Boble IV: Various Kings & Other Absolute Monarchs, part two

Chapter Three
“Prophets of Profit”

Elongate the Reallybitten from Reallybite, west of Bruce Hardwood, Inc. and four miles North of “Grassland,” which was near Drak’s Cervix, predicted a natural catastrophe one fine Tuesday morning. This was apparently important if you were in the “determine the prophet business.” Of course, it wouldn’t fly today. But you know how these pagan heathens were, someone sees clouds and yelps rain and the next thing you know – bang – Messiah.

Anyway, Elon addressed the crowds. “As the BOB, BOB of the Hebos, lives, whom I serve, during these years, then shall no rain, except my word.”

The Hebos, puzzled by Elon’s odd syntax (actually, the error comes in our translation. Deciphering the ancient code of the Boble is something like translating German literally: Er fing die big volf in die nuts an) were unable to grasp the meaning of the statement.
Not even BOB understood that sentence.  But the Great One still had to act like he knew what was going on.  He appeared to Elon in the bathroom, speaking from the nearest unoccupied stall.

“Yo, Elon…” BOB said.

“Yo, Elon…” a sweet and musical female voice mocked.

BOB shushed the young lady, who appeared to be in the ventilation shaft.  She made a purring sound but was otherwise quiet as BOB addressed his prophet: “Go unto the desert, my son – ”

“I’m in the desert!!” Elon barked irritably.

BOB cleared his throat. “Go deeper into the desert, my son, and seek shelter in the lands that are desert as they were desert before!  You shall drink from the desert stream of desert water, and never desert my faith in the desert…even during dessert.  Thus shall I maybe possibly command the ravens to feed upon…” BOB coughed, “to feed you.”

And so Elon went to the stream in the desert.  By day he would get a nice tan, and by night he would golf.

“Well, you know,” he told the anchorwomen – Miss Smily Jane of NBC – “…’s all just one big sandtrap woo woo…” Elon shuffled around a bit and smiled.

After some time, however, although, the brook, somehow, as can be seen, ran dry (guitar solo).  Elon marched rapidly with a maddeningly slow pace through the Desert of Contradiction.  He was tired wide awake thirsty and drinking the whole time.  In those long short medium days, he came closer to BOB…and hallucinations.

It was not until he left when he met a widow and punched her out.  He then stayed with the widow and prayed, “Oh BOB, my BOB, will thy even kill the widow’s son I now sleep with?”  And with that, he forced himself upon the widow’s son.

“See!?” Elon screamed to the widow, “your son lives…barely.”

As morning came forth, the family dog dropped dead.

“Oh BOB, my BOB,” said Elon, bending over the dog, “Is this dog to die?  Please breathe life into him.”

And so he (BOB) did. And then BOB said, “I have been testing you all this time.  The word of BOB is uttered from your mouth, and now I shall bless you with the word of BOB being uttered from your mouth.  Thou art to be my first real prophet of profit.”

And thus, ten years later, still during a drought, Elon stood upon his pedestal and said, “Let this drought end, and be there rain!”  And there was. Holy shit.  We haven’t had an “and there was” for a few chapters now.

Then Elon said, “Now I shall defeat all other soothsayers in the land with this leaden club!”  And so he pummeled all the other prophets to death, took over the land, and preached the word of BOB: “EAT, DRINK, COPULATE…”

Then the king of the Hebos said, “I art a better prophet than you.  Shall we light a fire and see?”

“And so we shall see, light thy fire, baby baby.  Come on babeeee, light thy fire!”

And the king lit a small brushfire.

“A-ha!” Elon decreed. “I can do better.”

“Then do so!” ordered the king.

Thus Elon lit a blaze beneath the king’s robes, and the king of the Hebos was devoured in flame.

“TRULY BOB IS GREATER!” screamed the people in a maddening frenzy popular amoungst the Germans at the time.

“Truly.” Elon crossed his arms. He held his tongue, for he wanted to go into a Nazi tirade. But that would come later.  For now, shake a few hands, kiss a few babies, and then a heartbeat away from the football…from the bomb.  Fuck them all.  He’d take the country, bomb the commies and kill everything.  Fuck the world.  Elon wanted his penis to be attorney general.  He wanted everything.  But, no, for now play along.  BOB and everyone else thinks he’s the prophet…the normal guy.  The Okay Guy.  He’s good in bed.  He obeys the laws. He buys the right CDs and goes to all the sales.  But soon….soon they shall see.

But they didn’t.  Elon died poor and alone, leaving only twenty volumes of esoteric occult studies floating around in used bookstores and three half-breed illegitimate children on welfare somewhere in East St. Louis. Regardless, he was taken up to Bob Heavens (where there is burning sausage) in a whirlwind of Jell-o.  Elon’s last words, as he donned a pair of roundish, metal-rimmed, purple-reflective sunglasses were thus: “TAKE MANY DRUGS MY CHILDREN AND BE COOL!”

“We don’t need drugs to achieve our high!” called BOB when Elon reached the top of Jack’s Elevator, “we simply drink lots of coffee.  Well, there’s that whole buttermilk biscuit thing too…”

“Than what be that on thy nose?” asked Elon.

“Powdered milk,” replied BOB. Calm, practiced.  BOB was ready for any question at any time.

“Great Lord BOB, do I cross the blue wire with the green?” a voice called from the electric’s room.

BOB spun around.  “I…uh…”

“Oh man,” Elon muttered as the lights blinked out.

“Anti-gravity’s off line, life support’s failing!” shouted a scantily clad red-headed angel-minx.  Her slinky, silver space dress glinted despite the lack of light.

“Quick, you can all survive by sucking on my – “

Ever calm.  Ever prepared.  That was our BOB.  He was the hero of the hour.