Olympic Fever!
The judges are fighting like drunken chimps, or are passed out in the swill of serious partying. Grapefruit rinds litter my apartment, and the Argentinian fighting cocks are dragging their entrails around my kitchen staining the linoleum, or are still smouldering in the greasefire left on my concrete patio where the French and Romanian judges knocked over the barbecue in some sort of angel dust duel with tongs, skewers and forks. The Japanese judge is locked into some sort of psychotic acid-rage death trip, and is holding the British and Saudi judges hostage in the bathroom, while outside the Greek is passed out in a puddle of his own vomit and the urine of impatient officials unable to piss completely over him into the half open washroom door. He appears to still be breathing, but he sluggishly oozes blood from a head wound of unkown origin. It may have to do with the sinister New Zealand judge, who was seen stalking him with one of the dozens of empty wild turkey bottles left around the apartment…
Twisted, completely round the bend – stark slavering buggo, every last one of them.
The contest is closed, and Zoe is almost finished pummeling the last of these swine into unconciousness- or at least compliance. Sierra is carefully scraping soggy ballots and illegible grading scrawls from the scarred and beer soaked table where the Swede, Russian, and that freakish bastard from Nairobi were playing a drinking game which involved beer, a dollar bill, bodily functions and, after serious drinking, facial laceration of the hapless Mexican official who fell asleep too close to the brutes. Ominous commentary scrawled across the walls in mustard and what may be human feces- no known language, starkly warning me of the horrors to come before this Bataan Death March plays itself out, it’s conclusions unknowable- but equally inevitable.
The results of the Barrel Murder Haiku contest will be posted tomorrow… I’m going to go reload my shotgun and wait on the porch for the Chinese judge who made off with several dozen videotapes and my playstation, hoping to lure the frightened Phillipine entorage of transvesite hookers back for “just one more go round”…