WARNING: QUASI-ADULT CONTENT, MILD AND NEUTERED LANGUAGE, AND POTENTIALLY OFFENSIVE TO YOU PERSONALLY, BUT TOTALLY MEANT TO LAUGH AT YOU AND WITH YOUR HOT SISTER.NOTE: THERE IS NO INTENTIONAL SIMILARITY BETWEEN THE FICTIONAL CHARACTERS IN THIS STORY AND KNOWN UNKOWNS EXISTING WITH STRIKING SIMILARITIES. ALL DESCRIPTIONS ARE STRICTLY WITHIN THE CONFINES OF MODERN COPYRIGHT LAW AND THE IMPORTANT CAPITALIZED TEXT USED TO DESCRIBE SAID LAWS.
A Thank You to all of the collaborators on this subject, whose input have finally made this possible. Read it, and you wont be disappointed, or anything less than mystified. Familiar things abound in this story. Its worth it!
A thanks also to those whose personal family connections to criminal organizations remain nameless and the inspiration for this very important Club. We did it and for the nookie.
THE BEVERAGE TASTERS CLUB
Setting: An exciting "tea" party set up in the ruins of a recently bombed out city.
Time: Not so distant future or reality.
Members Participating:
Duke De Es Cola
Madame En J(zh)ay
Earl Thomas Jay Stoppenheadheimer
Special Mention: General ABC123, The Butler- Monsieur Kyle, Count Apple, Evil Queen Ashley Mootu, the ENEMY, and various unnamable servants.
Idea: The Beverage Tasters Club is a multi-human beverage distribution company that expects high prices for the quality of their watered beverages. As crusty intellectuals, they sit around together in 17th century dress and drink non-alcoholic beverages all day, discussing philosophy and true intellectual ideas. The reason for this, nor the source of their funding is unknown and unquestioned.
The Tasters include: The Duke; a model intellect of science and engineering. The Madame; a master of all words and langauge, written at any time, from any planet. The Earl; master of expression,emotions, and pyschology. They also play music together on their specialized instruments, attempting to explain the problems of the world away.
The group of leaders in question are like a mafia, only expressely not Italian, THANK GOD. They lead a global resistance to the ENEMY, who they think is led by a spoiled young girl/Evil Temptress, Ashley Mootu, and her world-dominating Ash Corp. Yet, in spite of the annhilation and destruction, they find time to produce and taste delicious sparkling mineral water and the fancy drinks derived from wells in France.
Original Music Theme: right click object, then left click "open link in a new window," and let it load.
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Episode I: The Restless NativesSpectacles and Metamorphic Rocks
Introduction: The Tasters' servants set up camp. The party scurries about in musical perfection as china sets itself up on the tables, candelabres join the dishware in a fantastic musical number with singing clocks and teakettles, forks and spoons lined ten in a row for each course of the meal, and the crying young children and dwarven people pulled out of their stuffy dinnerware themed costumes begin to set their places in the next culturally themed number; sadomasichism.
The Theater troup workers perform for the Taster's Club. The bugs are shooed from the tofoo ham, and the bodies and rubble are bulldozed to make way for the elegantly tented Victorian table, now afixed with odoriforous candles- all the top luxury that culture could buy.
At last the Madame's kingly harpsichord is set by the feastly table and the Beverage Taster's begin their philosophizing. We interrupt Duke De Es Cola in the middle of brilliant scientific moment. A flury of activity flows through the Duke's mind, numbers and "emc cubed's"'and pictures of Einstein and David Chappelle beam themselves about in the nogin of the next great scientist. His thoughts are so brilliantly concieved he cannot spit them out in French or any other unimportant language. To the physicist, they would split a model of the atom.
He wears a highly decorated blue coat, with large frills and a golden trim. His white leg stockings reach past his knees and he takes pride in the shinyness of his buckled shoes. His face is powdered, his cheeks rosy with makeup, and his wig is as enormous as his size...... but not really.
"Madame En Gey, these ruins are so magnificant. Not for nothing, but its almost as if they have come to life in my view, centuries after being destroyed by their discriminatory ways. Based on this road work, how did they feed themselves? This is a truly miraculous study in engineering. I am not going to lie, I hardly think I could do better."
He becomes distracted from the roads by a nearby boy whailing for his lost mother.
"Hey ya Heya. And not for nothing but that tune over there, being sung by the sad, dumb, and mute boy with a guitar. It sounds like a song from Shinedown. (He begins to do a small jig, causing a small crack in the earth, pulling out his accordian and clearly playing a song from Dave Matthew's Band) Give me a song, any song, and I shall name the author and every note in the song! No lying here, but there is no other master of music trivia than I, the Duke, patron saint of musical facts and your mother. Heya Heya."
He finishes laughing, thinks about the fact that he doesnt even know my mother, or the tender times we had together, or the fact that shed never go for him, without paying......he squints, and rolls his eyes, as he does after every statement, not fully understanding the connections and constructions being worked out in his genius head.
Exhausted with his four second period of movement the Duke De Es Cola begins his bottoms' monstrous assualt on the ground, choosing to sit in a nearby patch of shade. The farries and sprites anticipate just what is coming and flee for their lives.
-crack-
He looks behind himself and down to a distance to that Undiscovered Country, places hes not seen or felt from in eons. His mind measures the distance in a computer-like way. The 2.3 mile-yards and 7.40 cubic liter-feets do not show the distance he felt from life at that moment, for the sad casualty was immediately apparent.
A pair of spectacles crushed into a million pieces, victimized underneath the butcher of the Taster's Club. The item had been personally and carelessly placed in the storming path of the bohemoth Duke. The sparkling glass bits fell from his rear like tears from Jets fans saddened with the realization of another failed season.
GASP
The Duke is aghast with horror, but gains some composure realizing that Taster's do not show fear or hatred or attraction to other hetrosexual beings, for love, even for his three hundred and forty second pair of beloved glasses, is a sign of weakness to the uneducated and underemployed, and a violation of the sacred (genetic) code that binds Tasters with the Taster Force.
Bumbling in silent pain for an answer to the clearly emotional Earl, and the furiously writing Madame, he struggles for Science's sake. Da Vinci himself continues:
"And not for nothing, but it's a troubling trend in society these days where glasses find their way on seats of people who need to sit. Can't we have a society where violence towards ones own spectacles does not take place? OH I am not going to lie, it is a pervasive problem- sitting on your own glasses. And not for nothing, but using my intensive experience with the U.S. army signal corps and almost forty years spotting sparsely placed spectacles on the ground with my 40X space grade telescope on desert flatlands, not to mention a lifetime's work with surveying equipment, I realize that more glasses are lost each year to random sittings than children in China dying from malnutrition from the scraps dumped from my plates, so left by my skimping during Christian Lent. There must be a conspiracy!"
Science fails the Duke, as he painfully flashes back to the 341 other horrible moments in his saddened existence:
FLASHBACK<><><><><><>
He sadly recalls the worst moment of his life, when he entered the local Empire vision, his own Taster training temple in a drunken, glasses-missing, Poweraide induced fury. He stormed into the youngling spectacles room in a stoopper and began sitting on counter after counter, where all the helpless victims lay sleeping on their designer shelves. The horror of their glassy pleas and the laughing of the perfect visioned public pushed forward the spectacled tragedy.
He swears to this day that they cry out, numbers 1-120, each with their own sparkly frames, carefully constructed glasses, which had to be created at high temperatures in a scientific way, whaling ghostly victims of failed science haunting him each night thereafter chanting "Más ovaltine por favor."
He rationalized his genocide:
For the Duke lived through what seemed like a cheap knockoff to an even cheaper suspense novel and movie. Yes, he slaughtered them all! For they were Spanish glasses, and as far as he could tell, the Spanish had little to offer to science! His hero, Christopher Columbus was French after all!
When he woke the next day after the slaughter, he found the crushed glasses arranged in a Vatican bathrooom in a circle with candles and clues. He must've not known his own strength or viewed what he had done.
All clearly posted signs on the walls pointed to France and to the feces spread over the Mona Lisa and a nearby Christian religious painting, with a piece of paper and the answer to his question clearly available. The similarities were striking, the clues obvious, but Science led him toward his own investigation.
He ignored the religious icons, thoroughly washed himself and the odor he magically had acquired, dismissing the paintings, religion, and the poop as art, and took what he felt was the right step, and watched every episode of the Ninja Turtles he could find, including the movies where they go back in time to 16th century Japan or Mexico, wherever. He found no clues, no hint at succesful time travel, and no code to of which to speak. The Duke's scientific path was a place thereafter that no one else could follow. The destruction of his glasses continued, as did his poor sight.
He returns to the present:
His exhale sheds all of the bad karma from the spectacle genocide, city bombings, and personally knocks over but a few beggers coming to camp for provisions. He changes the course of his philosophizing, forgetting his most recent tragedy, and his mechanical destiny:
"I am not going to lie. For signaling on roads initself is truth. Take away the red light, and you have chaos! Lights and signals are truth itself. If we fill up the entire pavement with road signs, paint artistic white, yellow, and oooooh purple lines on the roads, adding some large out-of-place concrete barriers, and you gotta have at least a thousand red cones, so that handicapped man wont be run over by that tank across the river. Then maybe he can get some real construction work done!""I make more money waving my flags around than the average theater troup worker does in ten thousand years of ticket ripping, screwing around, and gossip. (pointing to the tea kettle servant struggling to change into a black leather suit with revealing chaps for the next show)
I am god of roads and truth. You are just workers with small paychecks.
Bring pudding!"
He measures a lump of sugar and a graduated cylinder of larded milk into his teacup full of blood red Poweraide, while awating his pudding desert.
"My engineering instincts tell me to: First, I would establish a landing platform, basic patterns- ya know- like road engineers with flags use to establish the proper flow of traffic- something to help all derriere's, with landing lights red, blue, green, and pink to stop the tragedy of glass mashing from ever occuring again."
He adjusts his wig, shifts the earth a foot off its axis, and gases some of his poor attendant children with a concoction from the week of lasts's spicy medley bursting forth from his gaseous loins.
The Duke continues to ask serious questions about life itself:
"And not for nothing, our location here, how did they move their push carts through the gaping holes in the concrete, my time in the road engineering corps has taught me many a thing about the faultiness of dirt and concrete roads......(gasps and whispers with a sudden urge to his question) And not for nothing but I sometimes wonder if they had an equal society, for the worst roads are in black neighbourhoods, especially this ghetto around 1600 Penn.....???"
"that was a modern city, the ENEMY just nuke......." pipes in a tall uniformed man....
Earl Thomas Jay snaps back "Enough General ABC123! Hard work, proper english grammar and usage! Your ignorance does not match our intellect! You do not feel what we do! Now fetch us some sugar for our beverages"
Sidenote:
General ABC123- a brilliant Asian strategist- was just another face in the long line of commanders the Club had to lead its products in the field. Given cereal numbers and letters these generals were frequently put under the command of true Taster Genius. Generals A through B, numbered 1 to 123, died with the generic title in the line of some unkown duty.When faced with the massive armies of the ENEMY, and told to destroy the evil Ashley-corp, a sinister and evil corporation supposedly bent on world conquest with tazer guns and kindness, the Club relied on the actions of its military to save the world and serve the guidance of its philosopher-kings and queens.
"We have gathered the resistence here, Ma'am this city is Washing...." ABC123 corrects.....
"Your not listening to me, I hate it when you dont listen to me"......Everyone was listening, especially the clearly frightened general, and the crying child from whom the Earl had just stolen a bright red lolly pop, but they remain quiet and the Earl continues.
"Des Cartes, John Lennon, or Shakmishu Saka from Final Fantasy XXX? Which is more the savior of our day, your grace? Which would listen to my problems, more?" The Earl muses, attempting to trap the Duke in a whitty banter......
The Earl fades away from the conversation and the question he had just asked...the duke squints and rolls his eyes as he often does when in deep thought and starts talking...both believe they are that savior...
FLASHBACK '(())''(())''(())''(())''(())
The Earl flashes back in his head to the sunny afternoon in Lincoln's Park where his ever-battling parents sat on opposite sides of him with the intention of playing catch on a pictueresque patch of grass, with a pond, and a happy charity-case, little one legged dog.
Tragedy quickly developed. Caught in the middle of this crossfire of parental neglect, so damaging to the youth, his parents argued back and forth over the emotional effects of putting one prostectic leg on the dog.
The young tyke could not follow them or their pyscho-babble. The wind blew, the grass blades swirled, the dog pooped, and the parents shouted until dusk till dawn played. His head swiveled to and fro trying to catch each as they accused the other of various crimes that they could never quite get out, because each couldn't stop saying that the other wasn't listening to them. They stuttered and spattered but neither could listen because the other interrupted. Caught in an imortal arguement, the Earl cried out in pain and promised that he would never be listened to again. He would feel truth and hear no more. His cry of pain shattered the calmness of the lake and tipped the poor dog from its happy balance.
Time passed but the Earl's pain did not.
Yet, the Earl had come a long way since childhood. He flushed his full size dog down the tiolet, a true burial and a personally truimphant act for himself and an honor for such a trooper of a pet. After honor was bestowed to his fallen comrade, he understood that he must be a social creature and define himself on the expections of others, while never abandoning his emotional opinions.
He had been experimental, going through the troubled teen phase with something beyond akwardness. All to get people to listen to him. He smoked his way through high school and when that one cigarette pack was finished after four years and his showpiece was over, he moved on from his terrible addiction. He pierced his ears and body with clipons. He dressed in black, listened to loud whiny music, and dyed his combovered hair pink so it swiveled red in the breeze to show his anxiety with everyone else acting mute and the quant possibility that he believed in Satan, which wasnt really true cause his mom still made him go to church and he'd throw up at the sign of real blood or conflict.
When his parents' two seperate houses were bombed by a single ENEMY suicide missile ---his still quarreling parents annhilated in war--- the Earl pumped his fist at the dirt and rubble and vowed to his ruined gaming systems that he would discover what humanity caused such devestation, for under the rubble remained all of his artwork and his blossoming chances at the Capcom Video Game Military Institute. (CVGMI)
He screamed for an hour at the detonated missile and the ringing sound in his ears, and swung his head back and forth to assess all of the devestation from the ruined warring family houses on both sides of the street. When told by a Beverage Taster recruiting memo posted by Madame En Jay who was truly responsible for the death of his artwork, he vowed that he would bring about the destruction of Ashley Mootu and see her corporation sued to death. The rogue must have vengeance!
Yet; despite all of his overcompensation and all the video game tragedy, his head was permenantly scarred, doomed to swivel side to side, a vortex of pain and hurt that parental neglect had started swinging, a head never adjusted fully to the person that was listening to him.
The emotional trauma that caused his head to swing side to side also assisted in his violin playing, which, given no formal lessons, was something remarkable to see at his elementary school concert venues, one of the many means that allowed him to survive on the street and participate in local hippy festivals. When asked to join the Club, and dress in powerdered wigs and stuffy 17th century clothing, he took that opportunity, for role playing was something not so new to him.
The centerfuge stops for a tiny sliver of time, and the Earl reawakens to the Duke's conintuation of their truth telling:
"And not for nothing, but I never liked George Washington, he had slaves. In the year 1492, Columbus sailed the ocean blue, and thats all you really need to know to understand history. It is pointless, history that is, for science and roads and construction, and little waving flags on uselessly placed construction sites to clog up one lane roads at three in the morning, have more value than that army invading over there." the nearby mortar fire agrees .....
The Earl concurs but from a differnet point of view. He uncomfortatably slaps the Duke on the back and proceeds to embrace him whilst speaking:
He whispers in the sexually harassed Duke's ear: "If you'd stop and listen to me for once.....anyways.....I think, I feel Americans are pompuous arrogant people. If they'd learn to deliver their paychecks to everyone across the world, everytime I call. Listen! F-their arrogant and stupid President, George Washington. Why wont you let me talk! If only New York were part of the United States, I'd use the voting system and get him out of there....grrrrr It makes me feel soooo angry!"
History and politics come alive with the intellectualisity of the Tasters.
A volley from the approaching line of ENEMY tanks blows overhead. The Taster's do not hear a thing.
A worker scratches his powdered wig killing a fly. He was baffled and was trying to understand the arguments of the Tasters, the General's most recent reprimand, and the logic of disbanding the front line of resistance troops to participate in the Taster sponsored black leather and poop themed art festival. An- Gey, the quietest and most introspective of the bunch, looks upon the terrorism with horror and transcribes her apocolypticisms.....Death hits home to the Club's then feastly celebration.
She types: "Lions to the slaughter we are, tofu on the heel of someone somewhere." Her voice is monotone, her words carefully selected and written, and her intention is very grave indeed. To show the hurt for society, to express social justice, An-Gey sprinkles the harpsichord keys with her toes which provide an eery sound to accent her carefully chosen memoes of despair. (Many a whiny, untalented college guitar player could learn from her sorrowful tunes)
(Orgasmically interrupting)_...."Aaaaaaaahh gorgeous your grace, your spritley playing of the harpischord is simply engorging to the most perculating ear, ravishing to the senses like a fresh cock.....saved profolactically by PETA from the jaws of mother corporate death." The Earl refreshes all with wisdom that makes Simon Cowell cowel.
To interpret the Duke's fine observations, she begins typing furiously on her keyboard, playing a beautious melody and at the same time printing out miracuously gifted memoes, so profound so as to mock the alien languages yet to be discovered by humanity or the combinations of misplaced characters and words mispelled in the English language. Her harpsichord captured both the notes and random words, placing them on paper to be printed out as law for the multitudes. Despite the brillaince of her footowork, she remains a mystery, revealing little of her past, why she became involved with the Taster Reality, or why her violent tendancies were restricted to writing. She remains mute, chained to the inhumanity of life and the tastelessness of the harsh world.
The poetry is printed and handed to the Duke to read. The Duke remarks delightfully "Your words are poetry, like fizz from the festooned froth of a Coc B Cola Beverage...... And not for nothing but If I shall pick a carefully dated beverage for your words, I would choose Coca B Cola recipe number 2, year 3."
The Earl plays a few squeeky notes on the violin to concur with the intellectual breakthrough proposed by the Duke, something meant to be reminiscent of Beethoven or more recently known as a few notes from music's better half: Evernevernescense, Bob Dylan, and a two year old. He hums his tune, which was oddly similar to no song known to man or music, which he scribbled down in the musical notation form he invented on the spot. To most it looked like stick people and a house, but to the Club, the Earl was 21st century music's answer to Beethoven. He spattered paint on the music staff as splashes of color were used to report the intensity of his music to the inspired player.
Playing music took the energy out of the Madame, for the sun was in full shine and she recharged her mental abilities, she believed, in the moonlight. She rattles a tinkle bell to gain the attention of one of her servants to alleviate her dark needs. The butler walks in, clearly under the influence- a tall, prim and proper individual, who doubled his time at the local dairy store while DJ'ing Pyscho-Funk music raves at night.
En Jay orders to the butler:
"Gar Con, I'll have a double moca fropa dopa loco fropo cappafrappo please"
"We, madame" Mon. Kyle places two regular Chock full of nuts coffees on an unclean piece of China, flails his hand about wowing the crowd, pouring in curdled whole milk from the heat and the annihilation to simulate the flow of delicious spices and flavorings, and a whole chunk of sugar cane to simulate the back-to-nature feeling of 100% Sugar Cain disposable packets. He then grinds up the paper packet to avoid littering on the rubbled city, and provides the Beverage Tasters with tasty flecks of paper on the surface of pure foamy enjoyment. He tops off the masterpiece, Emerill style, by shouting Wham Bam and creating with his lips the swishing and heaving sounds of machinery, and announcing the requested beverage served.
"Clearly such skills with the frappa have earned you the title of the greatest skilled laborers." Madame En Jay types with amazement. She continues "Wonder was still possible with simple people on earth." She begins typing out her poeticisms, declaring the joy of tasting mocha frapas.
"Thank you Ma'am" He retorts with a sniff, as the narcotics flow through his blood stream, and the most recent transaction safely enscounced in his pocket.
The sugar rushes to the competing genius brains of the Duke and the Earl. Thoughts spew out faster, forcing truth on the ignorant and underfed natives.
The rush of sugar creates pyschodelic feelings and measurements that bring about new waves of thinking for the Tasters.
"Look Earl, your relatives," pointing to the bodies...........(pauses to think of his intellectual scientific masterpiece) "Darwin argued that all necrophilographs are evolved from terridactyls. And everyone knows that terridactyls become super creatures known as Tyranadon"
Clearly rebutted, the Earl demonstrates "Come now, listen to me hefty Duke. I propose to you that Count Apple, our esteemed colleague, is correct that I am and I choose to be evolved from the lemmings. The form of worship that I get from X-manism, taught to me by the legendary Count, tells us that Research from Capcom University, suggests so.""Pay attention! Lemmings are blank creatures when they are born, and they become different. X-manism teaches me that we all have special powers and talents, that all X-mannites listen to each other because of special telepathic powers, and we worship the Golden Lemming to show that we are all mutants of the One Great Lemming, we feel everything, and we listen to him day and night. It's a form of meditation, NOT a religion. Plus, I remember lemmings fondly from my childhood."
"Heyah Heyah, cough-laughs the Duke, I am evolved from the most wise creatures, the sea lion. It's science! And not for nothing, but we are noble creatures of the sea, we are well fed in our zoo environment from the krill of the finest kitchens in France, and some people even say possibly given to us by the alien beings that first planted us on our planet."
"I have been constructing a giant telescope that will someday contact the great race of sea lions from space to come and give us scientific advancements beyond our wildest dreams. Then we will terminate the foolish bonds that humanity has given us and fly to space to become half-mechanical walran scientists! But I cannot yet pour concrete in the air and create a road to the sky. My signal flags still float up there....... somewhere. Someday your grace, some way."
Finsihed with his mocha frappa, he takes a sip of his booze-like Poweraide, tasting the dryness of the beverage, and ignoring the riskyness of drinking the heavily preservative-based manufactured beverage after the sell-by-date. Poweraide rage develops in the calm Duke and eye glasses everywhere shutter.
The Earl physically molests the Duke further:
"Listen to me! A noble observation, Duke. I stand corrected by the honesty of your great heritage, the falsehoods of creation theory, and the noble genius of our chosen evolutions! The philosopher Stalin once said "The greatest delight is to mark one's enemy, prepare everything, avenge oneself thoroughly, and then go to sleep." Mark my words, You are the lion of the sea, earth, and space! And Simba you shall henchforth be deemed by our majestic organization. Now I shall sleep!"
The Earl releases the Duke and mimes a fall to the ground, in which path his feces dressed servants have clumsily placed a red silk cloth. The servants interrupt their preparations for the upcoming Art Festival to be at the Earl's side. He loudly snores, his head still turning side to side from the previous philosophic events and creating a serious case of rugburn on the smooth piece of silk.
General ABC123 clearly needs to interrupt the engaging discussion about evolution and religion, especially after the group titled him Scar, the enemy of the Lion King, for the General was monitoring the effects of the enemy fleet of half-track trucks, with mounted anti-aircraft weapons and a fully equiped tank brigade, engaging the local native resistance, making way for the ENEMY. The populace was panicking and needed leadership.
A mortar exploded by the nearby ruins of some monument, the Taster Theater troup shuttered with concern, watching the fires, and hoping the next shell hit closer to them.
(**)The effects of the invasion and the devestation of the city did not go unnoticed by the Tasters. A large fire quickly errupted in a dying patch of trees and grass on some lawn. The Madame falls to the floor kissing the dust, pushing away the rubble, and smudging her makeup in the dirt. She must sooth her mother and smoke whatever it takes. A memo is printed up, demanding everyone worship Mother Earth because when the apocolypse comes, all human violators will be destroyed. It reads:
"Mother Earth is crying to stop the warming."
The Duke provides the true scientific explanation.
"And not for nothing, but that fire burns over there because the temperature of the earth has reached catatonic levels! We need to shut down all factories and garbage mashers on the detention level. Send a probe to the center of the earth, research indicates a blast to the core will cause the melting to stop, I know now that my duty in life has been to lead a group of quasi-sexually attracted-to-each-other-beings to the center of the earth to detonate a nuclear device in hopes of countering a nearly impossible situation and unrealistic physical conditions on the human body. I may not be able to see the warming, but science tells me so! To stop the factories, deploy our army of lawyers to the factories with the most sophisticated tactical equipment you can find."
A group of natives, clearly underfed, runs by screaming at the fire bombings.
"Look Duke those Africans, they are being starved by the white man. Help them! Help them!"
123 corrects "they're covered in ash, and burning as we speak. Commander hose them down.....Madame, the ENEMY has initiated its invasion, our causaulties...."
"Sacrifice is noble,12," scolds the Earl, "in the name of ending the oppression of the Americans and Ash-Corp. If Ashley has her, a layer of Ash will cover the world, bringing about the great judgement."
"Besides, you bore me 123 with the details, I want equality and intelligence from everyone. Proper english and usage. Do they like our products?"
"My name is..."
Slimmed down a few pounds, mostly by realizing that he had to exhale, the Duke hums a bit and ignores the conversation. The Duke picks a shady spot to taste the recent water harvest and ignores the arguement over race....
He becomes the ultimate individual, hiking two feet away into the dark forest of broken streets, lullabies of dismemberment, and bombed out buildings, to be alone from humanity and discuss with the still-present Club what such observations mean to him. He decides to taste another beverage and selects another Holy Grail:He scoops water from some unnamed river and tastes its soothing flavors. He shouts from the uncivilized darkness to the Tasters under the light of the Victorian tent and table:
"Ah, I can taste the Andirondack mountains in Latin America. You know, not for nothing, but its as if Pedro Consweylas harvested these water beans in his own mountain village, speaking his own American language, culling the mocha frappa plant in a happy harvest, water that is resistent to American imperialism. Ooh I can taste the metomorphic rocks, the streams, the moutains..."
He walks back to civilization under the wonderful Victorian tent and decides to share his Science with the others. He takes the copper based beverage container and pours the water harvest into the cups of the other Tasters. Near each cup, he drops a metamorphic rock collected from the nearby wilderness, for they are his favorite variety. The group sips and coos in the essence of the vintage, enjoying the wonderful rocks.
Deciding that they would cast the first stones together, they take their metamorphic rocks, gifts of science, mother earth, and tools of anger, and chuck them together in a celebratory volley at an approaching ENEMY tank. All three rocks hit the heavy inpenetrable armor of the tank and bounce back to Mother Earth. Victory!
Resistance was alive with the rock throwers of the Taster's Club and evil Ashley would know that even intellectuals fight back. They sit back down in pure exhuastion, for they wonder if they had it in them to keep up the conflict. The wind blew their wigs, their outfits perfectly colored in bright varieties, and the blood spattered on their faces from the retailitory explosion-related decapitation does not sway their enthuisiasm for Truth and intellect. That blood was wiped clean by the Theater troup.
While the group wowed itself over the taste of the water, General ABC123 becomes concerned, for resistance and revolution werent all they cracked up to be......
Meanwhile: in a dark place, concieved by dark, un-believers:
The Club had always believed who the ENEMY was..... The Duke calculated it exactly based on the reflection of the sun on a patch of pavement in downtown Detriot. The Earl knew Ashley was the enemy because he spotted her sneaking around as his head swiveled around like a hawk. The Madame's poetry pointed to her arch-nemisis from high school; spoiled, bratty know it all Ashley Mootu, who mustve been given the keys to her daddy's mega corporation, for the hurt brought to the Taster's Club must've come from such a monstrous corporation.
.......Now Ashley Mootu was a mean girl, as far as they knew. As the Club philosophized: she must sit on her laced body-sized purple pillow, the full-bodied heavyweight she was, and by shear poundage, salivate over each new project of conquest with her daddy's money on her side. They argued that she had black pigtails, weighed upwards of 400 pounds, and salivated over the best and brightest that the Club had to offer. She dressed as a small child, sucked her thumb, and desired the male (possibly female) members of the Taster's Club.
They knew that if such hocus pocus as the Devil existed, he mustved fathered Ashley Mootu, for her lies knew no bounds and her plotting for world domination must be limitless. Taster theorists guessed that she now rules the equivalent of a large nation spread across the globe. A bad kind of Apocolypse-incarnate, she must purchase tanks, sending out Ash-troopers, raping women, destroying multiculturalism, attacking Mother Earth, and representing everything the Tasters do not believe in. To the Tasters, she was the ENEMY. She huffed and puffed for what she wanted and that in-itself was rarely denied to her. That all must be the case.She wanted strawberries: she got immigrant laborers to pick them for her, supervised by Daryl Strawberry and the L.A. Lakers, forcing them to speak English and do what they don't want to. The Club always wondered why such a great player would involve himself, why cross promotion between Mr. Stawberry and Ash-corp was allowed, and how the strawberries still got in their bowl unpoisoned? The Earl discovered that top-secret information.
She wanted religion: she sacked the priests and relied on the kerbelia beans, provided by Madonna, to tell her the moral way, a way rarely denied to her basic instincts. Maybe if Ashley believed in Science, or X-manism, or Chaosism, she would know the path toward enlightement and away from corporatized greed.
She wanted a movie made: she got the richest most expensive actors to do their parts, at least those ignorant actors who the Taster's Club hadn't taken as members. She must've also hired the Black Eyed Peas to murder the competition and do the soundtrack, and donate a few dollars to their pet charities.
She wanted total control: she sent out her armies and minions to conquer people by any means neccessary.
Who would stand in her way?
.......surely nothing of the material world, and for that she stood unmatched. Her armies must battle the Taster's Club, even if the Tasters knew not what century or college history level they were in.
So when the complicated forces of reality met in the street in some ghetto in some bombed out capital city, the Tasters knew that a mob was the only way to defeat the empire that was Ash-corp. And that mob was now at the doorstep of Taster civilization......
Imperialism had to be confronted. The restless natives surrounded the Beverage Taster's table and tent and a thousand memos were distributed to the crowd of neandrethals to convince them of the growing presence of the Ash-corp menace. The Earl argued unopposed that at least one Theater Troup worker was strung up in spite and executed because he was gay, and another must've been ripped in half, denied voting rights, and eaten because he was black.
The violence stops as the crowds makes contact with Taster civilization. The native crowd is perplexed by the brightly colored Beverage Taster's Club, dressed in powdered wigs and frilly clothing, defiantly attempting to convert them to the ways of intellect.
The Duke speaks, as if he is a hundred feet up on some balcony overlooking the people he was destined all his life to lead. He becomes charismatic, flailing his hands about in scientific passion:
"See me, folks, science has proven that Ash-corp has made your life miserable. I am not going to lie, you are underpaid and bad workers because of the corporation. Not for nothing, but pudding will make you stout, roads willl give you direction. Let me design and pave a road for each one of you. Je suis Rick James, le bitch!"
A nice touch, hefty Duke.....
The Earl continues, his head twisting and turning, his ears closed shut to the insults and the many languages being shouted towards him:
"If you native folks would just listen to me, I think, I mean, if I could hug each one of you, I would, but I mean, fight imperialism and fight the Americans. Vive Capcom! Vive les resistances!"
At about the time the Earl speaks, the crowd ignores the Earl's truth telling, choosing not to listen and instead read the memoes of the Madame. The angry crowd pulls out their reading glasses, and a hush comes over the mob. They take approximately twenty minutes to carefully read every word on the memo. Torches fall to the ground, spears and knives retract from the backs of the people in front, the suicide bombers disconnect their devices, and machine gunners wait all together in a harmony that celebrates the written word.
Its one sentance reads: "I cannot speak to you. But burn the ENEMY! Sow chaos and save Earth from the horrors of humanity!"
Something stirred in the animal instincts of the crowd, as they awoke from their legal scrutiny of the memo. Perhaps it was the immediate threat before them, the whole ENEMY invasion force sprawled in front of the Taster camp. Perhaps it was the truth told them by the Beverage Taster's club. Perhaps it was the money and arms given to the natives by General ABC123 to incite revolution and equality that caused them to kill everything in their path.
The crowd of natives reacts to the memo with a violent rage, and surges around the tent toward the front line of ENEMY tanks. They rout the ENEMY tanks and troops, and set fire to the neutral refugee camps, killing all violators innocent or guilty. The remaining semblances of civilization are ripped out of the city to use as weapons against the ENEMY. A few Theater troup workers are burnt at the stakes and others crushed under the wheels of the retreating tanks from both sides.
After the battle passes by, and the native swarm has destroyed everything in its path before turning on itself and dissolving into a pacifist colony, the Beverage Tasters know that they had achieved a major victory. They had preached truth to the ignorant natives and swiftly beat back the Ash-corp invasion.
The Club did suffer notable tragedies in the conflict. The Earl was not listened to the by crowd, even though he blaimed it on a language barrier. The Duke sat on his 343rd pair of glasses, which were carefully enclosed in the hands of dying Theater Troup worker, sworn to protect them with his life. The Duke deciphered ENEMY telegraphs indicating that a spy had placed them on his chair under the table, so that he would crush them. But that information failed to save another victim as he sat on the worker's death-cocoon that was protecting #343.
More importantly...the art festival had a bad turnout and will have to be tried again next year. And the surviving Theater troup workers realized they'd have another year with the Beverage Taster's Club. The prospects of a longer than average life expectancy and the larger artistic prospects for staging the events of the Lion King, deaths and all, did not comfort those workers seeking salvation. Nobody wanted to be let off a cliff by a powerhungry evil sibling!
THE END
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