This story is long ago in the wilderness of the American frontier, before that railroad came a’chuggin along into town. Choo- choo! It was a time of new beginnings, self-made men, fiddle playin’, pine trees bigger than you could wrap your arms around, if’n you so desired, and rampant genocide. Yessir, back then you could kidnap an Indian squaw and butt rape her bloody in the middle of town square ’til sun up and nobody would bat an eyelash. Nope, see back then they didn’t even have eyelashes. Their eyelids were smooth as a catfish’s clitoris. Sure, they’d get dust in their eyeballs all the time but they didn’t know any better. Those were just the times. They were hard times, but they were good times. Scratching and surviving.
One day this man and his big fat pregnant bitch of a wife rode into town. They were looking for a place to lay their heads but the Goathoof Inn was fuller than an Indian squaw’s butthole, so they couldn’t find any rightful beds anyplace. They decided to sleep in old Mr. Honeydew’s barn with the sheeps and the mule and the hay. And wouldn’t you know it, as soon as they settled down, that big fat pregnant lady’s water breaks all over the place and her stinkpot starts dilating as wide as Mount Vesuvius, only with more steam coming off the top. She starts huffing and puffing trying to squirt this little bambino out her cooch. ‘Cept it turns out that this little baby was really a big freaky baby. As big a baby as anyone had ever seen. That baby split her in half like a watermelon and she died something frightful right there in Honeydew’s barn. Next thing the townsfolk knew, that man that rode in with her started going on about how he wasn’t really the baby daddy and that the baby was immaculately conceived by God, The Father Almighty, Creator of Heaven and Earth, who’d come down and lay with his lady friend. And by “lay” he meant hopping the first donkey-carriage to Pound Her Vagina In Village and not stopping once ‘fore he got there. He said that there were lightening bolts shooting out of the Lord’s peanuthole and angels on high were playing trumpets and harps and bagpipes and what not. Long story short, that fellow giddy’ed up and got right on out of town lickity-split and left those townsfolk to take care of that big freaky baby.
And they named him Paul. Paul Bunyan.
The folks raised him the only way they knew how. They smacked him on the ass, dressed him in flannel and overalls, gave him an axe and glued their pubic hair onto his face, giving him a chin strap mustache that would make Chris Daughtry jealous. And I know that may sounds strange to you now because, as you know, in this day and age, we can’t grow pubic hair anymore after the Incident at Sunblood Cove’s Shampoo+Conditioner Plant in the spring of ’17 . But back then they could. They had loads of it. Pubie hairs comin’ out their ears and eyeballs. Like I said, it was a different time back then, a simpler time.
And let me tell you what, that baby had an appetite is big as the day is long. They tried feeding him porkchops but he ate all the pigs. They tried feeding him peanut brittle but he cleaned out the peanut trees. They tried feeding him buffaloes and damn near extincted ‘em doing it. They wound up getting some of those Chinese immigrants (they were dime-a-dozen back in wild west times before inflation) and had them whippin’ up a mess of flapjacks around the clock. Once that big baby became a big man, them Chinamans would stack them flapjacks up about 15 feet high, drown them in maple syrup, and big ol’ Paul would stomp on in, shaking the earth under his feet, and he would gobble them up like the T-Rex did to that goat on Jurassic Park.
But he grew up tall and he grew up right. He could swing that ax like a mother fucker. He’d chop down a whole forest before Average Joe was done splitting fire wood. He’d get up early and be out past moon-up just whackin’ and whackin’. He whacked so much his hands got all calloused and his pube beard got bushier than Eugene Levy’s eyebrows. Levy’s brows have the the standard measurement for bushiness since the old days.
But things weren’t all biscuits and gravy. Sometimes he got down right depressed on account of being so tall and all. He couldn’t fit in the movie theater to watch the new Nora Ephron vehicle. He was to big to play hide and go seek. And he was bound to never know the touch of a woman because his giant weewee was bound to split her open sticky side first, like a melon. Just like how he killed his Ma. And with those calloused hands of his, ‘batin was a sandpapery misadventure that resulted more in blood than tadpoles.
So he ventured off on his lonesome. Just whackin’ his life away. Until one day he ate a 10 sheets of acid that he bought of this dude with a hemp necklace with a fucking crystal hanging off it and flat billed ballcap. Total Disco Biscuits fan. Anyways, that acid hit him like George Clinton hits the crack pipe and our boy Pauly B. started wiggin’ out thoroughly. Wellington Wigout style. He wigged out so hard that he thought he made friends with a giant blue ox named Babe. He hallucinated that they traveled the countryside, going to bluegrass festivals, selling grilled cheese sandwiches, and talking about sustainable living.
But the acid started taking a turn for the worst. One thing led to another and he hacked Babe into little blue pieces with his ax. Murdered in cold blood. He panicked. So he put the butchered body parts in a bunch of oil barrels and hid them in the swamp and got the fuck out of there.
Then his trip turned inward. Who was he? What was he doing? Was he really just going to go through life chopping down forests? Life was different now that Babe was dead. He was alone. He knew it was time. He knew he needed to make a complete change in his lifestyle.
So he shaved off his beard and went to community college to become a Certified Public Accountant. Then he got a job in the city at a big shot accounting firm and lived out the rest of his days like a cog in the machine.
Only he knew about his dark past. Only he knew about what he did to Babe. Only he knew where those oil barrels were hidden.
OR SO HE THOUGHT……
to be continued…….