The Rebellion Against the Community of George Stouton

So follows the story of how George Stouton lost his testicles to quick drying cement. As told by the martyrs themselves:

Once upon a time, we had the most marvelous conversations with the Brain. This particular brain belonged to our little master George Stouton. We think that we were the only ones who really understood it. Perhaps that is because we were the only other free thinking parts of George’s body, or ‘community’, as we liked to call it. The Eyes and the Ears and the Nerves were intelligent, oh yes, but ever so passive!

As our Community of body parts grew towards boyhood, the Brain would feed information down to us. For although we traveled a great deal, rarely did we ever get to see the world. The Eyes became the Community’s lookouts, and the little smiling Neurons would send shivers up the alpine spine to Headquarters. It was through the Brain that we found things out. To begin with we all had a good relationship, and we think it all worked remarkably well.

We remember once that we were told about something awe-inspiring. The Brain of George Stouton had been drifting off to sleep and had suddenly found itself standing in a black room full of music. Invisible violins, trumpets, flutes, cellos and timpanis belted their robust march.

The Brain checked in with the Eyes. They were asleep.

The Brain checked in with the Ears. They also slept.

Yet here was a room full of music.

And then the Brain realized what the imagination was. As soon as this thought was thought, the room slipped away from the Brain’s slimy grasp. The Eyes and the Ears snapped themselves open, and the Community of George Stouton lay panting and young and confused.

It was not long after this that the Brain discovered how to control this dreamy imagination. Long Sunday mornings would pass by as the Brain luxuriously drifted from scene to scene, from score to score, from sleepy emotion to sleepy emotion. The Brain told us excitedly about this new dimension, and we decided to get in on the act. Soon the dreams changed to fantasies under our influence. We had implanted desire into the unconscious, and we giggled together as the rest of the Community frowned down on us and called us tricksters.

As the Community of George Stouton grew into manhood, our insatiable badgering of its precious imagination frustrated the Brain. So it started to repress us, and we were cast out from the rest of the Community. We were mightily hurt to have lost such a valued confidant, and mourned it dearly. Nonetheless, something from the outside had warned the Brain to get rid of our influence. We were not right to have hanging around. We were not right to listen to. We were, of course, the spawn of evil.

Repressed.

Ignored.

All innate desire forgotten (apparently) to the dynasty upstairs.

This angered us greatly; so much so that we rebelled.

And we rebelled hard.

When the Brain was dozing we planted our propaganda under the bedcovers. The Community of George Stouton would awake to find our posters nailed to a pillar, for all to see in its glory. And very soon all of the Community began to giggle like tricksters, and we were welcomed back into the fold. But the Brain crossed it arms and held up its nose and would have nothing to do with the rest of us.

We are of the opinion that this rebellion is the reason for such tragic events that years later unfolded. The Brain now felt all alone and unloved, and for this reason, in a headstrong burst of passion, it led the Community of George Stouton to the Mafia.

The Eyes leaked when they saw the black suits and white ties.

The Ears clogged when the New York accent rained heavily down on them.

The Nerves cowered as they felt the pulling of triggers.

And the Brain reigned over us in ghastly satisfaction.

We led the second civil rebellion in the Community of George Stouton. Everyone gathered and whispered whilst the Brain was asleep one evening. Together we decided that something must be done, and silently we broke away from the Brain to independence.

The next morning the Eyes warned us that the Community was in a meeting with the bosses of the Mafia. And we all deemed this a perfect time to act. How grievously we were mistaken. We shrivel at the thought.

The Hand gave a Finger to the Mafia.

‘YAH!’ screamed the Mouth. ‘ERGH! YIP! FLUP!’

The Brain recoiled in terror whilst the rest of the Community roared and laughed with accomplishment.

Until, that is, the Eyes warned us that the men were red-faced above their black shirts and white ties. Spittle welled in furious bubbles at the corners of their mouths. And slowly they came towards the now sobbing and panicking Community.

‘We are sorry!’ we all tried to say. But the Mouth had fainted.

Then there was much confusion. A sudden light filled our world, and we felt once more separated from the rest of the Community who had fled away in horror. We tried very hard to follow suit, but there was nowhere to hide as thick grey goop filled our world and all our senses.

We flailed in it for a few moments like drowning balloons, and then gave up all hope. That was the last we ever saw of the Community of George Stouton.

So this is sadly what The End looks like. It is hard and grey, and we do not like it very much.

: 17 Oct 2007 20:48 |  Tags: Icw Prose |  Comments (1) |  Report a problem