Sworn Affidavit Of Creamyhinge Buttwart

It was the third morning of the ninth day of Hugemember and I remember waking to the sight and sounds of a flock of Nudiehogs soaring across the crystal clear sky. It took but a few seconds for me to realise I wasn’t in my palace on the shores of the Dampflange Ocean as the roof I’ve chosen for this half-year is in the opaque style recommended by my favoured design magazine Just Palaces. Furthermore, the grey grass on which I was laying was sufficiently different from the Axminster-design Astroturf recently laid around my home as far as the upper eye can see for me to ascertain that I was probably still in the vicinity of the bars and restaurants of the old Semi-Hardonian quarter of Flashem City, around which I had been singing and drinking on most of the previous evenings of the preceding day.

My loyal butler-toadfrog Timbo was also stirring as I staggered to my feet which was unusual as his tolerance for tri-alcohol is so poor as to typically require hospital treatment or body regeneration. I concluded that our drinks must have been spiked and we had fallen into unconsciousness earlier than expected at Bar No-Nads. I have a standing agreement with the bar owner, Ankleflakes Lubedup, that in order to avoid embarrassment and risk losing his licence he should simply dump us away from the premises in the event that we become too intoxicated to fight him off.

Inspector Morrisdancer Stroke-Seizure-JonesWhile I now wonder angrily at who would have messed with another man’s drink in such a manner I confess that my brains were rather more spongey on that particular morning and with Timbo wheeling himself along as best he could I instead simply set off towards home using the peaks of Mount Sidewaysforfun as a reference point.

In time we reached Flashem City and entered through the wallgate in the Port Sector. It was busy as the third morning had officially concluded and the pre-afternoon was on the verge of ditching its pre status in favour of none at all. I do not know which street we were in as the Port Sector is one I more often avoid thanks to its violent and seedy reputation clashing with my own. Nevertheless, the walk had cleared my minds and I took in the scenery with all my senses at full clarity.

A market vendor was selling sweet-smelling Crotch fruit which was purchased and I spent some time being entertained by a puppeteer retelling the tale of Queen Spikedlabia Grunt And The Poisoned Mingepie. Scruffy children, no doubt from a Port Sector public school nearby, were equally entertained and a group of sailors, apparently recently arrived from Pitsniffia or Arsitchia – one of the Nipplectomian states anyway – passed the time in the same manner as I.

Fearing that Crotch fruit would not suffice and that I might be nearing one of my Flapping bouts if I didn’t receive my Inyerole injections, Timbo then signalled using his torch that we should continue homewards.

Just beyond the puppeteer we came upon the Intergalactic Translocation Centre. Such a large and varied crowd I had never seen before and it was with some effort that we squeezed our way through the throng half of whom were coming and half of whom were going and an overlapping two thirds of whom appeared to be changing what passed for minds and were therefore engaged in ambulating in circular motions. There were people from many different countries and planetary systems and a cacophony of gutteral and subsonic voices which positively turned my minor stomach. I vomited a little when a family of Pissants from Spleenache IV hopped across my path and they acknowledged the compliment with a pelvic gyration of gratitude.

As the crowd thinned, however, I was stopped abruptly by a tourist or representative of a species I had never come across before. It was a little taller than Timbo; I estimate its height to be approximately two universal metres. My main shock was seeing it appeared to be naturally as two-legged as the disfigured Cumcup Girls on the Swetlik Peninsula. It was patchily-furred – the top of its small head and above its eyeball slots – and I surmised it to be either an adolescent, in mid-shed, or diseased. Timbo, clearly thinking along similar lines, warned the foreign thing to keep its distance by altering the markings and coloration along his marquee spine.

The strange person was decorated with fabric. It wore dark blue material over its lower half similar in texture to the Snotsilk sneezed out by the Weedribbler worms. Upon its thorax there was a multi-hued abomination which bore some abstract resemblance to a pictorial advertisement for some alien flora I suppose, although at the time it looked more to me like a microsopic view of vaginal-cleaner-lobsterdogs magnified many times.

I was confused by the odd person’s demeanour. After stopping me it then proceeded to flick through a paper-based object that I later learned was its culture’s preferred method of language translation. As engrossing as this spectacle was, at that point I spied an old friend of mine – Senator Sorewrist Knobgag from Squealboyia – emerging from a kneerubbing emporium, and I made to walk away. Again I was stopped and this time the alien spoke using only the middle tenth of the audio spectrum.

"Excuse me mate, I am looking for the translocation pad to Honolulu on the island of Oahu in Hawaii on Errf" it said, according to memory recall.

Timbo and I could not help but laugh at the ridiculous-sounding names, an act which apparently caused offence for the person then proceeded to engorge the middlemost of the five digits on its arm appendage in our direction. We assumed – incorrectly according to the xenobiologist’s statement we later learned – that this was some sort of weapon; a claw or toxic dart-firer perhaps. In self-defence I shat on the stranger from my cranial rectum and Timbo licked the excrement into a hardened shell.

I formally swear by the Goddess Breastrash and the Godgoat Analphlegm that we did not know that this particular creature from the bizarre planetoid Errf did not keep a reserve of oxygen in its thighs, nor did we know that it would suffer an allergic reaction to the cyanide naturally present in our faeces, nor did we realise that it could not be regenerated by hitting it repeatedly against the edge of a wall afterwards.

Signed, this day the fifteenth day of Hugemember, Creamyhinge Buttwart.

Author: Mark

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  1. I love this post – the style reminds me of something that I can’t quite place. Any chance of revealing the inspiration?

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  2. Don’t recall where the inspiration came from although watching The Friday Night Project last night I suppose I might have been subliminally influenced by one of David Gest’s friends’ names at some point.

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