A Colorful Bouquet, or, the Importance of Being Furnaced

Written by Samuel Vargo

Monday, 7 October 2013


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The following report was posted on Wikileaks last week. It was taken from a Super Top Secret CIA file, but upon request of the U.S. government, Wikileaks decided to kill this story because news of the new Sexually Transmitted Disease. the McAllistore Stonehenge Virus, described herein would cause world hysteria. Unfortunately, the BBC picked up on it and is planning on doing a three-hour special news expose' on this juicy item:

Wilbert Woodside found himself urinating and gasping at the same time. What he saw when he looked down at his penis was a beautiful bouquet of what seemed like flowers growing out of his receptacle.

"Holy smokes!" he screamed, waking up the night security guard at the all-night hamburger and marriage stand right at the outskirts of Lost Wages, Bagged Dadda, oops, I mean Las Vegas, Nevada.

"Where were you on Mother's Day?!" Wilbert Woodside shrieked in a delirious fit.

The flowers came in brilliant reds, blues, yellows, purples, oranges and some colors not directly associated with the light prism.

The security guard entered the littered, smelly restroom and took his place at Wilbert Woodside's left-hand side.

"It sure looks like you have problems," the little night watchman said taciturnly in a mean-spirited way.

"Holy schamolies! What in the hell do you mean, 'I have problems'!" Woody yelled.

"Holy schamolies is right, you fool. You've contracted the McAllistore Stonehenge Virus. There is no cure. In a few hours, you'll be deader than a dog-pound mutt that's overstayed its welcome."

The night security guard had never seen - up close and personal - this strange new STD, which could be transmitted through solids, liquids and gases.

"What in the muther-fried dickens?!" Woody cried in anguish - he was still staring down at the flowers adorning his penis.

"You'll have to be furnaced like all the others. Then you'll be buried in an unmarked, mass grave in the landfill dump," the night security guard matter-of-factly said. This Night Guard spoke with a British accent, which Woody found very strange. Few Brits lived in the Nevada desert, except fugitives, of course, and rogue ex-pats from the House of Lords that had built casinos in Nevada.

"Furnaced?!!! What the hell do you mean, 'Furnaced!!!?'" Woody shrieked, still staring down at the upright urinal's base, where his penis protruded from his pants' zipper like one of the nicest floral displays gracing an ornate, wonderful, $50,000 funeral at some nondescript city like Dayton, Ohio, or Flint, Michigan.

"You'll have to be burned alive," the night watchman said, in a bored tone.

The sentry took his cell phone from the prop on his trousers' belt, plugged in a few numbers and still staring at Woody's penis from the right side of this hideously afflicted one, said into the receiver, "We have another one. You guys better get here right quick."

"Holy Piranha's Teeth!" Woody screamed, still not believing that his penis was now a bouquet of beautiful flowers.

"Scientists think this all started in Africa, where green mambas sodomized black mambas. They think it happened right after the Tootsies invaded the Serengeti."

"Are you joking?!" Woody's screamed, his voice so powerful and piercing that the bathroom mirrors waved in and out of their silver frames. His tears were now pumping out of his eyes like dirty suds flowing from a commercial dishwasher.

"Snakes will be snakes, after all!" the night watchman continued.

"What happened next?! After those venomous green reptiles raped the black ones?!" Woody shrieked in disbelief.

"Well, let me see. . .," the guard pondered, rubbing his whiskered chin with his spidery little fingers. "Oh, yes, yes. . .then, the virus got into computers somehow. The whole disease was named after a professional cybercriminal from Wales - the U.K.'s Ice Man."

"Funk you!!!" Woody screamed. "How do you know all this?"

"I was a top news editor at the BBC until two days ago," the night watchman answered. "I was fired for my part in promoting a half-hour special on this horrible STD. We got a report off Wikileaks they hacked from Scotland Yard computer data. A womanizing London detective ended up with the McAllistore Stonehenge Virus. Ugly. Horrible. I don't want to discuss it any more."


"Don't ever get into journalism. It's far too political and it's filled with shakeups. And the pay's terrible. I make more now as a night watchman at this dump. I'm not joking."

Woody looked at the night watchman as if he was looking at his long lost grandpa. Here, he had found truth. Not the truth Woody wanted to hear or know, but the actual truth of why his penis was now a beautiful bouquet fit to give a woman of European royalty.

The restroom door swung open and hit the wall with a loud crash. Two men entered the men's room. One of them stuck a long syringe into Woody's neck. In two seconds, Woody was nothing more than a big fat lump of flesh on the floor.

"The flesh has started eating itself already," one said, looking back and forth from the Night Guard to his fellow G-Man. Both ominous-appearing agents - each well over six-foot-six - were uniformly dressed in black suits, spiffy black oxfords and black ties.

The only color variation of their dress was that each wore a starched, button-down, white shirt.

To be even more descriptive and to even editorialize a bit here - both of these Government Men looked like Captain Kangaroo's or Cap'n Crunch's body guards -- that is if Captain Kangaroo was still alive, and if Cap'n Crunch was more than just some advertised cartoon character on a box of cereal.

"We have to get him in the quarantine wagon, drive him to the incinerator and finish off this lecherous fornicator with some hot flames - 3,500 degrees Fahrenheit or more," the other G-man, who still looked like a clone of the other G-man, said.

[These G-men talked in monotone at all times. They both exhibited an annoying nasal twang while orating their dialogues and orders. And every word they uttered was bland, banal cacophony. I put this aside here just in case this short-short story becomes a movie script of some kind.]


Our favorite G-Men were gambling at an opulent amorphous casino on the strip that was housed in a building that looked like a giant dinosaur egg. Their jobs were usually filled with deadwood time. There were always incredibly big gaps between incinerations that they found incredibly boring.

What they did for a living was absolutely abominable. They often rationalized that they weren't actually burning people alive. No, they were burning 'the undead' which are actually vampires who had been dumb enough to contract a fatal disease that was threatening to wipe out the entire human race.

Luckily for them and for their victims, our two favorite G-Men were based in Lost Wages, oh, I mean Las Vegas. They both loved to gamble, both were big fans of strip clubs, and both loved to gulp, swallow, and demolish lots and lots of alcoholic beverages. Floods of fermented yeast shit entered through their mouths and its byproduct exited out of their penises on a nonstop basis.

On a positive note, they were both said to be "great fathers," and every Father's Day, each would enjoy lots and lots of gifts - usually just the same old - same old barter of white shirts, black ties and an occasional pair of shiny oxfords or on lucrative years, another black suit.

- The next call the G-men got was in Bakersfield, Calif. Some porno queen turned short-order cook at an all-night greasy spoon had discovered a beautiful bouquet of flowers growing out of her vagina.

The quarantine wagon was flying down the former Route 666 at twice the speed of sound.

"Did you see the look in that poor guy's face when we turned on the power?" one said to the other. As their car was in warp speed driving the Devil's Highway, guardrail posts flicked past like a ceiling fan's blades set in high speed.

"Yeah. It's an atomic barbecue pit we have going there," the other quipped.

They both laughed like alpha hyenas.

They were government men far too jaded, seasoned and cynical to actually take their jobs very seriously. The only reason they continued to round up the morbidly and fatally sick, put them into the quarantine wagon in a comatose state, and then take them to the incinerator and burn them alive was because Uncle Sam paid them an astronomical wage for their very important service to humanity.

Fence posts and telephone poles continued to whiz around outside the window like television static. They'd be on the outskirts of Bakersfield in a few more seconds. The Little Lady behind the grill had no idea what she was in store for - well, just put two and two together and you know within a matter of mere minutes, she herself would be the one being grilled.

The story above is a satire or parody. It is entirely fictitious.

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