler dredged from HF Underpants. Nice folks but let's face it, looking for rumors on HFU is like gossiping with an accountant who moonlights as a pastor.

Turns out Brownie detoured through Disgraceland to and from the Fest. Lord knows what sort of reality altering experiences occurred after exposure to Evil Elvis's back yard psychefarm.

BNtP files this report:

"First of all, buddy, after grazing through EE's garden I'm lucky to be sane enough to write at all. I'm not sure any of this stuff I think I remember even happened. Talk about down yer rabbit hole. This is down yer rabbit hole, through the looking glass sideways, skin the rabbit with a jagged piece of looking glass and smoke it.

Ennyways, sometime late Friday night, the 4th, I'm in the Doubletree bar downing Cuervo Gold and Mickey's chasers tryin' ta clear my head. I feel this tap on my right shoulder, guy says "I got a message for you" in this baritone pro radio guy voice. No surprise, joint is full of radio guys. I look up. In the mirror I see this guy Jay S., everbody calls Bozo. But sumpin' ain't right, I don't know what. Then I put it together. Not only does the voice not match what I've heard on the radio, but his gut is missing. He's got the same sideshow tent sized white t-shirt as always, but it's baggy where his ginormous gut should be. And this creepy feeling crawls up my neck like that feeling you get when a WBNY QSL package of pogey bait arrives, but you never sent in a signal report, and the package is ticking.

"Fuck off," I suggest and toss down a fourth Cuervo. I'm curious what he wants, especially after the coin drops that the whole Bozo act is a sham. But I need a minute to think because his eyes ain't like in the photos I've seen, the kind where the lights are off and nobody's home. Nah, this guy's eyes, not only are the lights on but whoever's home, I don't wanna know.

"You want to hear this message," he intones with great precision. "It's from the bunnyman."

Yeah, he's got my attention now. I'm trying not to show it. But I feel my throat tense up as I chug half a pint of Mickey's and it makes this ploink! sound like the echo of a dry turd hitting the deep end of the bowl. And I'm pretty damn sure he's heard it too.

I'm studying my thumbnail to buy another moment. Sudden like, I feel this sharp gnawing pain on my left ankle. I look down from the bar stool. It's Kracker. Fuck me, I'm thinking, he's a goddam leprechaun. Guy can't be more than three feet tall, and most of that is head.

"Listen up, pally," he insinuates with that too-familiar nasally whine. "Boss wants to see you. Now."

Just when I'm thinking Kracker can't get any more annoying, he deftly dodges the swipe from my Herman Survivor size 11. I swivel around looking for another shot, just in time to catch him shinnying up Jay's legs. In a flash he's under Jay's baggy t-shirt and wraps himself crossways just above the waist. And sudden like the infamous Bozo gut is there... the Kracker-shaped gut. I'm staring, slack-jawed, suddenly aware of the irony of an all-too-familiar Bunny rhetoric about slack-jawed, lip-drooling, knuckle-dragging fill-in-the-blank for whatever or whomever the AnthropoMorphyBunny is pissed off about this week.

"Shall we?" says the Jay-Kracker thing. I can tell from his voice it's not a question. I slug down the fifth shot of Cuervo, finish the 40 of Mickey's and slide off the barstool. I fish a twenty tip out for the bartender. He seems genuinely surprised. I want him to remember my face, in case I need some sort of assurance later than any of this shit really happened.

On the elevator ride up I'm hearing this slurping sound. It's coming from underneath Jay's t-shirt. I'm tryin' not ta look but outta corner of my eye I notice this wet spot forming on the t-shirt. That last pint of Mickey's and fifth shot of Cuervo is gaining traction toward my throat and actin' like it's gonna skeedaddle. I grab a chaw of Juicy Fruit and give silent thanks to Current Time Radio as my gut settles. The elevator and my stomach both lurch to a stop."

(To be continued...)