Looking through the lens of his microscope, the first thing that came to his attention was that when these creatures, which he deemed considerably humanlike—when they talked, they didn’t say things in the way you or I would say them. That is, one word after the next. It took him considerable time to decode their language. They exchanged by utilizing a singular outburst. All of their syllables and ideas were scrunched into this quick, sharp outburst so that whole sentences, whole ideas, whole narratives came out as isolated, singular sounds. Of all the sounds available, their unit of exchange sounded most like a bonk. Whenever these humanlike creatures conversed, they did not so much talk as bonk. To put it another way, they were Bonkers.
These bonking Bonkers bonked all night long. They bonked on cell phones, in trains, they bonked in burgundy, overburdened beds. They bonked in groups going up stairs and sometimes going down these stairs. When they were angry with each other, they bonked each others brains out: bonk, bonk, bonk. They didn’t even think before they bonked. They did it in excited, exuberant ways. And this was exciting to watch through the microscope. Sort of a peep show for people.
What would happen with these Bonkers from time-to-time is that both a male and a female would expend all romantic options and turn to outside parties to help form an alliance. This was called a Blind Date. It was called a Blind Date because neither party was able to see the other prior to their first meeting.
There was this one couple that got set up on such a date. The male was named Mason Foot because he had this sedimentary thing not completely unlike a foot. The female was named Cola Eyes since her eyes beamed sugary, caffeinating brown.
Before Mason Foot left his abode for the evening, he bonked a trusted female friend: “How does my Foot look this evening and since it is what helps me bear my name, does it bear it well?”
She bonked back: “Modest male friend—true companion, I have never lied to you and, so, as such, now I bonk: Might’ve you of done something to fasten up the chariots and guard the oarsmen against a foul wind?”
“What?” Mason Foot bonked in befuddlement. Bonking being a relatively new form of communication among Bonkers since Bonkers had evolved their entire civilization incredibly quickly—in a matter of weeks, actually.
“Oh, I don’t know,” she bonked. “It is masonry but is it also a foot? One can never be too sure. Do this: speak to her in high-pitched squeals and prance it about. But, be masculine. Be erudite; be calm; be poised; but be rugged and masculine. Be a lover and a fighter, be both poet and prince. Be modest as a pauper and kind as a saint. But, use trickery if it be to both your goodly advantage. If her back itches from intemperate, stray weeds, buy her a newspaper and read some funnies. If the funnies turn her aghast with melancholy, swear to her you understand her mythologies of mirth. If she eats a bite, nibble the feathery ostrich and find an usher that can seat you promptly for the show.”
“Sound advice!” Mason Foot bonked. “I got my wordsworth—and twice!” he bonked again.
Later on, both Blind Date Bonkers were seated at a fancy restaurant that had flaming gobos and honey-sweet swatting shimshams with tintercating mismots. Neither of them had released a single bonk from fear and nervousness of being the first to bonk and, of course, also of over-bonking. Presently, the waiter appeared and bonked thus:
“Dear Sir and dear Madam, would you like to hear me bonk of these specials? This is not important. I have already bonked—ha ha! you cannot listen to this message in part, or can you?—ha ha! We got rice cakes, we got pandas, we got noodles, we got gurbbling, singsong mashed potatoes and things that go slurp beneath your soup. Please do not sloup your soup, we have a strict policy on that and we enforce it sometimes if we’re bored or we’re all spunty. If you wish to sloup your soup, fill out this flout and undress each other with ravenous complibents… We got shellfish, too.”
“Just a couple of snot shots to start, please,” Mason Foot bonked and the waiter left.
Still neither one had let out the first bonk of the evening. The tension splouted.
But then it happened. Both bonks flew out of their mouths at exactly the same time and hurtled through the air and crisscrossed the table and struck them at exactly the same time and they both sounded nearly like this:
“My—! you are pretty (or handsome) and I was nervous coming here but now I see that this was a good idea. I find you attractive but I don’t want you to butter my toast with margarine on this, our first date (or, I wouldn’t think of buttering your toast although it seems lovely and fresh) and even though it would be fun and who doesn’t enjoy a little extra dairy. Is it hot in here? Have you ever driven to the moon on a moldy mattress? (a trifling narcotics reference popular that week) And could you please give me directions to your warm, buttery toast. Kidding. Just kidding. Not really kidding though.”
The waiter returned promptly with their drinks and bonked: “And has the lady decided on the main mourse for the meavening?”
Cola Eyes bonked: “She has…but with size-nits. This here, yes this? Of course this, the first item transisted: Can this sandfist be a maco? Can this aldedo sauce be magorgen and then be vaporblized to nothingness before it be brought? Can one of the most senior smooks in the kitchen guess me my blirthblay?”
“All this can be done and more. Would you like the coat rack to arrange for flaming gobos and swattering mismots to dance and sleer as you chew?”
Cola Eyes slimmened her cola eyes, “I sniz sarcasm in your bonk, waiter.”
“Not at all, madam. Rest assured that I would never bonk sarcasm at you. I merely stepped on a sharp meable just before bonking and may have mis-bonked. It won’t happen again. And for the gentleman?”
“Another round of snot shots, sneeze, and a big, pig squish-out, medium dare.”
“Excellent choice, sir. I’ll bonk this repeatedly at the kitchen.”
Cola Eyes bonked: “Wow, Mason Foot! Two rounds of snot shots, a fancy restaurant and a big pig squish-out, medium dare, you really are fussing out all the flops this meavening. I’m squished inwards in permanent by your powerful pushouts. Wait? Do you have enough green-backs to pay for all this partying? Oh…I shouldn’t of nibbled that inside this bonk. Regardless, I have not brought green-backs. With you being from a good family and coming so well recommended, I maglooned the male would meter the meal and practice the compulsory panty-praise. But, some femzots bonk panty-praise is being dosed in globs of gooey suffocating glue. Will you pay for the meal? Have you brought enough? Do you hold the art of panty-praise high above you, Mason Foot?”
His bonk expelled: “Panty-praise is held high by me. If an old woman wants to dross the geat, I sprowse her in zords of glop. If a young girl wears a pretty print dress, I spin her around in smirckles until she vumpkins. If a horse hobbles into a train station, I punch its gonads. All these actions are maintained by me. You see? Toast worthy! Opps—misbonk! Disregard mid and end bonk! Wait. Disregard entire bonk. I rebonk this one.”
“Never mind your rebonk, Mason Foot. I simply want to know if you brought enough greenbacks. As you know, I arrived here later and did not get a chance to great you in the meeting room. How many salamanders have you beneath the table?”
Mason Foot picked out the small cage hidden beneath the tablecloth and presented it for her appraisal. “Two salamanders. Two salamanders with which to pay. You see? All is well. I have brought the necessary amphibians. Buttery toast—misbonk! Misbonk!”
“Two salamanders! That will be plenty. We could do quite a lot with two, whole salamanders!”
“I have trained them since I was a boy. Wake salamanders! Speak to the lady!”
A leftmost salamander scampered back and forth nervously in the cage and stood and adjusted his spectacles and bonked, “I don’t trust this one, master. She will never show her toast. She will not serve you as well as us. Please master. What did we do wrong? How have we offended you that you should exchange us in such a risky endeavor? Other salamanders have been sacrificed before in this way and
for what? They have not been treated well by the restauranteers. The female’s bellies grow full—we toil, master. We toil! Don’t be a fool! I know a nice female over on Slibberbing Jablibberbing Boulevard.”
“Back underneath the table you go.”
“Why have you trained your salamanders to bonk thus,” she bonked.
“It is not I that bonks through them. They bonk for themselves.”
“We must spend them then,” she bonked. She looked angrily to her meft. “If money offends me, it must be spent.”
“Don’t trust her, master,” the bonk rose and hung in the air.
Then the food arrived: the big pig squished out with spruzzles and glasses of poultry magornzo and snit glowing candles and fumbly snails sliding in mello and whole pine-rabbles popping over chimneyed candy-fickles with gimmie gummy goose gumps and with whirly fuzz-plaster all fussing about.
“Now this is a meal,” Cola Eyes bonked.
“Agreed.”
They forked it into their mouths and bonked and bonked more freely with each forkful. They bonked of weather and music and hobblysnort. They bonked of Merly and Pearly and of the winds of the West. They bonked of how many times they’d buttered toast and how many loaves they’d sent back to the baker and under what conditions and the refreshing feeling of getting the bread out of the plastic. They bonked of mortgages and blorgages and variable credit- frosting arms and legs and tentacles. And at the tail end of this, with a mouth half full of gimmie gummy goose gumps, Cola Eyes let lose a slippery spontaneous bonk that went thus:
“It’s important for me to trust the Bonkers that surround me. I’m not picky about everything but there are certain things that are important to me. Last Wednesday, I went to the mall and bought a shirt and a flirt and that reminded me of my brother which reminded me of my moothmush which reminded my of my many speckled list of things that are a must for me to have in a bonk-partner. The first of which being that he must have a handy chazz-whiz…” And the bonk went on like this. Mason Foot examined it in parts, never being able to know for sure exactly how long it would take him to digest and understand the entire bonk, but it seemed, as he analyzed it and turned it over in his mind that it might take him seven, whole weeks, at the very least. The scientists of their day had predicated that their entire civilization could only be sustained in the most optimistic of circumstances for about six and half more weeks. If he added his lifetime to the lifetime of any potential bonkers he might sire he couldn’t see his own bonk-line lasting more than four more weeks at best. But he liked this girl and he wanted to understand her bonk. He got nervous and bonked rather bonkishly:
“Cherrywood nipples!” He bonked it loudly so that everyone in the restaurant could hear.
“What?” she bonked.
“Nothing.”
“Did you just bonk, ‘Cherrywood nipples’? What’s that supposed to mean? That’s like something a crazy Bonker would bonk. I mean, I’ve heard some crazy bonks in my day. Cherrywood nipples? Cherrywood nipples? Are you feeling alright, Mason Foot?”
“I’m fine. I’m fine. I just. I just got a little nervous.”
“That’s your response to my test bonk? The test bonk that I give all Bonkers to see if they just want to butter my toast. The one that should take a Bonker seven weeks to debonk. The one that was supposed to take you to the end of civilization to debonk. You debonked my test bonk in a couple minutes and then you come back at me with cherrywood nipples? What’s that mean? That’s so weird. I’m not sure how I feel about you now. I’m not comfortable with this. Cherrywood nipples? You’re weird. I think I hate you, Mason Foot. What kind of name is that, anyways? I bet it’s not even sedimentary.”
“I don’t just want to butter your toast, Cola Eyes.”
“You want to be a weirdo dweebie-vent is what you want to do. Cherrywood nipples?” Then she really started bonking. She let out bonks that were even longer: eight weeks, nine weeks, yearlong, abysmally-mysterious hyperspace bonks, bonks from beyond the grave warning of future plagues and famines, bonks inter-stitched with entire transcripts from fable orators of old, bonks overlaid with ghostly bonks of pirates tempting him with buried treasures and secret, magical potions. It was too much. He wanted her bonking to stop. It had to stop. Somehow.
“Cherrywood nipples,” he bonked again. And scooted his chair back. It had worked before.
“I’m using my cellphone to call for a ride to come pick me up,” she bonked.
“You don’t have to do that. I can magurgle you all the way home in my chariot.”
She raised her suspicious cola eyes up from her cellphone to him. “You just want to butter my toast.”
“Setting that issue aside. I can magurgle you all the way home in my chariot. It’s no trouble, really. It’s the vimbleblest thing in the Glack.”
“Cherrywood nipples!” she bonked to herself disgustedly as she pecked at the keypad. “I’ve made my mind up!” She pecked the keypad and a small hairy arm popped out of the side of her cellphone. “No!” she scolded the cellphone and smushed the arm back into the side of the phone. She pecked at another button and another arm popped out of the other side, then a small wriggling foot, then another foot. “No!” she bonked. Long brown hairs sprizounted out all over the cellphone and it bit her on the hand before dropping to the tablecloth and scuzzywagging all over the meal, scimscabbling down along the tablecloth to the floor and scuttling across the carpet.
Cola Eyes put her head into her hands and flobbed.
Mason Foot broke his attention away from a Mootball game broadzooped on one of those gazillion salamander mirrormorks and bonked, “What’s wrong?”
“My cellphone.”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“It hamstered!”
“Didn’t you get the insurance?”
“Yeah, but not against hamstering!” She flobbed in her hands.
“Oh…I only ask because my spunky uncle splurges on such precautions. It is no big deal. I have already told you that I will magurgle you all the way home in my chariot. It’s no trouble, really.”
“I already told you that I don’t want to be magurgled in your chariot. I want to call for a ride.” She flobbed. “Cherrywood nipples!”
“Stop bonking that! It was a misbonk!”
“There are no misbonks!” She flobbed. “You don’t glove me!”
“Keep your bonks down! We’re in public. I just met you! How can I know if I glove you? For Course Rakes, I just wanted to get my toast buttered. There, I bonked it. Are you bappy?”
She looked up at him with her smeary, bleary cola eyes. “At least your being blohnest now.”
Mason Foot sighed. “Let’s get up and go find you your hamster phone.”
The hamster phone had crawled up onto the table of an old fatherly and matronly couple having their anniversary dinner and it was wrestling with whatever was slurping beneath the female’s soup.
“May we please retrieve my friend’s hamster phone from beneath your slurping soup madam?” Mason Foot bonked.
“You may,” the madam bonked impatiently.
“There’s no use,” the passing waiter bonked. “Any fool knows that the only way to transform a hamster back into a cellphone is for both blind bonkers to agree on a wish for the hamster to grant.”
“I wish for a bonker who tries valiantly to debonk my test bonks.”
Mason Foot set his salamander cage on the table. “And I wish for a cheap date that lets me butter her toast.” “Ditto bonk!” The salamander grasped the bars of his cage, nervously. “One wish,” the waiter bonked, waging his finger.
“Then…then I wish that we both have a pleasant evening,” Mason Foot bonked.
“Yes…I agree.” And Cola Eyes beamed upon Mason Foot kindly.
The hamster phone burst up out of the soup, grasping desperately at its rim and gasping for breath. “Impossible wish! Impossible wish! Warranty voided! All insurance claims rescinded!” it bonked frantically just before it was p
ulled back beneath the soup by whatever was slurping below.
Just then the skylights above the restaurant flooded with blinding yellow light and a broad structure with pink ridges descended above the sky which was above the skylights. The broad, ridged pink structure rose and fell against the sky making the whole restaurant and the ground rumble and shake. “HEY THERE LITTLE BUDDIES! WHAT’S NEW TODAY?” an incomprehensible voice boomed from above.
Mason Foot flattened into a flat pancake shape with his hands flapping out near the edges of the disk and his stubby useless feet below just allowing him to wobble and worble his disk toward the exit door as everyone else was doing except the salamanders who clung together tightly. “YEAP! YEAP! YEAP!” Mason Foot bonked up to the broad pink structure in the sky as he warbled with the rest toward the door. “YEAP! YEAP! YEAP!” they all bonked upward toward the sky.
The incomprehensible voice boomed, “THE DUST MICROPHONES KEEP SAYING THEY’RE ‘YEAPING’ AT ME? WHY DO THEY ALWAYS DO THAT?”
Chapter 4: Zombie Clown Western