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A Soapy Tale of Dramarama

    Cynthia could never understand how she had forgiven Mortin. After he had cheated on her multiple times, having her forgiveness so easily, he only insulted her mother. "Fuck off, fucknutt fuck!" he would yell in her face. 

    Mortin was a great Gunz: The Duel star. He spent years refining his skills at the real life adaption to the popular videogame from Ijji.

    Mortin's eyebrows were thick and defined while his arms glistened in the sun without a single hair on them. His skin was the color of bronze.

    He spoke English poorly. 
He was from New Jersey, and he cussed out anyone he wanted. Cynthia was perplexed by how his essence entrapped her to him. 

    Her friends would often say he had a spell on her. She new this was not true, especially since the great outlawing of magic after the Megstine Star 6 Wars where the last of the Nomien were killed along with their magic teachings. 
Oh, her imagination sure took her away! 

    Sometimes Cynthia could vividly see Corporal Tarnima piloting his great warship, giving the final order to plunge headfirst into the Nomien citadel that hung near the third moon in the Megstine system. 

    Suddenly, Mortin slapped her with a closed fist, as he always did when she got carried away. 
He had entered the room as well as her while she was in her trance. "It can't be magic," she whispered into her shoulder.

    Mortin put a firm grip on her throat, "Bitch, please me when I harden," he said.

    Suddenly, Brad entered the room. 
Brad was a cool cat from high school, with respect to Mortin. Secretly, despite bros before hoes, Brad loved Cynthia with all his heart. His guido ways, however, ended up getting the better of his emotions. This became particularly clear as he high-fived Mortin and helped him choke Cynthia. 

    Brad was also a Gunz superstar. He and Brad both graduated high school and went on to play in the same league, The Duel league. Unlike Mortin, Brad's fighting style was quick, smooth, and almost delicate. His hold on her throat was delicate. 

    Cynthia let out a quiet moan before fainting. Her mother quickly entered the room with a rolling pin in hand, furious. 
Mortin, not one to stop for the likes of old folk, kept going. It must have been minutes before Cynthia awoke again. Both Brad and Mortin's grip on her breath-pipe had loosened. Then she knew.

    "MY WATER BROKE," she yelled. 
Cynthia's mother, Cindy, had crushing steps as she marched into the room. At 4'9", Cynthia's mom was a demonic figure with curl-holders in her hair. Her glare was equally intimidating as she began to shout at Mortin and Brad:


    The baby was ready. Everything began to happen so fast. Mortin pulled his pants up, Brad pulled his pants up, Cynthia's mom pulled her pants up, her father entered the room and picked up a pair of Cynthia's pants. She was in a car. She was in the hospital. What was happening to her? "Call Alibaster," she spoke before falling into darkness. 
Brad and Mortin got bored just waiting around at the hospital, so they decided to head to a Denny's around the corner. 

    After sitting without waiting to be seated, Brad yelled at a waitress until she finally came over. "Gimme the Rooty Tooty Fresh and Fruity, and make it extra Tooty," he grunted. "And don't skip on the bacon."

    "We don't have that here," said the waitress, thoroughly confused. "I think that's IHOP, and I don't even know if they still have that."

    "I'll give you IHOP," said Brad, leaning in close to the waitress' face and snapping his teeth at her like Val Kilmer did to Tom Cruise in that movie where they were gay volleyball players.

    "I'll come back when you've decided," sighed the waitress, who turned and left.

    "Dude, you gonna put up with that?" said Mortin.

    "Fuck her, we need a REAL waitress. One with BALLS," replied Brad.

A big, burly waiter came around the corner. In his former life, he was a trucker. Martin and Brad were not impressed.

    "We want shemales, not fags!" they bellowed with a brofist in conclusion. 
"JINX!" they both yelled, followed closely by "DOUBLE JINX!", and they pointed and laughed and laughed until they were sore from the laughing and when next their eyes met they were moist with tears, all four of them (the eyes, being that each had two, not that two more dudes just showed up).

    The two brosephs looked longingly at each other and realized that what they had been trying to repress for so long just wouldn't go away. That being, of course, 
another brofist! Yeah!

    The trucker was sad, but he always tried to keep his spirits high. Work was tough outside of the roadways.

    "What can I get you young men to eat?" 

    "Crepes, bitch!" yelled Mortin. "I wanna stack of crepes so fucking high that I can't look into my broseph's eyes, dawg. THAT fucking high. And sweet crepes, not that savory shit, that shit's wack, yo."

    "Indeed. And for you, sir?" 

    "Get me some fucking Jager!" Brad demanded. 

    And it went on like this for a while, until finally Brad and Mortin were served chopped steak dinners.

    Meanwhile, at the hospital, Cynthia was going into labor. "OOOOAAAAAAHHH," she groaned incessantly, "AAAAAAHHHHOOOOOOO."

    "Give it a rest, we get it," cried her mother. "Geez." 
She was still holding the rolling pin. Some sort of rage inside of her decided it would be a good idea to begin smashing shit.  Unfortunately the first thing she smashed was her own foot - unlikely, I know, but you should've seen it, it was freaking hilarious.

    "Serves you right," said her father, whose name was Frank. "Honey, is there anything I can get you? Water? A towel? A husband?"

"Bring me my Mortin!" she demanded. 

    "You know I can't do that!" cried Frank, holding back his rage. "He's no good for you! I guarantee that right now he's out with his bro-friend bro-in' it up like the hobro he is. Why can't you accept that?"


    Frank stared out the window, moustache wet with tears.

Understanding his daughter's passion and needs, he took off his shirt (he was ripped), and began his search for Mortin. The Baja Fresh down the street was his first guess. 

    "Welcome to Baja Fresh, may I help you?"

    "I'm just looking for someone," said Frank, "and I don't see him, so--"

    "Well I'm sorry sir, but we have a no-looking-without-buying policy. You'll need to place an order before you leave."

    "But... I'm not hungry," replied Frank, dumbfounded.

    "That's not my concern, sir," stated the cashier, glaring at Frank. "Now. What. Is. Your. Order."

    "Um... Tacos?" said Frank, weakly.

    "How many?" grunted the cashier.


    "Beef or Chicken?"


    "Lettuce? Tomato? Sour cream? Cheese? Come on, man, gimme something to work with here!"

    "Keep your damn tacos!" Frank screamed, running out the door. The cashier was expecting this and hit the alarm.

Suddenly, bees began to attack Frank!


    Back at the Denny's, Mortin and Brad finished up their meal.

    "Man, I forget. Aren't we supposed to be somewhere? Like, how did we end up here?" questioned Mortin.

    "No idea, broski," replied Brad. 
"Right on, my brosephus," answered Mortin. "Come on. It's time to hit Gold's and get swole."

    "You know it," said Brad.

    "Know it and blow it," said Mortin, extending his fist for another bro-bump.

    "What?" said Brad, confused.

Things were becoming a little too casual, now, far under the tone of life this duo was accustomed to. With a sense for danger, they began to walk toward a distinct buzzing sound in the distance. 

    "FUUUUUCCCCKK, BEEEEEEEEES!!" yelled Frank, running down the sidewalk.

    "Beads?" said Brad.

"No, bees," clarified Frank as his face continued to swell.  The two bros couldn't BEE-leave what they saw before them. Which is to say, they couldn't leave those bees alive. They prepared their star guns for a gun star battle by immediately flexing their twin biceps tattooed with stars. 

    Flamethrowers appeared out of thin air, triggers clenched by their muscular fingers. Like double dragons, they began to blaze the atmosphere into carbon dust. In reality, they were getting their shit stung just as bad as Frank. 
The pair was deathly allergic to bee stings and they were both well aware of this, but they had forgotten that important fact due to the hellaciousness of the situation. The duo fell to the floor spasming like epileptics. 

    The manager at Baja Fresh stood atop his building just over the nearby sidewalk. "Good work, my bees. Return to me!"

    And so the bees returned to their master, and an ambulance was called.

    Hours later, patched up and optimistic, the Guido trio arrived back at the hospital just as Cynthia was giving birth. 

    Brad looked over his weapon. It was made of Necroluminamium, a metal crafted by the late Hiro Nakimano-san. Hiro spent years of his life creating and destroying so his final creation was to be one that brought complete destruction.

    Brad wondered how long it would be until The League would allow Nakimano-san's. Fans were getting tired of Gunz, they wanted more Gunz. 
Mortin pressed the storage button on his belt, his weapon folded in upon itself until it was the size of a pea and floated into his pocket.

    Mortin then unzipped a fourth of his jumpsuit claiming "It's damn hot." Brad couldn't help but admire the New Italy Space Shuttle flag that he had been awarded by the country of New Italy Space Shuttle.

    Mortin always was the best dueler. Brad, second best - thankfully they never fought one another. Frank was just a fan. He admired them both but he did not have the respect of a cyber-life athlete. Frank just could not understand.

    "Remember how I was choking that bitch early, Brad? Remember how you helped me choke her? Thanks man."

    "What are friends for?" Brad replied only to finish off with "She was my sister you ass!" That last part he kept locked in his head, not wanting to upset Mortin, especially when he still had Nakimano-san's weapon all bundled up a button press away.


    Alibaster opens his car door, emerging from the vehicle. He had a long velveteen cape on, latched to the shoulders of his Tri-Lon Co. jumpsuit. His bodyguards often complimented him on his fashionable choice in wearing retro clothing, especially one's with the branding of the ancient Holo-con developers of yesteryear. Vidcons sure had changed since Mekanama Moory Pan changed the virtual colony shooter genre. Even more changed when people started LARP'ing with real weapons.

    Alibaster reflected more on the first games of Gunz. His facial expressions showed that he remembered it all to well. . . 

    "TURN OFF THAT DAMN WORLD OF WARCROFT SHIT!" yelled Frank at Mortin, who was neglecting his 2 month old son. 


    Frank breathed out heavily, shooting mucus on the floor. He then turned around, opened the fridge, got a beer and some cat food. He consumed the items, huffed glue and went to sleep. He was pissed off. Frank suffered from multiple personality disorder. 

    I had enough of this shit. There was a knock at the door, and suddenly, I BARGED IN! 

    Mortin was just sitting there, and Brad was tough-guy baffled as well.

    "Who the fuck are you!?" they shouted in broski unison.

    "I am the dark night. Watcher of the east coast. I protect those who pump their fists and work on tans. I am Guidoman." I replied in the deepest voice I could muster. 

    "Right on, bro," replied Brad. But Frank, off in his little corner, kept giving me the glare. 

    My brow was a glisten. Gel had slithered off my hair and down to my eyes. IT WAS ALIVE! 
But it didn't matter. I didn't time have for this shit. I decked brad square in the temple.  With my Guido Fist. I guido fisted him. In the face (if one assumes the temple is connected to the face). 

    Brad was down, but not out. I knew this. Mortin was mortified and began to run away. 
Mortin tripped over his child. The baby began to cry. I reached down to comfort the child but it was too late, I had made a fatal mistake. Mortin reeled over, his Proton Re-Assembly Laser Pistol pointed right at me.

    He fired.

    My flesh peeled away, my mind and soul tore apart. In an instant everything had been destroyed and recreated, it was back to normal. Except my mind was now in the baby's body. 
And then I was Mortin. And then I was myself again.

    "Goddamn guidos!" I was one, of course. It was Frank who was shouting. 

    Frank who was originally a guido as well shaked with his fist pumping fist in the air, but he wasn't pumping it. He was just shaking it in anger, like an old man. He had become an old man. At least in his mind. It was one of his personalities. His name was for the moment Frankert or at least it was that way in Frank's/Frankert's mind. 
In that moment of observation, I grew to like Frank.

    Mortin was spacing out. 

    Ground control to major Tom.

    Ground control to major Tom.

    Take your protein pills and put your helmet on.

    Ten.Nine. Ground control to major Tom. Eight.Seven.Six. Commencing countdown Five. engines on. Four.Three.Two. Check ignition One. and may God's love be with Lift off. you. 

    Mortin couldn't comprehend a thing. It was like he was on some sort of psychadaelic space odyssey. There was nothing he could do as he sat there forsaken, almost human, as he sank below his wisdom like a stone. He felt just like a worm on a hook, thinking of love and change and things he can't untie, but this he could not do. So he took his gun and vanished. He changed his name. First once, then a few other times. After a few year he had done it so often it was almost poetic.

    "Come over to window, my little Mortin, I'd like to try to read your palm. I used to think I was some kind of Guido boy. Before I let you take me home." sang Frankert.

    Things had really gotten out of hand. Years had not passed. In fact it had only been approximately half an hour since Mortin began spacing out. The scene had turned into a hippie stone-fest. And the guidos all had a change of heart. They no longer interrested themselves in spikey hair and tans. They had even svorn to lay off the fist pumping. 
I had almost changed my mind about slapping their shit, too.  But there were always people in need of slapping, especially guidos and hippies. 

    However, I knew this was not right. We were guidos no matter what happened. I looked at Cynthia, she said to call Alibaster.

So call Alibaster I did. I dared not defy Cynthia, her beauty rendering me frail and trembling where I stood.

    Truth be told I fancied Cynthia to be a guido Queen. With such a rough, matt tan, absorbing lightbeams, bending them in her favor. Her make-up was astonishing and in such vast quantities it spoke of true richess. 

    "Alibastard, sup bro?" I spoke to the banana phone in my clenched fist. 
The phone replied, "I am there."

    In an instant, my flesh contorted and I was back, here, with you, still telling a story I had been ejected from. Alibaster took my skin and wore it as his. He was needed, I was not, I'm just a voice, he is just frame.

    "What is it Cynthia? Why do you request my presence?"

    The bastard even had my voice. Ass! 
Two could play at this game, I shouted to the silent air. Alibaster began to vomit violently. Ha! That'll show that jerk who's boss. Cynthia was falling into a dizzy fit of delirium.

    "I... I'm pregnant again and... I don't know which one of you... is the father..." she fell to the ground, unconscious upon the final word. 

    It was I, Me! 

    "Lorsque j'avais six ans j'ai vu , une fois, une magnifique image, dans un livre sur la Forêt Vierge qui s'appelait "Histoires Vécues"." I said, quite francophonely.

    "But I don't even speak french, nor have I read "the Little Prince"." I said to myself. I was becoming as ambivalent as Frank, who was the essence of ambivalance. 

    Mortin and Brad both hated the French more than they hated French Fries. "Why, I aughta slap your shit!" shouted Mortin, an aluminium baseball bat in hand. 

    "Prennez soin de votre vie éspèce de guido. Je vais en finir par le terminer." I retorted in french, a language that is totally gay and that I don't even speak.

    The guidos did not understand what Alibaster just had said, but they took it as an insult.

    "Speaking anything other than italian and jersey on Jersey land is an insult to Madre Detroit!" cried Mortin "Prepare to get pumped!" 

    Alibaster began flailing his arms like rotors at his sides stepping ever closer to the pair. 
Mortin and Brad had never seen this style of fist pumping. It made them furious that Alibaster would stride from the old guido ways of pumping it. One could regard Mortin and Brad as guido conservatives, Tan Partiers, if one would. 

    Suddenly, Cynthia jumped in the way! 
I, I mean, Alibaster never wanted to pummel the ever so enthralling Cynthia to the ground, but there was no way I... I mean, he could have avoided striking her down. He was pumping it too fast. Dust filled the Jersey air as Cynthia was disintegrated by the tremendous force that is progressive fist pumping. As it settled... Alibaster... yes, Alibaster had managed to grind his progressive pumping to a halt. He could see how the dust clinged onto the tanned hide of Cynthia. What had he done? Where lush beauty had once been, now laid a hideous pulp of guido meat and bones. Alibaster broke down and began to cry.

    "We warned you about venturing from the old ways." condemned Brad after a brief silence apart from the noise that was the wailing of Alibaster. 
Frank was devastated. 

    "My Queen!" he cried. "And you know that she will trust you for she's touched your perfect body with her mind." Frankert sang, who apparently could not stop singing Leonard Cohen songs. 
"You mustn't die my Queen!" Frank continued. "First we take Manhattan. Then we take Berlin!" Frankert sang on. 

    "And then," Alibaster muttered, " the Matrix." The new age guido's face began to bubble, he stood up. Bursting from his arms and stomach were long tendrils of wire and circuitry. Each wire found a host and wrapped around them. My old body began to tear and deform, was I one of these this entire time?

    "Was I always the new age?" My voice rippled time and space, the walls began to fall and shatter like glass panes. The world was on fire and my body stood at the top of the pyre. 

    I'm awake now. My bed is soft, I feel like I've been laying here for ages. Get up, walk under the smoke illuminated by the sunrise creeping through my windows. Newspapers are on the floor, why don't I pick them up? I open the door to my small apartment, am I going in or out? Can't tell.

    On my welcome mat is an origami Italian flag. 
And that's when I realize that I had allowed the guido imagination to take control far too much, sucking me in with it into a video game called Second Life. After shuddering a few moments, I found myself again, back in front of Frank, Brad, Mortin, and the ashes of Cynthia. 

I said. What would they do now? 

    I picked up the origami flag. "This is stupid, flags are flat, how hard can it be to fold an origami flag?"

    Boy was I ever wrong. Frank grabbed 
my head and smashed it into my head. I died. 

    "Alright," said Frank, whose new personality was incredibly self-aware, "who let the narrator into the story?" 

    "I did," I said. Little did I know I was Frank.

Which is not to be mistaken with Frankert, who although is in the same body is a totally different personality.  In some sense I was also Mort and Bra, as I enjoyed shortening them. My mission was simple: TO BE ALL THE GUIDO! 

    Unfortunately I failed.

    "You failing failure," cried Cynthia, who had acquired a pompadour and seven reams of loose leaf paper.

    "Whoa, trippy," I said.

    "You got that right," said a passing marmoset.

    "Get a hold of yourself!" said Frank, who was also me. "You've got to snap out of this! You've got to 
stop watching Jersey Shore!" It was my dad, back in reality.  To clearify, since this is quite straining for the mind of the reader. I am not my dad, nor is he me. Although, sometimes he says he's my mom, but I think he could be lying. I do find it kind of unusual that I've never seen both of them at the same time. Even though we all live in the same house. Family dinners are always a relay between mom and dad going to the bathroom. One coming back when the other has left.  To escape the wonders of this dynamic, I turned to television to raise me. Embarrassingly, it caused me to daydream quite often, and Jersey Shore had become my second home away from home. Secretly, I always wanted to be one of the guidos. 

    In a proud moment of decision, I got up, went to the bathroom, and spray-tanned myself orange. 
But what I didn't realize was that I was orange-purple colorblind.  No matter how hard and often I sprayed, I continued to see myself in the normal shade. It was not until my dad entered the room that I was informed of my birth defect. "Son, you're colorblind. And now you're red as a tomato. I hope you're proud of yourself."

    I fell to my knees, took a bite out of the nearest-by bar of soap, and screamed out as loud as I could:

    "POR QUUUUEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!????" 
~Page x~
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