Boble V: Chronicles of Scary Things in Your Future, conclusion
Chapter Four
“The Death and End of Dil’s Reign”
So Dil was asleep in his imperial bedroom, catching the quiet rays from the sleep god. He was alone on this particular night, having slowed down his twisted and evil sexual fantasies for once. Ironically on this – his last night – he slept and behaved as he did in public. Dil had been kind to his servants, he had been thoughtful, and he had passed up a chance to force sex on animals. Alas, he was to die anyway. Dil had lived a long life, and now it was time. He had a hemorrhage while lying on his stomach and suffocated slowly, able to get just enough air to keep him in a state of semi-consciousness for nearly seven hours while he bleed internally and his organs ruptured. Then he died. Back in those times, that was considered a particularly fast and painless way to die.
Of course, that’s what the modern Boble says. But what of the ancient texts? What did the scribes really record so many distant millennia ago? Well, fortunately for your sorry ass, we have the true story of Dil’s death:
He lay in bed on that particular night, after having gorged on a bottle of 16 year old Glenfiddich and a plastic gallon jug of Gordon’s dry gin. The two hadn’t mixed well, and Dil reeled around the palace vomiting blood and defecating outside the doors of his guests’ rooms. According to the ancient texts, he force-fed a number of his guards jugs of wine and then split them open – forcing his sex slaves to drink the gore which spilled out. Let’s put it this way, when Caligula died, he was clutching fervently onto an ancient copy of “Dil’s Guide to Excessive Tyranny”. Hitler searched all of Europe for the copy of that book. But the pope, at the time, was in possession of it. As for its current whereabouts, no one knows. But rumors abound that certain elitist members of the Catholic church have been defecating outside the doors of notable Bobologists. That’s a tip-off right there.
As Dil lay there, choking on his own vomit, one of his former lovers crept into his royal bed chambers. Without a second thought, she jumped on top of Dil and brutally hacked him to bits. As was custom, she used a machete. Did we mention that she was twelve years old?
She was twelve years old.
Interlude (1997)
DEAN CASEY ANDERSON: …okay, and we’re back. This is WBOB at the top of the late for work hour. Dean Casey Anderson here to give you traffic, talk, and weather. Now I’m here today with a very special guest: Werdna, high prophet of the First Church of God BOB and chief translator of The Boble. Werdna my pal, I’d like to discuss your little breakdown while recounting the book of the Boble entitled ‘Chronicles of Scary Things in Your Future’. I mean, there’s a lot of talk about that, man. Hollywood won’t ever forget the Calico Cat scandal when you went on the rampage. Consequently, certain chapters were never finished. Let’s hear the story.
WERDNA: Well, Dean, it’s sometimes very hard to recount these things. I let my public down, Dean. I just couldn’t take it. I mean, the parts I skimmed over weren’t so good anyway, so it’s not like they missed anything. Still, though, I had an obligation as a writer but my mind was twisted on women and whiskey. For me, as the translator, that part of the Boble was when we started to lose track of the whole thing. I mean Dil, Sockit2him…what is all that, anyway?
ANDERSON: Uh-huh…
WERDNA: Well, what’s the point anymore? I originally translated the Boble in 1988; and spent seven or eight years trying to make it right after that. On what must have been the billionth revision, I just couldn’t take it anymore. I – I – Well, I just started to lose grip on the whole work. I mean, I fell apart right there. Imagine: I’m still re-editing this damned thing and trying to make it work after almost a decade, I’m unpublished and dying a slow death, I know that nothing may come of the Boble, and I come down to ‘Chronicles’ and…and…what is this? I see the whole thing going to crap!
ANDERSON: Uh-huh…
WERDNA: It’s like a bad dream or something, because I just got out of trying to avoid the IRS! I was doing so well, too. I guess translating, like any other form of writing, is full of such pit-falls. I felt young and stupid. I felt like I had just written hundreds of pages of this –
ANDERSON: Translated, you mean…?
WERDNA: What’s that, Dean?
ANDERSON: Translated the work, Werdna. You…ah…said you had written the pages.
WERDNA: Written the translations, of course! Uh, I felt as if I had just translated hundreds of pages of this thing and there it is. Nothing. Right in front of me like a big…big…nothing! An absolute abyss of nothing! Once again, I had no credit to my name. I had no agent! How was I to sell this damned Boble!?
ANDERSON: Well, Werdna, uh –
WERDNA: I translated the whole thing wrong. That’s what it was. I made a mistake…somewhere. My BOB! I have to correct it…I...I have to find the mistake.
ANDERSON: Well, Werdna, what was the mistake?
WERDNA: It was simple, Dean. Simple! Damnit! Her name was Catherine, and she blinded me! Everyone named Catherine blinds me! I don’t know, Dean, it was like a past life or something… Whenever I hear the name Catherine, I’m in love. I can’t contain myself! It drives me up the wall. Like, maybe, 200 years ago I was truly in love with a Catherine and we both died in unforeseen accidents. And now – now, Dean! – I have to live with this crippling weakness every time I hear the name Catherine. I literally forget everything. A woman – and, oh, if she’s beautiful, Dean – named Catherine spells the end for me. I’d do anything for her! I hate the world, Dean. I hate the world and everyone on it…but for the Catherines… Yes, Dean, that was my mistake.
ANDERSON: Well, then, you had to address your mistake…
WERDNA: I did, Dean. I had to. I got my hands on a West Hollywood phone book and began looking for Catherines. Then I hunted each of them down. I finally got one with red hair…Oh my, Dean… I was gonna beat her like a stepchild! I was gonna make her squeal like a stuck pig!
ANDERSON: Uh…okay, Werd…um…
WERDNA: Boy, I tell ya, I grabbed her! And when she tried to run, I said ‘hold still ya (expletive deleted)!’
ANDERSON: Um…Okay, Werdna…
WERDNA: Heh, heh… ‘Hold still ya (expletive deleted)!’ Then I bashed her head against the big metal door, and I said: ‘You got a right purdy mouth, I bet you can squeal like a pig!’ —
ANDERSON: I’m sorry about this folks…
WERDNA: ‘Squeal like a stuck pig!! Ha! Squeal! Squeal! Daddy sees you! Daddy sees everything!‘