Chapter 2Mature

            The explosion causes a crimson geyser to shoot fifty feet into the air like some sort of macabre version of old faithful. The cocktail consisting of human blood, shark blood, chlorine, guts, and chunks of flesh rains down on the rabid crowd. There’s no way to distinguish which organs are mine and which organs belong to the shark. GWAR doesn’t miss a beat.

            An enthusiastic fan picks up an eyeball and throws it into the air. Since I’m able to see this I assume that the eyeball belongs to me. My eyeball lands on the stage and rolls under one of the drummer’s kick pedals. The next beat is accompanied by a disturbing squish. I never thought I’d get a chance to be on stage with GWAR, even for a moment.

            The crowd assumes that it’s all part of the act and they are going wild. They’re all covered in blood. What was inside my body along with what was inside the shark’s body just moments ago is now being thrown about like confetti. I sure hope that shark didn’t have AIDs. GWAR finishes their set and their frenzied fans leave satisfied, but not quite as satisfied as my girlfriend was on the ride over here.

            Darkness falls and I am left alone; scattered across the concrete of the outdoor venue. My remains have been mixed with the remains of the shark so thoroughly that we have become one. I’m feeling very hungry…and oddly enough, I have a particular craving for seals and surfers. What have I become?

            Eventually two men in grey jump suits arrive. I’m assuming that they’re the cleaning crew, poor bastards. One of the men begins to gag. It’s hard to say what happened to my nose at this point, but I’m assuming that it was either disintegrated in the explosion or one of the concert goers took it home as a souvenir. Either way my sense of smell is long gone. That is probably for the best as I am sure that my entrails mixed with the shark’s entrails mixed with the entrails of whatever the shark ate before me does not smell like a dozen roses, especially after sitting around for a few hours. One of the men is now puking violently all over the ground. That seems like the opposite of what a cleaning crew would want.

            They leave for a moment and come back. This time equipped with those paper masks that surgeons wear and a couple of squeegees. They push all of the blood and guts into a large mound in the center of what used to be the mosh pit. A few hours ago I was fucking my girlfriend while popping a wheelie on my kickass motorcycle. Now I’m a disgusting pile of ruby mush.

            I hear one of the men make an off colored joke that I almost look like a snowman. I would love to know what kind of snowmen the kids are making in his neighborhood. The other one laughs loudly and screams “Yeah, he does!!!” His voice reminds me of Barney Rubble. If I still had hands I’d punch him square in the face.

            At this point the men decide to take the joke a step further. They actually started building a god damn snowman out of me. What is wrong with these sick assholes? They couldn’t stand the smell of me when I was scattered across the room a few moments ago and now one of them is elbow deep in what I’m pretty sure used to be shark anus. It’s funny how quickly people can get used to this kind of shit.

            Time passes on and they finally become satisfied with their work. If I wasn’t so pissed off about it I might actually admit that they did a pretty good job although it’s a bit uninspired. They used all the blood and guts lying around to construct a standard three tiered snowman. They stuck a big foam sword prop from the GWAR show into my side to act as my right arm and a big foam axe to act as my left arm. I must say that I was particularly impressed that they found actual eyeballs to stick into my new head. I’m pretty sure one is mine and one is the sharks. It doesn’t matter anymore. Oddly enough, I can see out of both of them.

            Now it seems that they are ready for the final touch. One of them is picking up a blood-soaked cowboy hat off the floor. It was probably lost by one of the concert-goers in all of the chaos. He places it atop my head and their bizarre project is complete. I suddenly feel a strange surge of energy… I think I can move.

            “There! Perfect!” the unintentional Barney Rubble impersonator proclaims. The other man wonders aloud what they should call me. “I know!” Barney replies. “Let’s call him Asshole the Gutsman!” They both begin to laugh uncontrollably. I personally don’t find it very clever. Suddenly I’ve have a new revelation…I can speak.

 

“The name’s Awesome, fucktards!”

The End

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