x
Each Sunday evening, as the great, shining orb that most us call the 'Sun', slowly made its way beyond the western arc of the crater's rim, the majority of Timbrook's residents ― by now drunk to the gills ― stumbled, crawled, staggered, or were forcibly dragged, out of the town pub. A few managed to slither away to their own personal piles of flotsam, while others just slept in the street; having come to the realization that the possibility of finding a particular pile of rubbish that they had decided to call 'home' from the other piles of garbage, would be like to trying to find a needle inside a cow's colon.
Many would head over to the only other object in Timbrook which resembled a building: the 'Mayor's Mansion'. It wasn't a mansion in the conventional sense ― actually, it was just a one-room shack that had often been mistaken for the local pub's outhouse.
Now, the mayor was not a bright guy by anyone's standards, not even a marsupial's, but in the kingdom of the empty-attic-for-brains sect, the idiot with at least a couple of neurons bouncing about inside his cranial echo-chamber might be considered king — or in this particular case — at least, mayor. His main defect though, was his very short memory span, for every Sunday evening the mayor was inexplicably awakened by a loud mob of inebriated silhouettes of mud. This weekly occurrence had been going on for several years without fail, but the mayor's lack of recollection skills made him seem genuinely surprised each time it happened:
"Hey! Mayor! Let us in honey, or we'll eat your porch!" a slobbering drunk loudly slurred.
The mayor, still in state of surprise, and slowly shaking off the negative effects of being a persistent narcoleptic — his second big defect — and at this point, relying only upon pure instinct ― immediately began doing an imitation of a wire-haired Scottish terrier in heat.
The rather high-pitched barking and whining made the drunken mob roar with laughter, for it was a fairly good imitation of a wire-haired Scottish terrier in heat, and one which often brought several packs of dogs from the surrounding countryside to the town for a good bit of sniffing and baying at the moon. Unfortunately for the mayor, the townspeople knew good and well that he didn't actually own a dog, and even if some of the drunks did, at that point, start humping each other's legs, it was not due to the mayor's yowling, but was, in fact, a common form of greeting in those days.
"Open up mayor, baby! We is sleepy!" a member of the crowd yelped.
The mayor winced ― discouraged by his lack of canine impersonation skills. Suddenly, something deep within the confines of his overworked reptilian brain flickered for a few seconds. This almost insignificant electrical impulse caused the mayor a hazy and confused feeling similar to Déjà vu, but before he could be sure ― or at least brush up on his French ― the small cells shorted-out under the enormous strain ― much like what would happen if you used a toaster to bob for apples.
The mayor shrugged, like most simpletons are inclined to do in such circumstances, and was happy in the realization that he could still remember his name, which he was pretty sure was Olfin Gristlepuss. Being now fully awake, but still dumb as a box of Texas debutantes, he decided to roll out of his bed and answer the door.
He stood about five feet tall, although this height was only achieved because he had a large block of wood tied to each foot. He weighed about two hundred pounds soaking wet; but, it had been nearly ten years since anyone had been brave enough ― or crazy enough ― to actually verify this. His massive waist and nearly empty brainpan gave him a very low center of gravity, which is why he was a star rugby player back at the 'School for the Dentally Challenged', located in Buzzleburg, Switzerland.
Regrettably, a bad knee and a fondness for chickens got his sports scholarship revoked.
He spent the next summer climbing the Alps, but as he was nearing the top of one of the highest mountains in Europe, he lost his balance and began to roll all the way down the steep slope.
He became a resident of Timbrook only because that is where he finally came to a stop.
His quite-bald head was almost perfectly round and closely resembled a cue ball, without all the chalk marks. It seemed to be attached directly to his shoulders, as if his parents had mischievously withheld the genetic information necessary for the development of a neck. He always knew that they had it in for him and he had the stretch-marks to prove it.
The Sunday night routine was always the same, and had over time, become quite a strange ritual. The belching throng would awaken the mayor, he would then do his 'wire-haired Scottish terrier in heat' routine, get out of bed, put on his nightcap, mumble a few choice curse words to himself, tie the two large blocks of wood to his feet, and clumsily lurch across the floor to the door.
"What in heathen's name is the meaning of this intrusion?" he exclaimed in his best Basil Rathbone voice.
"Open zee door, mayor! We is poor orphans from the World Fund, and we is so very tired," one of the townspeople yodeled, while others snickered and giggled. "We is been out all day collecting money for pesticide and turpentine research!"
The mayor, however, was not at all amused. "Who is this? What do you idiots want at this hour of the morning? Be gone! Go to your own homes...you...you...vagabonds!" He stuck his chin as high in the air as a five-foot stooge can possibly manage, and crossed his arms on his chest because he thought it made him look more 'Churchill-ian'.
It was at that moment that the door to his humble pile of rubble suddenly flew open, which was not a difficult thing to achieve, as the door was nothing more than several twigs bound together by old hair-nets and that plastic grass often found in Easter baskets. Seconds later, the entire room ― which actually looked much larger from the inside ― was filled with about twenty to thirty inebriated, mud-soaked, somewhat human-looking degenerates.
"This is not a hotel!" the mayor screamed, losing all traces of the Basil Rathbone shtick.
"Is everyone in?" a voice asked the now alcohol-drenched atmosphere of the room.
"Yes," another scab replied.
"Good! Thanks, mayor. You certainly have my vote next year."
A low roar comprised of coughs, gurgles, gaseous expulsions, belches, and sniffles began to grow louder and louder, accompanied by the almost constant sound of grubby little hands scratching themselves. This rather disgusting concerto continued until silenced by a single word:
"Goodnight."
In an instant, they all hit the floor at once, leaving the mayor standing alone. Loud, rumbling snores and snorts and smacking of lips began emanating from the numerous lumps that now filled every inch of floor space available. The mayor could only stand there ― gazing about with that usual perplexed look pasted to the front of his skull.
"Oh, my..." he muttered to his twiddling thumbs, "How shall I ever make it back to my bed?"
Such was life in the small squalor known as Timbrook. Most of the days were spent digging up turnips or potatoes. Occasionally, a person would dig too deep and turn up somebody's dead uncle.
Many of the residents had, however, come to recognize that spending their lives knee-deep in mud, manure, and cat hair was not as bad as some might think. In fact, when studied closely, there is a quaint and wholesome quality to such a life, except for the diseases and that ever-present, god-awful stench.
It was a town that had survived on the ingenuity, hard work and determination of its citizens, which is why it was little more than a patch of dilapidated huts sitting inside a deep crater of sludge in front of a rather odd-looking mountain. In fact, Hans Figgle, the noted Polish historian, depicted the area as such in one of his travel journals:
"...Timbrook can best be described as a huge bowl of mud with a few things that vaguely resemble human beings poking around in it with half-eaten sticks. Avoid the area unless you have an overwhelming desire to catch some type of bacterial infection."
Needless to say, tourism was not one of the town's strongest enterprises.
ns 15.158.61.51da2
