Originally written on the 9th July 2008, this story is very much true.
“The Idiot’s Offspring”
Note: The following account was found written in red food colouring in an attempt to make it look like blood and thus more interesting than it really was, on the side of a cave in south west Scotland in 1992. It was addressed to “The Powers that be”, then scored out and written underneath “to anyone”. The writings were scrubbed off shortly thereafter and its discoverer, Ernie Penisdance, copied them down and tried to sell them to The Sun newspaper, who of course did not care and returned them to Mr. Penisdance along with a note advising him against future correspondence lest legal proceedings should begin. The cave later became a Starbucks.
If you have found this hidden message within the confines of this pitiful cave, much congratulations are in order. For I wish it to be known right off the bat that only the absolute best and most dedicated of adventurers will have managed to muster the strength and courage to find this elusive cave and this important historical message. Only the cream of the crop, the elite, the platinum trophy-owning adventurers of premium greatness will have had the skills, determination and sheer luck to make this immeasurably important discovery. Let me be clear, no crapweed, dingleberry or feeblo will have managed to find these words by mere chance alone. No one ever goes in caves, they’re just too scary. So please, give yourself a pat on the back, a thumb up the ass or whatever it is that you do to bestow self appreciation, for you truly are a great adventurer in a world full of pitifully inept peons with masturbatory delusions of grandeur. Sort of like my fat neighbour, with his moustache and his flashy car. Prick.
The following message is to be kept secret and never passed on to anyone ever, unless of course they are about to expire shortly from AIDS or other such exotic diseases, especially if it is in conjunction with advanced cancer of the penis and/or vagina. That would be quite unfortunate indeed, but you see my point is that such a forsaken soul would not be long for this world, and therefore the secret would be safe with him or her. Also, if you do share this tale with anyone unfortunate enough to be circling the drain, so to speak, they must also be incapable of speech. This is important, as the urge to scream this tale from the nearest rooftop will be strong. As a matter of fact, all capabilities to convey messages must be nullified, including writing and communication with clicks and/or hisses/finger tapping. And let’s not forget morse farting. This, my dear adventurer, is a story of true horror. It is one rife with disco enthusiasts, brick jaws and shattered dreams, and I believe there is even a willy mentioned at one point.
In the year of our Lord, 1262, there lived a simple farmer by the name of Mad Sid. He was a distant ancestor of the well-known punk bassist, Sid Vicious, who couldn’t play bass to save his life, which is of particular note since Mad Sid was probably the only farmer in history who didn’t know how to operate a shovel. This rather dense man lived on a pig farm with his four dyslexic wives and eight pigs whom he porked regularly with his laughably malformed sausage. One day, Mad Sid was walking home from a long day hanging around outside a local butcher’s shop licking his lips whilst ogling the bratwurst, when he was attacked by a man clad head to toe in disco stripes and outlandish sequins. Historically speaking, I am well aware that this tale predates the invention of both sequins and disco by several centuries, but being that this is a tale of revelation, where anything can and most assuredly will happen, it hardly matters.
The ill tempered man’s name was Disco Kid and he had come to rock, and also boogie woogie breakdown all over some fool’s God-slapped face for reasons unbeknownst to everyone but himself. Mad Sid took the beating and quietly did the job for Disco Kid. That is to say, he was spectacularly defeated and left quite malnourished and in dire need of a herbal balm with no modern medicinal merit. Afterwards, Disco Kid disco danced off into the brilliant shimmering glow of the sinking Scottish sunset and was never seen again. That is until around 750 years later when he would inexplicably reappear in a Scottish backyard wrestling promotion and make ludicrous claims about being even remotely good at dancing. No explanation was ever given as to why he beat down Mad Sid either. Some scholars speculate that he had anger management issues stemming from his childhood in the great disco drought of the 1620s.
Mad Sid on the other hand was not so lucky as to disco dance off into sweet oblivion. He was so worn out from the squash/absolute beating he had received at the hands, feet and hips of Disco Kid, that he crawled home and died in the loving embrace of one of his pigs later that evening.
Prior to his untimely death however, he did manage to shoot his smelly pink tuna finger one last time into the depths of his wife’s baby-cavity. This disgusting travesty of life grew and mutated into a hideous beast and was born as a brutal depiction of what can go wrong in bio-genetics. This abomination looked, sounded and smelt like a cross between a large hairy turd and a disgruntled manatee with scurvy.
The beast was kicked in the face, spleen, forehead and ass by the horrified townsfolk who obviously feared that which they did not understand. After it became apparent that their brown belt-level tae kwon do wouldn’t be enough to kill the creature, they bricked it up inside a dismal cave in the middle of nowhere and left it to rot.
There it dwelt for the next 500 years, seemingly immortal. It fed upon the lichen which grew on the rocks and it sucked the water out of the sand whenever rainwater would trickle in. After an almost immeasurable time, fate it seemed, came calling for the absolute disaster of biology. A country simpleton known only as Rush was out walking down by the cave, picking daisies to sell to people who felt sorry for him, when he tripped on a rogue tulip and fell off a cliff. Screaming like a girl, he plunged head-first through the cave roof, demolishing it with his shapely brick jaw, and landed with a mighty crash in the smelly lair of the vile monster.
Rush and the hideous entity quickly became good friends when the flower picker discovered that the monster shared his love of cave painting with his own feces. Some time later, the two somehow used their collective wit and manage to escape from the cave by simply walking out the side entrance which the monster had failed to notice thus far in his five centuries of living there.
The two travelled the countryside for many months, paying for bed and board in exchange for sexual favours until they eventually arrived in the small, picturesque settlement of Stranraer. There they met with the owner of a carnival called the Violent Impact Wonder Emporium and were soon hired as superstar action heroes who specialised in being hit in the face with bricks for the amusement of children. There they remained for another two hundred years.
You see, the creature had somehow managed to pass his immortality on to the man who had saved his life, Rush. Some suggested that it was shared telepathically, though most seem to agree that it was probably a sexually transmitted infection. Together, the two of them lived throughout the years, never growing old. They watched as their fellow carnival workers died off and were replaced by new generations of workers. They saw the carnival evolve with the times, eventually becoming a gigolo house, a supermarket and a plumbing centre before settling on becoming a backyard wrestling promotion.
It was while working as a tag team one day that the atrocious offspring of Mad Sid met the very man who had murdered his father, more than 700 years prior. Disco Kid had shown up and joined the promotion, even became romantically involved with the creature and Rush as part of a storyline. However, having absolutely no knowledge of the fact that this man had murdered his father, the creature did absolutely nothing about it and so the tale ends, without a conclusion.