The Birth of Muchpookchchuk

You've always wondered how JB and I met, right? Here's the story (Warning: excessively ridiculous and self-congratulatory blather.):

“I escaped from the orphanage one cold, dreary night. It was an underground tunnel in the pantry. I was looking for gruel when I found it. It was just me…just me and Snuffles the bear, who I subsequently had to take out….”

“He talked too much?”

“He did. I really had to debate it though…didn’t want to do it. In the end, I knew he would sell me into child slavery without batting an eye.”

“Yep. You beat him to death with your gruel bowl. Ironic since he’d given it to you for your second birthday…which you spent in the hole with him.”

“No, no…you don’t know anything. I slit his furry throat with my sharpened toothbrush. It’s okay though, there weren’t any bristles left anyway. The gruel bowl? That’s how I killed Jimmy, the crippled orphan kid.”

“Ah, the poor bastard could scream though.”

“Yeah, people felt sorry for him and so he did better with the whole begging racket. He was fucking with the pity curve, Mister!”

“I know. Upping the bar.”

“I had to eat!”

“And you did. Jimmy.”

“Yeah. I beat him to death, but it cracked my bowl…I was always losing gruel after that. So, I had to eat him.”

“Those pins in his legs were a problem, I’ll bet…but they made great toothpicks.”

“Yeah, cause my toothbrush was all messed up.”

“Mm hm.”

“Anyway, I took to the tunnel, clambering through in my fingerless gloves—”

“Two layers of sacking cause it was cold that night.”

“Uh huh. I made it out and at the end of the tunnel was this little chap called…uh, Whisker Charlie.”

“A woodland friend, huh?”

“No, he was a tramp.”

“That’s what I meant. They’re called that cause they’re hairy and shit in the woods.”

“Oh, then. Yeah. He offered me tuppence for somethings that I can’t repeat. I did them, but cried the whole time. Grin…I fell into a life of necessary crime.”

“Yep…stealing meat and lettuce…but never together.”

“And then you found me that day I was about to kill you in your sleep for your shoes…. Changed my life, Mister. Single pitiful tear on my coal-streaked face.”

“You needed my shoes to beat that child who had shoes your own size.”

“No, I was going to live in one of yours. I had heard with the non-STD warts, it was the only way to go.”

“But I shaved your head and called you Phillipe the monkey, got you to a back street vet, had you spayed.”

“Yeah, that was awkward, but I had lice anyway, so it all worked out. Then I learned to speak Bulgarian and we went on the road as Simone and the Cabbage.”

“After the dry-humping incident in Venice, we had to change our act and go underground with the sewer people.”

“We were paid in Kobe beef and squid ink, which we subsequently sold on the black market for some Columbian snow. It was wicked times, Mister…but after our facial reconstruction and going off paper, we have been free to live the lives we have now, eking out an existence in high style.”

“Now we live in Terrene, in relative obscurity, me a wealthy, high-class hooker…and you, my Inuit lover, Flanmuckaknot, who I call my darling Muchpookchchuk.”

“You are too good to me, Mister. That day will forever be the birth of Muchpookchchuk….”

“The warts are still there, but the memories, they fade.”

“Yeah, well…I like to think of the warts as a little reminder of our love.”

“Umm, a weeping reminder.”

“Yes, weeping, sweating, oozing…love.”