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January 6, 2013
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A Tale of Two Buttocks:

in which we meet Anna Beth, knife-guy as WB Yeats in Disguise,
and Honey Boo-Boo – who is immune to zombie attacks.


+++++++++

It always came down to choices, and if Anna Beth had chosen to squish herself into the half a seat not occupied by the left buttock of the rotund woman in front of her, she would not be in this situation. Anna's eyes darted around the train's interior as the hooded man behind her shoved the knife deeper into her back. He twisted the knife screaming insanely "Welcome to hell - you whore," wiping away the blood that splashed back into his forehead. Anna Beth was grateful her attacker had no idea the knife he used was like a pinprick in her seat partner's left buttock, a woman who never registered either the knife or the man.

The passengers continued looking in front of them, ignoring the psychotic man that only Anna seemed to notice. None on the bus wanted to draw the man's attention or knife towards them. But it was the last stop, and the driver called out, "everyone off!" Everyone else but Anna, the rotund woman and the knife guy stood up and hurried out of the bus, but the driver didn't seem to notice the trio at all. Her mouth still a surprised O, Anna watched the driver stand, swipe a stream of snot from his nose, and slip down the bus stairs into the darkness of the Michigan night; he didn't look back once.

"Say," Anna finally turned to the insane man, "Have you ever tried spooning?"

The insane man smiled and said, "Yes, but she wouldn't stop struggling so I had to kill her."

"No," said Anna, "I meant: 'would you like a taste of your own medicine?'" and she shoved a discarded, plastic cough-syrup spoon into the knife-man's eye.

The knife guy cried out and covered his face while swearing loudly, which eventually woke the rotund woman from her deep and, apparently, peaceful sleep.

"I haven't heard Profanitarian throat singing in evah such a long time!" exclaimed the rotund woman: "Good sah, do continue!"

With a distinct and unsettling pop, Anna Beth pulled the spoon from between his clenched hands, the offending eye glued to the utensil by a smear of sticky grape syrup. The man continued screaming profanities and the woman wiped a tear of blood from her eye, which had landed there in the man's frantic flailing.

The rotund woman exclaimed: "Good gracious, sah, are yah quite alright; yah seem tah be bleeding evah so much!"

Anna Beth offered the spoon with the eye still stuck to it to the hefty woman and said, "Do you want to try to put it back in?"

Just then a gang of wilding, laid-off white-collar autoworkers boarded the bus (train?) and viciously attacked the three passengers, performing what, in effect, began as vivisections and ended as performance-art autopsies on each of them; "once again," thought Hermès, their gang leader, "that poor copy editor at The Detroit Free Press will gnash his brains trying to euphemize the coverage of our artistry." He abruptly stopped worrying about the copy editor as zombie Anna Beth and her two companions reanimated, and began gnashing on the autoworkers' brains.

"I told you we should have brought the shotguns!" shouted Erwin, flailing his arms in what looked like the mating dance of a praying mantis as Anna Beth gnawed pleasantly on the leather of his shoes.

The knife man stared, aghast at the unsettling path his murder attempt had suddenly careened down; this was supposed to be a simple knifing! And then, suddenly, a llama crashed through the window, and it said, "I am Spiderman!"

"Spiderman?" scoffed Anna Beth.

It was too much: one-eyed, gutted by performance artists, a member of the walking dead, apparently experiencing llama hallucinations as his neurons died off - and the knife-man couldn't shake the sensation that he'd left the iron on at home...But no, no, it wasn't the iron he'd left on--it was the television; with a groan, the knife-man squinted his one eye at the watch on Anna Beth's blood-smeared wrist and realized he'd already missed the first half-hour of this week's The Voice.
A little girl carrying a balloon pulled on her mother's shirt while standing next to her and asked, "Is this the end of the world?"

As soon as the knife-man saw the bright yellow balloon she was holding, he whispered shakily, "Give me that balloon little girl... I need that balloon!"

The little girl bit him on the leg. Yelping, the knife-man yanked the string from her wrist, giggled maniacally when the bone snapped, and stuffed the yellow balloon up his shirt, babbling about flying like the eagles on the Discovery channel. The little girl's mother snatched the knife from the knife man and stabbed him in the chest, effectively popping the balloon. Blood sprayed across the little girls pink polka-dot shoes and the knife-man, frustrated at constantly being called the knife-man and angry at the loss of his brilliant escape plan, screamed "YO, my name is Bu--" and fell over backwards.

"Landshark!!!!!" everyone cried in unison, and then everyone cried in fear, and then the death rattles started in rapid succession.

The little girl in the polka-dot shoes yelled in a deep manly voice, "As it has been foretold, so they have come!"

The startling speed and zest of the attacks made the cacophony of the dying voices seem like a horrifying peak in a nightmarish scenario, and shocking enough to startle Anna Beth from her slumber.

Glossy-eyed, Anna Beth wiped a stream of drool from her chin and redistributed her weight to the other leg, prodding her seatmate's large buttock with her knee and pondering the events of her dream blearily. The man seated behind her still hadn't moved his umbrella, which had been poking her in the back for the better part of the hours-long trip. Her seatmate, who had only recently been reprimanded for excessive flatulence in the workplace, unleashed the most vile, malodorous cloud of toxic byproducts from her Aunt Winnie's annual chili cook-off, thereby guaranteeing ten generations of birth defects would befall the lineage of every passenger and one unfortunate adolescent thrill-riding in the bus' wake.

Covering her nose with her shirt and a hand, Anna Beth shifted again, a plastic cough-syrup spoon on the floor caught her gaze; stifling a laugh, she turned to ask the man behind her to remove the umbrella from her spine.

"OK."

Unfortunately, the llama chose exactly that moment to light up a cigarette. Before the match flame could even begin to heat the tobacco, the toxic cloud's gaseous admixture of methane, hydrogen sulfide, sulfur dioxide, arsine, bromine trichloride, chlorine pentaflouride, dinitrogen tetroxide, cyanogen, hexafluoroacetone, methylchlorosilane, nitrogen trioxide, phosgene, selenium hexafluoride, acrylonitrile, acrolein, acetylene, butadiene, butylene, carbon monoxide, chloroethanej, cyclopropane, disilane, diborane, dimethylamine, hydrogen cyanide, monogermane, methyl chloride, silane, and vinyl chloride ignited explosively, blowing out every window on the bus and killing 27 passersby, who were variously shredded, decapitated, and rent asunder by the flying glass; "Ooooh look, mama!" remarked the vacationing Honey Boo Boo in the left window seat of row 17, "those people are turning into hamburger 'n sketti!"

Realizing he had no thumbs, the llama spat angrily in the knife-man's eye. The elderly man turned off his TV, "I don't want to see what kind of crap they are going to show next, so I think I will go to sleep."

"Well, I guess this is how life happens," she whispered to herself, wiping a stray streak of blood from her cheek, "one second you're on the way to buy your mom some Q-tips, the next you're getting spurted with bloody spatter from a fat woman's back."

In all the commotion, the rotund woman's left buttock got a nasty case of the Divas and decided to go for protagonism! "You can stay here," said the buttock (with the voice of Sean Connery) to the rest of the rotund woman, "but I'm leaving."

With those words the woman's left buttock pushed the right one, consequently pushing the rest of the woman as well, who ended up crumbling down on the bus floor, screaming: "What tha hell, ma ass is outa control!!!"

Meanwhile, on high, Hera slinked up to Zeus and gave him a disapproving scowl, as if to say, "I am not impressed"; what she actually said, however, was, "If you don't smite that olfactory abomination this second, I may just find my own bit of fun with a cob, and then we'll see what kind of shitstorm we can send a-slouching toward Bethlehem…wait a minute…what the fuck does Bethlehem have to do with anything?"

It was in this moment that Anna Beth chose to recognize a horrifyingly obvious truth; she looked at the knife man, who was sharing a moment of hilarity with Honey Boo Boo as they laughed at the fat woman while she tried to marshal her flabby butt into proper order, and murmured, "Butler...that's your name, isn't it?"

The knife man stopped in the middle of a pins-and-needles grin, and turned to eyeball Anna Beth. "So you do remember! Here I thought you'd forgotten all about poor Butler," he said, adopting a mock-hurt expression. Next thing she knew, Butler was creeping towards her, taking out the tiny knife out of his umbrella handle and screaming: "To arms!!!" while pointing Anna at the spoon lying on the ground! Anna Beth grabbed the spoon, but eyed 'Butler' warily, wondering if she really had lost her mind this time.

That moment Sean Connery in the form of fat woman's left buttock, screamed out from beneath the hundred and fifty kilos helplessly floundering above: "Would you be so kind to stop for a moment and get this fair but incredibly obese lady off me and only then settle your argument in a now-more-spacious bus???"

"Don't be such an ass, Sean," snarled Butler and he advanced on the tense Anna Beth. Anna screamed in agony - a terrible sound that even left her attacker nonplussed.

While neither dawning nor sudden, the awareness that grew in Sean was itself aware that it lacked an appropriate adjective, and the emptiness that attached itself thereto (to the meta-awareness, that is) was like the vacuum energy of space-time--in other words, it was huge and indeed bigger the further away you were from it; "of course," he realized, "you're that Butler: not the Butler who did it, nor the ubiquitous sidekick of lovesick (and sometimes crime fighting) billionaires--nay, you are William Butler Yeats himself, dead Irish poet come back to torment a half-assed Scotsman!"

Butler merely stopped walking for a three seconds, spinning the tiny knife around in his hand like the blades of a windmill while screaming like a madman. Then in one instant he stabbed Sean who was also rotund woman's left buttock saying "shut up Connery, you know too much", then stepped over the round ball-like pile of meat which was screaming "did somebody just squeezed mah butt?!"

"He's a poet - and we didn't know it," whispered Anna Beth and she dashed after Butler brandishing her spoon.

"I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree," thought Butler, plotting his escape and yet lamenting how poorly his encounter with Anna Beth had been going and wishing that he had begun by saying to her, "I have spread my dreams under your feet; tread softly because you tread on my dreams." Stepping smoothly around Anna Beth and her spoon, Butler pulled a white-washed skull from his vest pocket, perched it on the tips of his fingers, and started a mockery of Hamlet's soliloquy; "To poet, or not to poet--that is the first stanza..."

Anna Beth didn't think he would harm her -
he'd been transformed into a charmer:
sure, he'd wielded a knife
and threatened her life
but Yeats was always a man for the drama.
It's true, Butler's heart had melted toward her,
though he wasn't certain that he could afford her,
and should she ever call him a poetaster
he knew on the spot he'd have to waste her.
Alas, Anna Beth knew for sure
that no matter how innocent and pure
the feelings of Butler were towards her
Her heart would never belong to the young sir
Who, as in an afflatus, was standing still
With a pearl white skull held in his fingers like steel
Giving birth to a poem that was a total disaster
So she couldn't resist it and dubbed him "poetaster"


"All righ', tha does it!" screamed the fat woman suddenly, her many rolls of fat jiggling ominously - not unlike the surface of a still and sacred lake that has been wrongfully disturbed. She had managed to get herself together, and now was standing proudly behind Butler and Anna, with one hand on her wounded buttcheek and sweeping the dust off her clothes with the other.

Sean Connery, now relieved of the literal ton of weight on his chest, re-inflated. The rotund woman's right buttocks, equally encouraged, decided that it was time to finally assert herself!
Anita Cochran's smooth, buttery voice lilted through the air, the right buttock serenading the handsome Sean Connery next to her; "What if I told you...that I love you?

And as it was about to declare its own independence, thus leaving the woman without a complete ass, Sean, bleeding heavily, pushed it aside, looked deeply into its eyes and said:
- I admire your courage, Miss...
- Trench...Sylvia Trench. I admire your luck, Mr....
- Bond...James Bond.

"Hey, lookie mama," giggled Honey Boo Boo, "that fat lady's butt cheeks can talk, an' if that ain't the most redneck thang I ever seen, then I ain't the restin' place of a billion pork rinds!" But Honey Boo Boo's mother was in a world of her own, dabbing tears away as she watched Sylvia and James tenderly embrace, and then dance - cheek to cheek.

Back up on high, Zeus was still drunk from the night's revelries, but he hadn't forgotten Hera's admonition and he really didn't want to see her becoming part of a cob salad; "if it weren't for this lightning elbow," he mused (and thought simultaneously of the ever-delicious nude form of Erato), "I'd BBQ that Fred-and-Ginger-butted blob once and for all... perhaps it would be best if I just sent a Harpy or two." Zeus's harpies, knowing that it was their time to fly, blazed screeching through Olympus' sky: the bus-riders would be punished for their hubris; no ifs, ands, or...butts.

"I don't like where this is going" said Anna, looking at the poor Butler who was about to weep because of his failed poem, behind whom the fat woman stood in shock scratching her ass, trying to pull her buttcheeks apart which were already fully indulged in foreplay games...Anna Beth watched with shock as a close formation of Harpies appeared through the clouds and turning to the lady with the canoodling buttocks, she declared deadpan, "I guess that Uranus will allow them safe passage," thus revealing her true identity: Thalia, the Muse of comedy.

While Thalia tittered away, Yeats prayed under his breath, whispering as if to no one, "I have heard tell of fierce demons with wings like blades and faces like wild bark, demons from the banks of the river Styx, who fly at Zeus' command to torment and destroy hapless mortals for the faintest slight perceived on high; such demons as fan the English fire to our shores; demons such as these I see before me now, turning and turning in a widening gyre, void of all control, ripping all things apart, loosing anarchy upon a world without center, their blood-dimmed tide flowing past every boundary and celebrating the drownèd death of innocence; in this world where the best lack all conviction and the worst portray the most passionate intensity, I find myself oddly at peace... I just want to jump Anna Beth's bones."

With blood-curling cries, the harpies charged and dove into the lady's buttcrack. Anna Beth contemplated the meaning of the universe. The End.
Yes, Anna Beth/Thalia realised, the solution was in The End - where a trio of Harpies was giving a respectable lady (Mrs. Angelica Winterbottom - life is littered with ironies) a thorough goosing, and a buttock that was licensed to kill was becoming more and more incensed at being brutally separated from his other half.

In the process of sliding amorously towards Thalia (for he would forevermore see Anna Beth as his muse, even if he didn't realize exactly what kind of muse she was), William Butler Yeats found himself gradually and then completely transfixed by the gyrating glutes of Mrs. Winterbottom; indeed, he and his beloved both stood stone still as the Harpy trio pinched her posterior curves to the point of distraction—and for Bond, such distraction could mean only one thing: a cue for unspeakably violent and decisive action, an action, it would appear, that was beginning (or ending, as it were) with a solution.

But Bond, who had always considered his license to kill a carefully judged privilege, was about to learn a terrible lesson. For the obese Miss Winterbottom and her buttocks could not help themselves; in one sudden movent she got up, inhaled and prepared to belt out a song. It seemed like an odd choice for the internationally acclaimed coloratura soprano, yet by the time Mrs. Winterbottom finished her a capella rendering of MC Hammer's "U Cant Touch This," even Hera had been won over to the beauty of Angelica's angelic voice and pleaded with Zeus to recall the wicked Harpies; Thalia, unfortunately, was in no mood to see the revels end, even as she contemplated the revels' end.

Thalia instead unleashed the fury within her at her inability to determine the consequent events of her own life with an enraged bout of interpretive dancing. Bond and Honey Boo Boo, absent from the scene for too long, joined in. All Hell, having broken loose long ago, decided to accompany the interpretive dancing with some ominous Latin chanting.

Applause filled the air and it was revealed that everything was a performance for a large audience. Up in the balcony, where they were indulging in some pretty serious and passionate handholding, Anna Bess turned to Cutler and said, "I think your play's a hit!"

Unfortunately, what the audience didn't know was that the zombies were, indeed, real and having drawn their attention with all the clapping, they careened eagerly towards the raucous crowd, thrilled at the idea of such a feast. Because the zombies feasted on brains, Honey Boo Boo and her mama were spared; thus, as Honey Boo Boo curtsied repeatedly to the screaming she mistook as accolades for her performance, pausing occasionally to blow kisses towards Anna Bess and Cutler in the balcony, it came as a shock to her to see Mrs. Winterbottom's zombie-killing prowess, under the control of Bond, which involved squeezing their heads to a gooey pulp in the deep reaches of her ceremoniously-released (think horn flourishes galore) ButtKraken.

With his beloved muse Anna Bess at his side, Cutler elbowed his way down to the stage in order to assist the noble Mrs. Winterbottom, embarrassed now that she'd only received bottom billing. Said Undead 1 to Undead 2, "You know, Sid, I really like brains...I mean, I know that's not profound or nothin'... heck! we ALL do... but for me, I think it goes much more beyond that."

Ana Bess knew they had to get out, and fast, lest they be eaten; she encouraged the others to do their best Honey Boo Boo impersonations so the zombies would leave them be, too. The living headed towards the exits, with Anna Bess murmuring, "It ain't over until the fat lady sings," and behind them, while she finished off the last of the zombies, they all heard the divine Mrs. Winterbottom launch into a defiant, triumphant chorus of "Fat Bottomed Girls" -
they do indeed make the rockin' world go round.
Here we have the results of the One Sentence At A Time community project!

Statistics:
5 days. 3,360 words. 6 pages, single spaced. 32 authors.

:iconofonesoul::iconwdnest::iconxlntwtch::iconkymira12::iconchristalkitto:
:icondaghrgenzeen::icontwilightpoetess::iconwyldhoney::iconlonely-hime::iconscfrankles:
:iconvainamoinenian::icondamonwakes::iconvocable::icondrippingwords::iconkamcalste:
:icontonepainter::iconkingofcrabs::iconmommy-of-ein::iconireallywannaknow::iconneurotype:
:iconsubjugatedsandwich::iconskullp3ndant::iconhfeather53::iconsparrowfox::iconlaeneris:
:iconmistressofquills::iconque-lastima::iconsammur-amat::iconmarx77::iconintricately-ordinary:
:iconriseandbe::iconkneeling-glory:

The most fun I've ever had on here. Let's do it again sometime, eh?

:heart:
Lili
Add a Comment:
 
:icondeus-suetonius:
Deus-Suetonius Apr 4, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
shor's bones! lol
Reply
:iconworldwar-tori:
WorldWar-Tori Jan 9, 2013   General Artist
I agree it should be done more often! Awesome (=
Reply
:iconliliwrites:
LiliWrites Jan 10, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
I'll probably do another one in a few months. :D
Reply
:iconworldwar-tori:
WorldWar-Tori Jan 14, 2013   General Artist
I hope I'm here for this one, it looks fun :squee:
Reply
:iconwyldhoney:
wyldhoney Jan 7, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
Haha, we should definitely be doing this more often. :D
Reply
:iconliliwrites:
LiliWrites Jan 7, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
:D
Reply
:iconque-lastima:
Que-Lastima Jan 7, 2013  Hobbyist General Artist
OH MAN, I left this halfway through, but it ended just as hilariously as it began. Bravo!
Reply
:iconliliwrites:
LiliWrites Jan 7, 2013  Hobbyist Writer
:boogie: That ending is ace!
Reply
:icondamonwakes:
This story makes no sense, but it's hilarious to read. It's like a zombie apocalypse within a play that's tucked inside another zombie apocalypse...like some kind of undead sandwich, but also with a llama for no apparent reason.

I would definitely like to see another one of these. :D
Reply
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