Come closer bedraggled reveller. Step into our Christmas shack. Need something special you say? No, we don’t have flu jabs. What we do have is something that no eyes have gazed upon. More powerful and dazzling than any drug (except, maybe, frog crotch sauce). It is the written word. Yes, the magic of letters, my friend.
Let us give you a bit of background. For thousands of years Europe & Me has been the guardian of words in Europe. We were the ones supplying those to the old dunce Diogenes, who would have otherwise mostly spoken about breakfast. We were there when Galileo Galilei uttered his famous “And yet it moves”, providing much needed context to the iconoclast’s eternal drive to discuss his bowel movements. If it was not for us to give cues to Winston Churchill under the table, he would once more have publicly ascertained his obsession with beaches: “We shall bathe on the beaches” is what the fool would have pronounced.
Nevertheless, that business has slowed down lately and we have branched out into script writing. Doing so, we have given ground to some of the most promising young European scriptwriters to go and singlehandedly destroy all convention.
Pitch 8: (No) Lube
by Alberto Gonzoporno
F. wakes up from a loud noise, something like thousand cows mooing at the same time. Lying next to him is U., a drooling tard whom some dark power has snatched from the privacy of his broom closet. Together with them in the premise is C., a patriot, whose mother caught him jerking off with her rosary at five. K. is a trapper, who knows how to skin a possum, but does not know how to speak. O., a philosopher, herbivore and all-around clown is handcuffed to a replica of the Eiffel tower. There are also two more Fs, resembling drugged up early black and white versions of Mickey Mouse and Goofy, who have passed out in the sex swings hanging from the ceiling. Finally, Donald Trump is sprawled in a pool of burger vomit in the corner, clutching a male sex doll.
Something is awfully wrong. The whole scene looks like the aftermath of a particularly taxing night out, save for the baboons and the cream. But then, as far as F. recalls, there have not been any parties, including children’s birthdays, ever since a pesky virus turned humans into barbazoos, something between a moving poof and a ficus, altogether horrendously dull. Those that have kept their humanoid form have become transgender.
One by one the motley crew starts recuperating from what appears to be an orgy of epic proportions. Most of them are vomiting, save for O., who is playing the harmonica.
F. tries to recall what has led to this predicament. He vaguely remembers having tried to commit suicide with a plantain a couple of times (all sharp objects have been collected by the facility’s primary deity, after witnessing a certified debil accidentally impale oneself on a unicorn tusk). He remembers throwing himself from a tall building and catching a whiff of somebody’s awful perfume between the floors. But he cannot recall who he is, what his name is or what he is doing here with this crowd.
Suddenly the same loud bang echoes throughout the chamber. A low manipulated voice informs the audience that they have been kidnapped by a serial killer, locked in an underground catacomb and are part of a social experiment. If the participants want to get alive, they may do so by unlocking a complicated chain of hidden doors. If not, the establishment provides enough amenities to pass the time, including porn magazines, wet wipes and Bibles. Unfortunately, they have run out of lube, for which they kindly wish to be excused.
Most of the occupants do not seem to be particularly bothered by the news. C. and Donald Trump retire in a dark corner, grabbing a Bible on the way. Soon smooching sounds ensue. Mickey Mouse and Goofy are already trembling from an impending massive withdrawal, as pale as the ghost of Hollywood. U. is salivating profusely and K. has dug in the porn magazines, which he reads with amusement, if upside down.
Only F. and O. are kind of itchy. Of the lot, they are the ones able to grasp the situation. Each of them independently tries to find the exit. F. attempts to open the front door that appears on one of the walls of the chamber, but there is no keyhole or a handle. There is a hole though, which looks suspiciously like it could fit F.’s male member. He tries but it is too tight and rusty. Some lube would have indeed been very helpful.
O. notices that the lights miss a spot in the chamber, a rectangular void completely unperturbed by luminescence. О. approaches the spot and uses his hands to assess the surface, which feels soft and flaccid, and, unexpectedly warm. There is a strange protruding part that seems to harden at touch. It takes O., an all-time prude, a few minutes to come to terms with the nature of the object he is holding. Strangely attracted, the thought of fitting the object in his female member flashes through his brain. Yet, given the circumstances, some lube would have indeed been very helpful.
F. and O. both get the same crazy idea at the same time. U. U. is a bumbling buffoon, maybe dangerous at that, but he has something both of them need: drool. Lots of it. However, while they have been away certain developments have taken place. U. has become best friends with K. who now feels protective of the lad, not least because he needs the drool himself for his magazine sessions. And K. has a hatchet, a Remington rifle and two revolvers. And a short fuse when agitated.
F. and O. instantly know whom they can approach for help, C. and Donald Trump, who they think might be able to reason with K. But things have gone South there as well. C., a lifetime Maga fan, has left Trump for Mickey Mouse, who he believes to have a bigger snout. Disillusioned and dull, Trump, has done what every rejected lover would – bonded with Goofy to taunt C., who is indeed manlier.
F. and O. approach Trump and try to convince him to talk to K. Trump agrees under one condition – he wants his former lover back. “Give me back C. and will give you K.” he says.
F. and O. devise a cunning plan to drive a wedge between C. and Mickey Mouse, with F. taking the lead on C. and O. handling the latter’s snout. They hit a jackpot, as C. turns out to be jealous, but above all confused, especially when F. grabs him by the second amendment.
Job done, F. and O. get back to Trump. Yet, he refuses to fulfil his part of the agreement. “I am Ok with Goofy here” he says.
With that door shut, F. and O. attempt to approach K. on their own but he is adamant about not giving them access to U. There is a quick scuffle, a few gunshots, and a whistle.
The next scene follows F. while he lubes his tool with U.’s drool and opens the door in the wall. In the next chamber a bunch of reptilians are playing cards with Satan, while a huge screen is showing men in white gowns and masks distributing vaccines to greedy hands. The company collectively turns their fiery eyes towards F. “Oh, sorry” utters the latter, retracts and closes the door behind him.
The scene darkens.
After twelve months of unusual silence the serial killer decides go down there and see why nobody has attempted to leave the house.
He opens the door and sees a view so gruesome that his brain shuts down and shrivels like an electrocuted snail:
F. is drawing drool from U. under gunpoint by C. who is fondling K. and O. while the two other F.s are humped by Donald Trump.