hastwothumbs

Breaking down the fire was a hassle, it seemed, because the fire only stopped when it rained. Seven pounds of timber fed it so constantly that the heat exuded made metal melt, much to chagrin of car buff Danny McGland who later found his brakes wouldn’t work. For now, though, he was alive.
Seventeen good buddies and a few random jerks watched the embers dance, a glowing ballet about the tail end of Fall written and performed by Victorian poets would had never heard of ballet. As with all mobs eventually do, the topic of discussion turned to the nightfall and the reasons men ask “why.”
“Native Americans were probably right,” gushed Colleen Deversion. “They were here first and were told all the secrets.”
“That is an error,” puffed Rudolph Collect. “They were Europeans thousands of eons before they found this land. The oceans were smaller, so they could go farther without the aid of sail.”
“But sailing is nothing when compared to flying,” inserted Doris Sky.
“Flying’s unhuman,” argued Matthew Saint Gospel. “The only true way to fly is down.”
“That’s why we’re together,” said Phillis Veedee. “The earth hates a faller, that’s why you die in the end. If you keep your feet planted you’ll meet so many friends that you’ll want to walk faster, scour the planet, and meet just as many more.”
“One thing I’ll argue,” growled Billy Sardine. “Is the nature of humans and why they need their friends. What ever happened to the lone wolf of old, trusting on no one and getting the job done without the weight of aid? Most of my colleagues would have to agree that not everybody hates being lonely for precisely the reason that most other people would lie just as soon as stab.”
“Your logic is flawed, doctor,” Rudolph again. “For how the species continue to flourish if no one went outside?”
“That’s why we established prostitution and phone calls,” laughed Billy Sardine. “I’d rather order a pizza than philosophize nature or wear a pair of pants.”
“Oh, I thought you’d just gone swimming,” gasped young Sally Free. To which the doctor sighed.
“Clothing is nothing but a symbol of power, a way to censor who we are,” offered Buck Draft. “The powerful want us to wear all their logos and hide up our wieners, all for the sake of dictating our lives. Let us fuck freely and the world will see peace, the sky will have rainbows, and we’ll rule outer space.”
“Space is a frontier, but not in that way,” explained Darrly Harris. “The universe is not just some vagina Neil Armstong has banged. But I like your way of thinking, as I’m a perv, myself. I’d like to see Venus at least one time tonight.”
“And that’s where you’re a failure,” snuffed Annie Lavey, his now ex-girlfriend.
“If a planet is a pussy then we must be AIDS,” declared Marshall Way as he scooted towards Annie, much to her surprise. “And that’s why I always got the impression that this is why we die. The world’s vaccinated, but is not wholly cured. We just keep on coming like a bad case of herpes, much to her chagrin.”
“Who says Earth’s a woman?” asked Florentine Fay. “And why are we herpes instead of just crabs or maybe athlete’s dick? Your whole disillusion that everything is some kind of vagina makes me kind of mad.”
“Let’s put it this way,” snickered Johnny Raft. “Most people now think that nature is gay. Some common men, though, can’t really relate, as they’re campers, hikers, pilots, or homos and see life a different way. Your average straight male must be constantly manly, else he’ll be mistaken like a street-corner tourist for one of the freaks described. So everything they see must equate a vagina.”
“You are a bigot,” yelled George Mandalay. “Pilots and homos are just average people, even if they won’t admit it in public. Hiker’s lack respect but they still get to vote. And your average camper leads a quiet, productive life.”
“Statistically speaking you have got it all wrong,” quoted Dan Cressel. “According to studies, for every one crime that takes place on the streets there are eight more commited somewhere in the woods.”
“That figure’s inflated,” contradicted Paul Jail. “Some of my best friends are hikers and pilots. They always get blamed whenever shit goes astray. No matter what happens or what witnesses’ say, it’s always a pilot with a beard and a jacket that held up those orphans and refused to salute the flag.”
“Whatever,” dismissed Edmond Murray. “You’re all a bunch of Reds.”
“At least I’m forgotten,” sneered Crawford Doublassey. To which Ed raised his fist up high.
“Save it for Russia,” demanded Hank Sader. “’Cause then we can wager on who’ll be the winner in a nice and legal way.”
“This isn’t a cockfight,” goaded Mill Greadine. “Ten bucks on Crawford, perv that he may be.”
“’Professional sports’ is a strange genre of pornography,” declared Tilly Dee. “And may it be written that all competition end with copulation, so that all the athletes die.”
“There’s a bit more to sex than contracting disease,” claimed Theodore Bugle. “You don’t have to trust me, ‘cause you can find out firsthand.”
“I know very well of the up-sides,” bragged Dee. “But it’s my understanding that imagination is the single best boyfriend a woman can have.”
“On behalf of all women, I absolutely agree,” grinned Valorie Musket. “All you need is a free hand and a photo of Mars.”
“And if Mars is a planet then it also must be a vagina of some sort,” said Jenny Winters. “No wonder space travel is so much of a guy thing. You know how they get when you mention the lesbos.”
“Like a pack of hungry wolves,” answered Fran Dressa. “So maybe that’s why they abandoned ‘lone wolf’: a pack’s more efficient at finding lesbians.”
Danny then drew his ray gun and blasted them all. After one more drink he went home. To destiny.