Cuithbeart sipped a frothy, glass mug of beer, "Sometimes you have to improvise to improve, to excel, to succeed."
Televisions were all on the right of the old Scotsman, and on the left of the Scotsman. It was a room made of televisions, even the door. In Mr. Cobalt's back pocket was an unopened bottle of blue olive oil. It was evident to Geoffery that they were outside, as the ceiling was the sky, and the young man had no idea how to perceive the parts of the sky which were painted or the left edge which looked sketched.
Geoffery looked down, blank and confused as he stared at the ten blue plastic cups on the ping-pong table in front of him. Ten blue cups grouped on each side, formed like triangles. They looked to be full of just beer--
"These blue cups are full of lager that is a little under the proof of wine." Cuithbeart retorted, as though reading Geoffery's thought.
Geoffery noticed a brown beast that looked like a cross between a bear, human, and cat, standing six-feet-tall in a corner behind Cuithbeart; the creature was listening to a cheesy song in Spanish, headphones on one once-pointed ear. The animal moved its large, bloodshot eyes, red veins and amber-yellow scanning the room. Then the beast went to punch the side of a television without known cause, and was radically sucked into the screen like sand chasing itself down an hourglass; the t.v. screen went brown.
"What does this have to do with repairing televisions?" The husky geek asked.
"Neverything!" Cuithbeart spit and spilled beer, arcing his arms with the alcoholic seriousness of his botched or brilliant answer.
The room responded in a frightening rumble. A couple tv's the spit beer hit sizzled and fried when they shouldn't have. Cuithbeart puked breakfast all over the side of the ping-pong table and spilled some more of his glass mug, his remaining booze less than an inch in the glass. The Scotsman had narrowed his eyes as he looked down at his expulsion, "Maybe I'll give you a handicap."
"But you just puked.." Geoffery said making a face shifting towards disgust, covering his nose with his hand.
Cuithbeart took a ball from a white and blue basket glued to a television behind him. He dipped the sparkly-blue ping-pong ball into a cup of water off to the side of his triangle of lager. When the ball emerged from its involuntary dive, a lot of the paint had come off of the plastic, but not all of it.
"Well I guess I should've let it dry." Cuithbeart slurred smugly, before throwing the more-white-than-blue sphere into a cup in front of Geoffery.
Geoffery adjusted his glasses, "I'm not drinking that, its got paint in it."
"..your a real S.O.B." Geoffery replied, with some fumes of his own.
"My mother was.. an ugly lesbian." Cuithbeart lied, maybe, with glossy eyes.
Geoffery pounded down the cup and gagged. He scrunched his face from the burn and stared at the floor with anticipation from his stomach. When he looked up again his voice was less fuming, metaphorically. "I don't think you know anything about repairing t.v.'s."
Cuithbeart stumbled as he temporarily took his hands off the table, "I forgot that some of the cups had rum."
"Which ones?" The theatrically-dressed geek asked, taking the ball out, and dipping off the last of the paint in a cup of water.
"Mostly yours!" Cuithbeart Cobalt chuckled while the tiny, distracting blue lights that were wrapped around his suit randomly blinked on and off.
* * *
"I don't know anything about fixing televisions." Cuithbeart confessed, which followed with the room of televisions, boxy and flatscreen, breaking apart and collapsing. Surrounding the wreckage of T.V.'s was a wide-open basketball court on a hill; it was silent, dark, and moonlit with only one basketball hoop, dark houses in the distance. Confetti poured out of the few, towering dead light fixtures, while the streetlights farther away acted like they had a payroll, brightening the roads with an absolute efficiency. There were box fans in the cement of the basketball court with deep holes to nowhere or somewhere, blowing the confetti back up as it tried to drop down from the busted illuminations.
Underneath the one basketball hoop was what appeared to be a wooden, beverage stand; the whole front of the stand had childlike handwriting in violet paint, 'Purple Lemonade - 50 cents.'
From the stand came the boisterous sound of a man, "Mirk! Mairk! Mackin!"
Cuithbeart went stumbling to investigate the sound but stopped abruptly at the sound of a cooler, more elegant voice from behind him, "Have you come to browse my collection?"
Geoffery turned with their surroundings in a drunken blur to see a man with a pony-tail made of indigo yarn, ripped-up dress clothes with black cloth underneath, and a monocle with monocles welded to it. This wash of gold and glass went around one half of the gentleman's flat, cardboard head, an oval with a doodled, distinguished face that had giant, plastic, googly eyes. The man's expensive footware was hard to see, and he stood on a broken basketball hoop pole with one knee pointing out to the side as though the balancing act didn't bother him. The scribble of a mouth moved with the gentleman's words, "Mwehehar! Teetee."
Suddenly everything sped up, but not quite to fast forward status.
Cuithbeart was too drunk to want to turn around.
"Who are you?" Geoffery asked. – The cardboard head jostled in the wind, "The very rare, the very exotic, Backstory Curator." – Cuithbeart looked behind the lemonade stand, his head in a crouch overneath the desk-like table and its higher, wordless sign. He saw two little men with enormous facial hair and small eyes. – The basketball-sized man behind the lemonade stand with a whiteish-red beard spoke, "We're gonna make plenty of gald, Gald."
The flow of time went back to a normalcy as Gald's great white mustache twitched.
Cuithbeart searched his pockets for change, "I'll take a purple drink little man!"
Jitters flung his beard up into the air, and it formed like two arms, grasping a pungent, purple beverage.
Normal-sized suit ties and ribbons on the two small vendors shifted at their ends with the slightness of the wind, catching the Scotsman's drunk eye.
Across faded lines and the technicolour vomit of paper projectiles going up and down, the Backstory Curator spoke out of turn, "A bald, dark-skinned man named Jupiter was launched into these very skies not long ago: wriggling his robotic limbs and screaming with a deep-pitched tongue, before the catalyst of this event brought him a land-loving return.
Jupiter found himself in front of grocery store windows, all broken and full of war. A battle raged over a floor scattered with edible products. There were clashes between an intrusion of ancient warriors who looked like samurai with meat fetishes, and medieval wanderers protecting their fortress of food.
A sweaty husky black man with nerdy clothes and glasses named Mr. Greary, was running next to a much smaller teenager named Russel. A metal bucket with two black eye-holes was stuck over Russel's head. The two were headed towards the armory, but a tall menace guarded it; this spamurai was armored in metal-studded meat, and meat-studded metal, a handless katana in an iron grasp.
They ran past a scarecrow in a white-dress shirt with similar glasses to Greary, he was laying still, missing an arm; but then again, just being a scarecrow, this was probably less problematic for him."
"How does those monocles stay on your head?" Geoffery broke up cardboard face's story.
"How do they, indeed." The Backstory Curator returned, googly, reluctant to return to his retelling..
"Rather than unsheathing the sword that was on his back, Russel headbutted the spamurai in the abdomen. Greary only had an egg carton, changing randomly between yellow, baby blue, and green, every time he looked at it; Russel had bought him time to get to the remains of the armory, full of medieval weapons and shields, part real and part foam. Mr. Greary would leave his eggs here, light green, to grab a rather odd flail and an enormous shield.
A tall, blond wanderer named Renegald--"
"Ya got some gald in ya, where'd ya pocket it ya Pied Piper!?" Gald screamed from behind the lemonade stand.
The curator cleared his throat, "A blond wanderer named Renegald--"
"Ya got some gald, why don't you bring it ova here ya big goo--" Jitters shut Gald's mouth.
Geoffery unfolded a lawn chair that he had acquired from nowhere and sat down in it to think about how he wished Jeffrey could buy him a lemonade.
The Backstory Curator had an unenthused line acting as his mouth, wandering strands of indigo yarn-hair blowing over his googly corneas; he began again. "A blond wanderer was near a spamurai with spare rib across his chest by the name of Spare Rib. They were near the armory as well."
The curator waited in silence, for any reaction, while his face remained comically unenthused..
The curator began again. "..both were in battle position, moving back and forth without having attacked. The blond man spit out his mouth-guard looking at the other spamurai who had lost his katana blade after being hit in the abdomen, 'That's not much of an attack.'
'Who are you to judge your own comrade's attack?' Spare Rib replied, holding a tower of beer and pop cans duct taped to a rather menacing spatula."
"I'm really drunk right now." Geoffery mumbled, looking down at a broken watch that was pointing back at him. He peered behind him at a couple houses playing leap frog with massive crashing noises. Then he noticed Cuithbeart was stumbling around groaning from a hangover, and meticulously pouring olive oil out onto the pavement.
The curator had different pitches of voice for each character, some that maybe didn't fit-- in a high pitch, "'Maybe he's not my teammate, maybe I'm a mercenary.' The blond man paced back and forth, menacingly. 'You should take that weapon apart and hand me a soda.'
The battle raged on. In some aisle-way in another part of the store, a girl named Sue with an eyepatch and a unique halberd brought down a spamurai who had a helmet made of ground chuck on his noggin. She had whapped him in the leg with the foam half. The spamurai instantly knelt down as if he had lost a leg. There were other wanderers and spamurai like this, kneeling down, while some were actually laying down as though they were dead.
'Your egg carton reminds me of the Eggola.' Reneg-- the blond-haired man stated, glancing at Mr. Greary who was hesitant to rush into battle.
Russel pulled off his helmet, the spamurai that he had hit was rolling around in pain behind him. The sword-wielding wanderer had strands of greasy blond and black hair accompanied with grey face-paint, 'Eggola?'
'I've heard of him.' Spare Rib said in battle stance. 'Supposed to be an egg that came to life, drags a mountain of soda behind him in All-Mart.'
'I must say, it sounds like a product worth investing in.' Mr. Greary had already pulled out his wallet to check his funds, and had his egg carton (blue) underneath his arm.
Jupiter, the faller, did not hear any of this, but witnessed enough of it. He walked away from the grocery store and decided to try another place for dinner.."
"I'd burn the midnight oil, if it was covered by insurance!" Cuithbeart guffawed, staring at his writing, standing proud with his hands on his hips like he had instantly sobered up.
The curator pulled an envelope off of the back of his head, half underneath the yarn, tape pulling at the cardboard; he jumped down from the basketball pole and stood normally, "Cuithbeart Cobalt?"
Cuithbeart looked over at the cardboard-headed man, standing over a clear phrase involving nobody in particular.
"This envelope is addressed to you, from someone named Midnight."
Geoffery got up and went to the rubble of televisions. In his drunken state, he decided to try fixing them. Whether or not what the young man was doing worked, he began piecing them together, finding tools within the ruins, and avoiding the electrical charges. As the geek got into the groove of this, Cuithbeart opened and scanned the letter addressed to him; the urgency in the words spreading to his face overneath blue and white facial hair.