Upsetting the narrator by dragging him back from vacation, Mongrel finds himself in an insane asylum with a perplexing problem in his rear end. He stumbles upon his friend Captain Pete and together they escape the facilities. Wandering the streets, looking for a solution to his problem that doesn’t involve going to the hospital, Mongrel meets and accepts the hospitality of an eccentric, fantastically rich midget, and somehow is forced to adopt one of his slaves, a young man known only as Biscuits.
Excerpts:
“I ain’t thanking nobody!” Beby said, coming back into the kitchen. “My life hasn’t improved an inch. You think a few pancakes are gonna make up for a years of being on the Magic Potato Diet? Think again!”
They all looked at her. Only the mon had the slightest idea of what she was talking about; it knew the diet involved potatoes.
She sighed. “You eat nothing but potatoes for ten years, and in the end you’re supposed to attain inner peace or something. Also, it’ll help lower your car insurance – that’s what sold me on it. Didn’t work. Never trust anything you see on TV.”
***
The girl smiled widely and wildly flung her long blonde hair around. This served to show her exceptional balance and coordination, because anyone as top-heavy as she was would have lost their balance and fallen over. She had always been told to make a good first impression, although for her that was a given.
“Door-to-door massage service,” she said in a voice as sweet as honey. “Anyone in need of a relaxing shoulder rub?”
‘Door-to-door’ was an asinine concept in that part of the country. Hershule lived in the outskirts of the middle of nowhere; one could die simply by walking over to the neighbour’s house to visit if they didn’t bring enough supplies for the journey. You really had to end up finding a house by accident.
***
“So, uh, do you mind if I ask why are you’re going to beat this young fellow here?”
“Oh not at all. You see, my wife is sleeping with this rich guy, Almighty Frank, and Biscuits here belongs to him.” He pointed at the cowering thing standing behind Mongrel. “He’s a slave, see, and slaves just have to be beaten. It’s in the contract; article five, section F. He needs to be beaten every hour on the hour.”
Mongrel thought this over, which, given his capacity for rational thought, took a while. When the left and right sides of his brain had reached an arrangement that was mutually beneficial, he said, “Sounds like fun. Can I try?”
***
After a slightly longer than brief pause, some locks clicked, and the huge door opened. A drunken midget stood in the doorway, or was at least trying to stand. The fact that the midget was inebriated was quite obvious, as he quietly broke wind and almost fell over from the gust. A more commanding and assertive fart would probably have put the little guy in a coma. He was dressed in outlandishly normal clothing and had an extremely suave mustache, and probably could’ve passed for Napoleon himself. This was apparently Almighty Frank.
The Chris Effect 