If this tome has fallen into your hands, then I am surely destroyed, rent from the fabric of reality itself by beings from outside of existence and natural law. My memory has been torn apart, ripped from the minds and hearts of all who may have known me. Only this record, dust-covered in the section of the library where homeless people go to masturbate, remains to tell the tale of Rosey Grier, the last hope of all humanity.
Hullaballoo Jack looked up from the pages, cussing quiet-like so’s the libarian lady didn’t kick him out again. She was a mean ol’ broad, built with the curves of a melted candle, so sour that even ol’ Jack couldn’t waggle while thinkin’ about her. An ol’ Jack was famous for bein’ able to waggle to anything, from mannequins to AIDS pamphlets. This book looked like it weren’t gonna be no good, though, but you never knew. Could be something shaped like a woman in there somewhere.
Men have spoken of the fabric of reality for centuries, but none knew how right they truly were! Reality is but the veil that life wears, a film that protects us from the gibbering madness of the world as it actually is. I have seen this place, having accidentally cut a hole through it while throwing a bowl of cereal at the tv during a Road Runner cartoon. I would describe which one, but they all sound kind of the same when you talk about them. I mean, how many different ways can you describe the coyote falling off a cliff before your friend’s eyes glaze over and you mumble about how it’s only funny if you see it. The point is, reality was cleft in twain, and something poked through. Something…slippery.
Now we was gettin’ somewhere. He tore a piece of fabric off of his jacket, marking the page that had the word ‘slippery’ on it. If’n the litriture didn’t get any more woman-like, the word ‘slippery’ was sexin enough to finish the job.
I was sucked through the void Oh, sucked, that would work too and taken to the unworld in which they existed. Once there, I lived as a pariah in their mad realm, a speck of reason against the insanity the world was composed of. I had to subsist off of the strange foods they ate, congealed substances that wriggled in the stomach and sang swing music when exiting the bowel. I furnished their swirling, beast-like toilets with my excrement, forming a tapestry of filth more exotic and beautiful than anything I have ever seen. Whenever I dropped a deuce, I wept.
Hullaballoo Jack huffed. These words were makin it difficult to get the job done, and he could hear that durn libarian’s thighs a-clappin’ together, meanin’ she was on the move. She was a-huffin’, too. She was comin’ fast. Jack looked down, cussing louder this time. He could see somethin’ good!
I partook of their women, I am ashamed to say. What passes for the women of this mad world, home of the thilthelpth thrithlethol, the worshippers of the Kind-Of-Evil-Sounding-Thing-But-In-Actuality-Everyone-Just-Has-A-Lisp, are a horrifying mass of flowing flesh and teeth. Needless to say, they are an acquired taste.
“Jack! Put that thing away and get out of here!”
Hullabaloo Jack, brave pioneer of self-pleasuring, tore off through the stacks of unread self-help books, Rosey Grier’s dire warning falling unheeded to the floor, its last page flopping down impotently.
But as I said, reality is fabric, and only needlepoint may save us from the unworld beyond. The tears in space will allow their keening, maddening voices through, but with the training I have left behind here, the world may yet be safe. Be wary, for this is no easy skill to learn, and those who steer from the lessons within will face their own destruction. Only the strongest may go on and save the world from the maw of the unliving, for this is needlepoint.