This Is Unrelated NUMBER 2

The mooching don't like to be told about their watches. I didn't know this, but would find out over a cup of squid. The man who I was having squid cups with was having a problem. A problem with a boy whose hand was named Alfred. Alfred liked the cakes that lined shelves. But this man, a man who showed me how to levitate the third of every month, was being tried for fraud and fish, and the boy was a witness. A witness of a horrifying fish related incident. The incident had left three blocks with a red glow. The glow was always something that had to be licked by those who ran the shops on those three blocks.

I was going to find this kid and give him a seminar on 17th century farming techniques. It was what I once was, when I was sane. But then I got really into the geography of existing cornfields and it all went downhill from there. The corn was telling me about the wider reality that came with detective work. Bloody corn. I wish there was a rewind button on the cigarette machines here. The work needed to be done in at least a week. The fortuitous orangutan was on the television, talking about his greats luck. Apparently now he had got a free dead chicken. I always wanted to see that damn orangutan get what he deserved. The freakin' thing was always loved by the rest of these sanes. All that orangutan does is look foolish and win. It made me sick enough to stop being weirded out by the congealed blood that was seeping in through the door frame. My carpet was getting abused this week, what with the endless flood of milk that came out of my closet last week. Lets just wait with the rug steamer till I get a few other floods out of the way.

My first stop was Emilio the Butcher. He ran a shop down on St Evens of The Sponge. The juggler legion was out in force today, trying to take the rooftops from the tomato guild. I was used to dodging the rotting fruit and flying pins so it didn't really matter. The field trip there was having more of a problem. A little girl was experiencing difficulty. I gave her my umbrella. She made the sound a cat makes when the scratch its chin. The door to Emilio's was covered in flowers and pig noses. He seemed to be having a good day. “Luis! How is it you have lived in that office for so long without my meat pillows?” said Emilio. He was always trying to sell his meat pillows but no one wanted to touch them. They whispered strange things about their past existences in your ear. “Heh, still haven't had any takers?” I replied. “Well, a bunch of men in green business suits came in and bought half my stock last night at three AM. I hadn't analyzed that user market. But what can I do for you?” he said. “I'm looking for a kid. Name of Alfred. He likes shelved cans.” I asked. “Alfred you say? I heard of this kid that frequented the Can Emporium round Shelby and Hamhand. Stays there all the time.” replied the meat man.

The Can Emporium was the world's largest emporium of cans. There also was the worlds 72nd largest bathroom stall. I think something about the cook's hat was the world's something or other. Being so large, one needed a can guide. They were usually wiry guys that looked like they either played professional Starcraft or collected pogs. The music on the speakers was some sort of Indian unheard of instrument. It made a noise you imagine space to make if it could talk. I was looking at the map. It was printed on a sort of moebius strip, suggesting that this was the largest can emporium by a fairly big step. This kid would be a tricky card. The wiry guy was going on about pogs as we traversed the seemingly infinite expanse of the Can Emporium. Occasionally we met some of the people that lived here, crafting homes from soup cans. A man was creating a tableau of presidential assassinations from Campbell's Beefy Noodle. Then it appeared on the horizon. A giant low flying cloud, going faster than they really should. It stopped two inches from my face. It was a large ethereal bear.