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Uncle Zeke coud tell what was going on. There was a whole lot of yelling and screamin and Zeke treid to shove the old basterd off the hose and the two of them gripped eachother like two people dancing. Like two of those Namib desert lizerds you see on a nature program who because of the scorching sands that will burn the belly of the one underneath insted mate with eachothor standing up on tippytoes in a slimy embrace. They started shouting and beatin the crap out of each other.



Granfather's eyes sprang open in shock and terror, large and saucerlike, just like those of a scrawney terrified mammal, like a tiny anxious primate, a cornered pygmy marmoset parralized by fright as he is coght by suprise with a photoggrapher's flashbulb in his face on a dark still night in the inky rainforest of Madagascar clinging to a branch in the middle of his regular, routine and until now secret autoerrotic self-stimmulative manipullations.

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"MAH DEAR ELDER BROTHER," he preened in fake gracious sweetness. When Granfather is sweet it is not a honey or sincear type of sugar sweetness. It is more like the sugary fraud of rancid cough syrup, pooled and dried for a week on the floor of some abbandoned stinking crack house where it was spilled by acident, though remains alive with the writhing, twitching world of a thousand angry insects trapped by its deadly mucky sticky surface.

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Since we didnt have no money, five of us Cyberblop people were being "sold off" to the danm client. It is more embarasing than being, like, a baseball player who instead of bein sent down to the minors is traded to another team in exchange for some friggin new tires for the team bus..

Stu's familior smiling face was the same, but below the neck the lumpey hanging folds of dimply jiggley blubbor did not look real. It was if my freind did not exist from the jaw down. From the neck up it was the same old Stu. But hunched foward in front of me, he looked like he was resting his jowls on one of those humorous plywood cutouts that you see at carnivols. Stu's half-nakad body looked like a scratchy bootleg photo of a sloughterhouse hog hanging from one ankle on a conveyor belt in in a meat processing plant in a peice of printed literatture prepared by vegetarian extremists. "Click here to close the documant," he said, leaning over, and when he did so his flopping pendulous mammaries brushed agianst my arm. I shuddored with queaziness.

I stumboled down the hall and heard a strange loud barking belowwing sound from far, far away, like that of a sad walrus's lammenting cries ovor the death of his mate. Of course it was the throaghty laugh of Cathyann -- from way, way far over by the cafeterria.

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In 1959 or '60 Granfather, (doctor-certifeid by Army doctors at Area 51 as a "rare unexplianed monkey" and not a man) orbited the earth three times. Like other spacebound primates, old basterd was suposed to pull various levers in order to steer the craft. His reward was a banana pellet. But greedy old beast that he is, he pulled all the levers at once and freakin crashed into a small lake in Australia which is now still desolate and polutted.

I was realy constipated bad. On top of that traveling always makes it worse. Dr. Madison told me once that this is a naturol early human response that goes back to cave men being in flight; in othor words when another tribe is chasing you across the grasslands with spears to kill you your ass sort of glues up so you dont have to stop and crap.

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So you figoure the old basterd's gotta be dead right? Well you never know with Granfather: He has a way of amazingly sneaking out of tight preddicaments much like a starved Norway rat is able to enter an abbandoned building thruogh a one inch wide toilet valve, and bite you on the ass when you least expect it.

zzzz