The continuing story of ...
At which point something unspeakable occurred causing both Hildy and the Pigman to wail in disbelief.
Hildy, the rat-faced girl, watched the pig man from outside his window. Despite her name, she was quite beautiful. She wasn't sure when they started calling her the rat-faced girl or why. It could've been because of the nervous twitch in her nose, or her buck teeth. But she knew it was most likely because of her whiskers. And they were genuine, honest-to-god whiskers, not just some hairy upper lip. They shot out from either side of her nose and would twitch when it did. She first noticed them when she was four and they had been steadily growing longer ever since. When she was a child, her mother told her it was because she let the barn cats lick her face. Throughout her life, she tried to pretend the name didn't bother her. But, it was especially difficult to maintain her dignity in the high school cafeteria when the others threw pieces of cheese and cornuts at her and chanted, "Hildy Grace has a rat face!"
Aside from the whiskers she was perfectly normal and her physical beauty was undeniable. She had legs from here to Nova Scotia and an ass that wouldn't quit. She spent most of her time entertaining men from the bar who found her whiskers to be "exotic." Some people in the town claimed she had magical powers. This was less on account of the whiskers, but rather because she had an unusual habit of being caught up in localized updrafts that would whisk her away into the air and carry her to the outskirts of town.
Which is exactly what happened twenty minutes before she stumbled across Pig Man's house and noticed he was admiring a very fine looking cake. The pig man fascinated her, but more than that she was drawn to cake. It had been a full day since she'd eaten, and what with flying across town and having to walk the 27 miles back home, she found herself rather famished. She wanted that cake, and at that moment she was prepared to do anything to get it.
The pig-man had an unusual name. It was Pig Man. At least that is what he was called. No one knew his real name, which I will not speak here (because I don't know it). He felt good about his cake. It was a fine piece of cake. He looked closely at his cake, studied it's crumb structure in detail. He held the cake out away from him and admired the way the light fell across it's textured surface. Yes it really was a fine piece of cake. Pig Man felt really good about it.
He placed the cake down on a platter that he had made especially for the cake. The platter was made of genuine turtle-shell, he had killed and gutted the turtles himself. They were baby turtles that he had found on a beach one night, and very small, so he had had to kill a lot of them. He killed them with quick pounding from his heavy hoof. It felt good to snuff out the little turtles, but not as good as it felt to see his great piece of cake sitting there all soft and moist on the gleaming turtle-shell platter. He felt so good about his cake that he stood up and did a little piggy-dance. The piggy dance felt pretty good to him. He always thought he was a good dancer. He only messed up one part, which was the snout-spin, because he had tried to spin around without taking his eyes of his piece of cake. He didn't mind too much that he messed up the spin, cause after all, he still had that cake.
The cake looked almost too perfect in the afternoon light. It was so moist and full of flavour. He bet it was, anyway. He hadn't tasted the cake. Not yet. It would be a long time before he even got around to thinking about eating that fine, fine, piece of cake. No, right now, he just wanted to look at the cake. It felt really good, to just sit there and look at his cake. His delicious cake. He knew it was delicious cause a great cake was bound to be delicious. And this was a really great cake. It was so great that he wanted to get up and do another dance. Only he didn't do any dance cause he was worried that he might mess it up again, and he didn't want to mess up the piggy-dance in front of his cake.
No it was better to just sit. Just sit there with the cake. With his
cake. I was his cake and he felt really good about it.
the world grew progressively tired of fashion. it eventually came to the point that no one cared about what anyone else did. and no one really tried to do anything. morty gazed down at the troubled sphere and wondered who he could punch.
in a matter of moments he spotted a particularly delicious slice of cake, being held jealously by a particularly disagreeable pig-man.
morty was growing tired of space. he wanted to punch random people, like he did in the old days.
Morty did a good job concealing his surprise. Indeed he did much better than Mr Oddly Wonderful, who hardly seemed interested in concealing a thing as he threw his monocle to the solar winds. In several swift movements, Mr Oddly Wonderful was clad in little more than a bowler hat and a spiked leather g-string.
"Hold this while I put on my nipple shields, please" and morty was passed the tea-trolley. Morty found that his sparse atomic structure could not take grip of it. Morty tried to catch it, but to no avail, he followed it down as it spiralled into the hydrogenous maelstrom of the sun. With a dread cold feeling in his mind's spine he watched the trolley be torn apart by an infinite storming mass of atoms. He shed a single, instantly vaporised tear. The gelatinous tea on his roots was bubbling.
Morty was so busy thrusting his essence into the sun that he nearly failed to notice a tea service floating by until it almost hit him. He also felt a little embarrassed once he realized that the tea service had a man attached. What's done is done, thought Morty, then he did the only thing one really can do when caught thrusting into something, change the subject and pretend it didn't happen.
"Er, hello," said Morty.
"Hello, old sap," said the man in the tuxedo. "Would you like a cup? It has chilled a bit I'm afraid."
"Yes, that would be lovely," answered Morty who didn't care for tea, but still felt mortified about the sun-thrusting.
Morty wound his roots under the tea service to form a table and stool for the tuxedoed man. "I'm Morty," he said.
"Yes, I'm Mr. Oddly Wonderful. Someone has poured gelatin into the tea and now that it has cooled, it has become tragically thick." Then Mr. Oddly Wonderful set to work scooping tea out of the kettle with a teaspoon and plopping the chunks into a cup. "One lump or two?"
Mr. Oddly Wonderful scooped some sugar out of the bowl and dropped it onto the quivering pile of tea in the cup, then handed it to the tree.
"Er, I don't really have a proper mouth, sir," said Morty.
Mr. Oddly Wonderful looked at him blankly for a moment, then said, "Oh Right! Of course." Then he took out a butter knife and began scooping out the tea and spreading it ineffectually over Morty's roots, which Morty found exceedingly unpleasant.
"Thank you, Mr. Oddly...Wonderful? But I was just wondering what brings you out into the void."
"Well, I've heard (and this may just be a rumor) that the sun is a bit of a slut," replied Mr. Oddly Wonderful.
morty found that his focus was waning. he summoned his thoughts around his core and thrust it into a nearby sun. now it was warm and tingly! he jiggled slightly. space was so cold and comfortable.
Tactile color merged with delusions of grandeur, and Morty's undeniable urge to live merged with an urge to give, give something solid to the ectoplasmic kiss........the fleshy symposium of love, light, and groove.
Bloody power. Focus was paramount.
Morty had no time for gin. Nor any earthly trappings. He was now a creature of pure light, a collection of photons. He radiated through space, rapidly expanding, yet keeping within him a core of identity. Some day he would encompass the galaxy, then things would change. Already the solar system was within his radiant girth and he slowly exerted his will over it. Pluto would be the new Mars. Mars was a has-been and in need of purging. Uranus was his friend, Morty would make it emperor of all planets.