Other Fan Fiction / Romance Fan Fiction / Original Stories Fan Fiction ❯ The Adventures of Thad Gunter ❯ Brain Shit ( Chapter 4 )

THE CONTINUING ADVENTURES OF THAD GUNTER!

 

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Chapter 4: Brain Shit

 

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“There's really nothing like a cleansed colon.”

 

So spoke a brown haired Clueless Asshole in ducky pajamas seated behind Isaac Thaddeus "Thad" “Dude” Edgar Howard Gunter III. Though his causal tone of voice paired with the statement he made was slightly unnerving, it was really the last of the things bothering our hero at that time.

 

First off, Thad had never flown before. This was surprising, given his previous life as a hot-shot cock-on-the-walk documentary filmmaker, but, somehow, through no intention of his own, he managed to avoid it. Having now experienced it, he found himself wishing not to revisit it again.

Not that the concept of being suspended hundreds of miles in the air bother him all that much. It was more the concept of being suspended in a tight, confined, air compressed metal shell being flung at a ridiculous speed into God knows what sort of sky that bothered him. Was it odd that his primary fear was that the plane might collide with an alien spacecraft of some sort?

 

His company didn't help any. Besides the ducky pajama clad asshole behind him, there were also two young children who kept running up and down the aisles, spitting, screaming, and just generally being little shits. A large fat woman, one whose body seem to be composed of nothing but uncooked bread dough piled on top of each other, weighting no less then three-hundred pounds, wearing Daisy Duke shorts and a low-cut hooker blouse sat next to Thad, more or less forcing his eyes to the plane window. That didn't help any. He remembered that “Twilight Zone” episode.

 

Thad would admit though that, overall, the actual plane ride was less of a ball exploding-ly uncomfortable place to be then the airport. Now that was frikin' scary. The most accurate description would be that the general atmosphere of a busy airport is like having millions of bugs crawling on your skin. Each bug is armed with a tiny pickaxe and each tiny pickaxe is chipping away at your juicy, vulnerable flesh. Thad was glad to that his flight start relatively early for he feared that if he had stayed in that madhouse any longer, those ants would pick away at his interior body, exposing his icky wormy insides for all the ugly world to see.

 

“I mean, I just got an enema last night. Hot damn! I feel better then I have since I was seven years old. You would not believe the kind of things that fell out of me!”

 

The man seated next to the Clueless Asshole, who was currently trying quite desperately to bury himself in the latest generic spy thriller/serial killer Tom-James Clancy-Paterson novel. It wasn't working.

 

The Clueless Asshole continued, “Do you know that the average person has over twenty pounds of extra content in their colon by the time their thirty? That's why everyone should get an enema at least once a year. You'd be healthier for it, believe me.”

 

The man threw down his book and looked the Clueless Asshole in the eyes, “This conversation is like getting an enema, except instead of having a tube inserted in my ass and filling my lower bowels with hot water, its like injecting a tube made of knives into my ear and filling my skull with fire ants.”

 

The Clueless Asshole was, typically, clueless. “Enemas aren't like that at all.”

 

Listening to this conversation and paired with the hideously obsess woman seated to the left him had one effect on Thad. He felt a sudden tingling in his lower bowels and knew it was time to evacuate them, post-haste. He unbuckled his seatbelt, clamped his eyes shut and shimmied past his seat-mate, trying very hard not to loose any innocence he had left by starring into her various fat rolls. Quicker now then ever, Thad ran through the thin aisle way, fighting his way past an obviously effeminate male flight attendant and his ridiculously huge snack and booze cart. Our hero feared that the bathroom would be occupied, but luck had it that his premonition was incorrect and the bathroom was as free as OJ.

 

After getting quickly acquainted to the small bathroom and wrestle with his damn belt and pants for a second, Thad placed his pasty white ass on the cold, cold toilet seat. Once there he released the iron clad grip his sphincter held on his colon, allowing the barely digested airline food to escape from his body and back into the world from whence it came. That is too say that the barely distinguishable greenish brown sludge that now filled the bowel was barely different at all from how it looked in the first place. I mean, I'm saying, you know, airline food is shit. Not well-formed shit either. Nasty shit. Thad sighed in relief knowing that another overly descriptive session of bodily functions was now over. He sighed pleasantly and sat on the seat for a moment, waiting for his body chemistry to balance out again. Why he was waited, he decided to peruse the “Generic Woman's Magazine” that someone had left there. After being thoroughly disturbed by the article “Forty Ways to a Sexier Uterus,” Thad cleaned himself, placed his pants back in their place, and exited the bathroom.

 

He stepped into the plane walkway, slightly more prepared to face the endless horrors that paraded themselves in front of his eyes.

 

Before he could do that though the side wall of the plane exploded. The total pressure that was released on Thad's head is difficult to describe, but could best be summed up as if his asshole was sucked up into his ears and then those brand new asshole-ears proceeded to shit his brains out, quite literally. To make matters more fun, the great sucking sensation of the air pressure in the plane collapsing and causing Thad to be blasted out of the vehicle into the blue skies around them felt sort of like having your kidneys plucked out by a not-to-bright bear with red hot clamps.

 

Ah, and then the falling started. And what falling Thad had. At first the sensation was pleasant. It was something like flying, really flying in the fashion of Superman. The sense of freedom was quite amazing. But then Thad looked from the crystal clear blue skies down to the rapidly approaching ground and suddenly the sensation of falling became decidedly less pleasurably.

 

Thad realizes at that point that he was probably going to die soon. It was a shame, as if his grand adventure was about to end before it even really began. He was never going to get a chance to rescues Helen now. Man, dying sucks.

 

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Deep within his secret underground bunker, our illustrious Author sat at his computer desk, typing the very words before you. He stopped and scratched his head in confusion.

 

After getting up, eating a sandwich and drinking half a glass of Mountain Dew, he decided to try and go off and have a life, deciding to put “The Adventures of Thad Gunter!” on hiatus for the remainder of the summer.

 

By the end of the summer, after failing miserably in his attempts to love, he contemplated two things: Committing suicide, live, on his Webcam Emo Usenet… Or finishing chapter four of “Thad.” It was difficult decision but…

 

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Thad closed his eyes, ready. After thinking about things for a whole three paragraphs that you didn't get to read, he decided his life was pretty good after all. Besides, death is the greatest adventure of all, right? Thad was pretty sure he had read that on the back of a sugar packet somewhere at some point.

 

Instead of splatting hard against the ground, fully what Thad expected, he instead found himself slamming in to something soft and marshmallow like in its malleability. He opened his eyes, not exactly sure what to expect when he looked around him.

 

He should have kept his eyes closed.

 

Thad didn't remember ingesting any peyote which made the current spectacle before him all the more befuddling.

 

Thad was currently riding on the back of a Buick sized multi-colored dragonfly. That was weird, sure, but what made it weirder was when the dragonfly's head turned to face him, and it became apparent that the dragonfly had the head of international Australian super-celebrity Paul “Crocodile Dundee” Hogan.

 

“G'day, mate.” The horrible dragonfly/Paul Hogan fusion said to Thad.

 

Our hero had no words, of course, but he did attempt to respond to the dragonfly/Paul Hogan combination's statement. His follow words can best be transcribed as, and I quote:

 

“Hubba-whubba-sayso-waitjustagoshdangminutehere-watta-gummo -argento-bava-fulci-maysa-whatsi-sayswho?”

 

“You don't say, mate?”

 

The strange combination of insect and has-been actor carried a very confused Thad to some apparent location. The sun, glowing and flittering like a lave lamp, loomed large over both of them. Instead of being an impossible to reach object far off in space, the sun actually seem to be stationary, floating just behind a large green hill in front of them. Soon enough the beams from the star enveloped both Thad and his mode of transport.

 

As if on cue, the sun beams cause the Paul Hogan-headed magical creature to scream in agony. But the scream wasn't that of a washed-up former Australian morning talk-show host. Instead it was an unrecognizable high pitch squeal. His skin then began to peel and flake off, like the scalp of an eighty-year old. Soon, Paul Hogan could no longer be identified as the head was stripped down to the muscle. Even then, the peeling continued.

 

Thad watched on, completely defenseless to the sudden barrage of weirdness that had confronted him. After a second or two of exposure to the lave lamp sun's poisonous rays, the dragonfly was now headless. Or at least it was for a moment, as a crocodile's head immediately sprang from the neck stump.

 

Thad decided to speak to whatever audience might be observing him, “Okay, that's it, I'm waking up now.”

 

He was about to administrate a pinch to his tight, sexy man-ass, when the crocodile head, in a very “Exorcist” style move, swiveled-swiveled-swiveled around. It chomped down on Thad's pants leg before sharply turning to the left, pulling Thad from his perch atop the formally hospitable dragonfly creature.

 

And once again with the falling. Thad, with the assumption that this was a dream, was beginning to wonder about all the falling. After he woke up, (If this is indeed a dream and he will wake up from it) and when he gets some free time, he'll have to talk to shrink about dream symbols.

 

Thad smack into the ground, hard. He expected to be quite dead now but surprisingly, aside from a few bruises, he was just fine. He stood up from the ground, brushed some dirt off his always present black suit coat, and decided to explore whatever new, and assuredly bizarre, surroundings he found himself in.

 

Before him standing tall was a simple blue shack. A flashing neon sign attached to the building's roof read,

 

“THIS IS WHERE THE HORRIBLE CYCLE BEGINS!”

 

Unsure of the significance of this phrase, Thad decided to weight his options before venturing forth into the small blue shack. Turning around, he was faced with… Nothing. Just a large black void that went on in all directions forever and a mysterious sucking sound.

 

“Okay, I can take a hint,” He said to himself and decided to take his chances on the shack.

 

Upon entering the shack, music entered Thad's ears. It was familiar. For a fact, anybody with even the slightest knowledge of popular science fiction films from the past forty years would probably recognize it, too. Having said that, Thad couldn't quite place it. Further inspecting the bar noticed a group of melon-headed aliens with strange obo-like instruments playing the tune.

 

“Hey!” Thad interjected to no one in particular, “this is just like that one scene in “Star Wars!””

 

“Don't say that!” An unidentified voice shouted in his direction.

 

Thad turned to capture who ever it was that spoke with his vision, “Excuse me?”

 

Instead of a proper answer, Thad was descended on by four obese young men, all of which were wearing poorly constructed home made Boba Fett costumes. The group of sweaty, pasty thugs proceeded to beat poor Thad senseless with hard plastic light sabers.

 

After knocking him nearly unconscious, the damn dirty fan boys drug our hero down a hallway before dumping him in a corner of the cantina. Thad, his head feeling like a squashed grapefruit, stood up to see what was before him.

Sitting behind a white cloth covered table was none other then George Lucas himself. However, he wasn't immediately recognizable. The head was definitely Lucas but the body was some unholy combination of flesh and machinery that was too hard to describe, or perhaps too unimportant a detail for the Author to consult his thesaurus for. It seems good Mr. Lucas had put on some weight as well as the few parts of his body that weren't mechanical were corpulent and doughy.

 

Mr. Lucas didn't pay Thad much attention though. He was far too occupied with counting a ridiculously huge pile of money that decorated much of the room. Also ushering from beneath the table was the undeniable sound of human flesh being sloppily sucked and manipulated by human hands.

 

“Eww,” Thad spoke. After regaining his composure, he decided to responded to the furious beating he had recently received,

 

“So, uh, Mr. Lucas, why did a group of sweaty fan boys just beat the shit out of me back there?”

 

Having broken George's concentration, Lucas glared at Thad from behind those stupid sunglasses he always wears before putting out his hands Jedi style.

 

Thad stood in his spot completely unaffected.

 

Lucas then proceeded to spew forth an ushering of complete gibberish that could best be described as similar to the drawling noises that serious retards make while being forced to play soccer at their local community church centers. (My apologies to retards everywhere. I didn't mean to compare you to George Lucas.)

 

After some more disgusting slurping noises and one distinct swallowing noise escaped from under the table, Thad's question became a non-question.

 

A somewhat familiar voice to those with too much free time on their hands spoke from under the table, “You said “Star Wars.” You can't say that. It's copyrighted to Lucas Films Inc.”

 

“But a lot of people say that in regular conversation.”

 

Emerging from the table was none other then chubby pig boy director and occasional crappy comic writer Kevin Smith, wearing Princess Leia's slave outfit over his man-tits.

 

He continued to speak, which I'm sure Smith would refer to in his typical “witty” way in his next book title “Silent Bob Speaks Strikes Back While Sucking Off George Lucas and Robbing Losers of Their Money! Plus Five Pages About My Dad Dying.”

 

“Yeah, and normal people who bring it up in conversation get a beat down from the geek squad too!”

 

Thad was freighted and confused by the New Jersey-ian's presence. He stumbled with his words, “That can't be right! What about Ronald Regan?”

 

Smith shot back, “He got a beat-down too!”

 

Strangely at that point, Jason Mewes, a heroine needle protruding from his arm, appeared and said, “Snootch to the bootch, bitch!”

 

Smith and Mewes laugh together before butting each other in the head. Mewes then went off to sleep with Smith's overpaid concubine wife, leaving Thad alone with the fat guy and overrated director.

 

Thad, his questions still burning on his insides like syphilis, was left to watch as Smith turned back to Lucas' crotch.

 

“Now excuse me, I have work to do.”

 

Not being able to view that grotquise sight again, Thad turned away just to be faced with an indescribable fella' in a white t-shirt with the phrase, “THE AUTHOR” written across it in bold black letters, currently sipping from a soda can.

 

“Who the hell are you?” Thad question the man standing in his way.

 

Instead of speaking, the man simply pointed to the phrase on his chest. “I created you, dude.”

 

Thad, not too taken aback by this, decided to put some issues to rest. “Is that so? Then can you answer my questions?”

 

The Author sighed, sip his drink, and scratched his balls before saying, “Yeah, probably.”

 

“Where the hell am I?”

 

The Author put his explaining cap on, figuratively, before actually putting his explaining cap on. “Generally, you are in a pop culture hell that randomly exploded into your brain. Specifically, you are in a forbidden shack were fan boys come to suck off their idols.”

 

Thad, shoulders slumped, “Ohh.”-ed.

 

The Author continued, “Yep. This here place gets a lot of business actually. Spielberg's got a booth. Cameron too. Stan Lee's room is just down the hall there. I think Stephen King, Bruce Campbell and Frank Miller are upstairs. Scorsese use to have a room until he started getting rough with the customers.”

 

The Author chuckled, took another sip, scratched his balls again, before he continued to speak. “William Shatner just left recently because he was too business doing commercials. Peter Jackson's working on getting one put in, some point in the near future. I'll have to check that out. And, you know, not because of “Lords of the Rings” either. I'm strictly a “Meet the Feebles/Dead Alive/Heavenly Creatures” guy, myself.”

 

Thad shook his head in confusion, “I have no idea what you're talking about.”

 

“That's okay. Most people don't.”

 

“All right, that's where I am. Now why am I here?”

 

The Author shrugged, “I don't know. It amuses me?”

A bell rang and The Author handed Thad his drink.

 

“Gotta' go. My number's up.”

 

Thad watched, helpless, as his creator wander into a near-by room where a pant-less George A. Romero eagerly waited. He violently looked away, hoping to save his eyes from some evil today.

 

After opening his eyes, Thad was visited again with that big black endless sucking endlessness. He slapped himself in the face, once again nothing but confused by his current predicament. He lightly stepped forward, fearful that the lack of ground might cause him to plummet into that nothingness. However, he found that the nothingness was quite solid, if not a little bouncy. After carefully stepping around just to make sure he decided to track forward through the nothingness.

 

It was lonely out there in the nothingness, Thad discovered. His hands tucked in his pants pockets and head down, he contemplated the philosophical ramifications of being stuck in a huge blot of nothingness, which might itself be simply the projections from within a dream. Thad was sure one of his pretentious film school art buddies would be able to deconstruct it for him, should he ever escape.

 

That was when he heard a sound. A voice. A simple, soft, but never the last flirtatious voice. Thad knew that voice, and very well indeed. He looked up, suddenly.

 

Standing away from him, there off in the distance, was none other then his beloved Helen Maria Rudwalnagirctekahs. She was wearing the same dress she wear back in school, her hair back in a tail, and her hands clasped together sweetly in front of her.

 

“Hello, Thad.”

 

Suddenly, Thad was back in high school, behind the gym bleachers, kissing and talking with Helen. The late afternoon sun shun down between the bleachers, casting slam dancing shadows over their teenage forms. She quickly kissed him while running her fingers up the inside of his leg. Surprised and excited by these actions, Thad made a grab for Helen, hoping to pull her closer. Before he could react, she jumped to her feet and ran away from him, shouting back, “If you want it so bad, come and get it!”

 

He chased after her out onto the field behind the school gymnasium. After mock chasing her, Helen stopped to catch her breath, allowing Thad to catch up with her. Once the resting was over, they kissed and touch, quickly moving beyond such innocent playing. The two of them ended up making love for the first time that afternoon, behind the school building. It happened to quickly, and both of them were too young and too confused to really understand the significance of the event. They both quickly pulled their clothes back on and ran back to the school entrance, where their oblivious parents awaited in their overpaid Sedans.

 

His chase with Helen now was similar to the one on that balmy spring day. Both awash in passion and adolescent longing. Only now, so much more depended on Thad catching up with his sweet heart. What exactly that was, Thad didn't know. But it was important…

 

With each foot that came back down onto the black sprawling nothingness, a droning metallic pounding filled Thad's head. And as he approached Helen, the pounding grew louder and louder, until, by the time Thad's hands reached out for the giggling girl, it was almost impossible to stand.

 

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Thad blinked and yawned severally times. He looked around, finding himself still in the airplane bathroom. He turned his head, cramped up in the small bathroom. His legs stretched out over the top of the commode. His arms contorted around the sink. His head rested against the door which is why the slamming reverberated through his head.

 

A falsetto male voice sang out from the other side, “Sir! Other people need to use the bathroom!”

 

It immediately became apparent what had happened. The combination of jet lag and awful airplane food made for a potent combination. After refolding himself, standing up, and yanking up his pants, Thad exited the bathroom, trying very hard to avoid the angry glares from the small line of people out in front of him.

 

As he shimmed through the tight corridor back to his seat, back past the utterly evil fat woman there, he tried to wash away the unpleasant taste the strange dream left in his mouth. He didn't know what it meant exactly, but the possibilities were horrifying enough.

 

Upon sitting back down in the cramped plane seat, really began to wonder about the events he had just witnessed. What it all meant, how it fit into his current quest, and why The Author wasted a whole chapter on it…

 

TO BE CONTINUED!!!