A SubGenius Classic: The Slack of Bonobollado (Long)

From: nu-monet <nothing@succeeds.com>
Newsgroups: alt.slack
Date: Sat, Jan 19, 2002 6:34 PM

THE SLACK OF BONOBOLLADO
Dr. Hieronymous Zinn

The thousand injuries of Dobbs I had borne as I best could;
but when he ventured upon insult, I vowed revenge. Nobody,
but nobody, calls me a 'Bobbie' and gets away with it. You,
who so well know the nature of my soul, admittedly somewhat
twisted and perverse, will not suppose, however, that I gave
utterance to a threat in front of witnesses. At length I
would be avenged; this was a point definitively settled--
but the very definitiveness with which it was resolved,
precluded the idea of risk. I must not only punish, but
punish with impunity. A wrong is unredressed when
retribution overtakes its redresser and puts him in a cell
with 'Bubba' and 'Snapper.' It is equally unredressed when
the avenger fails to make himself felt as such to him who has
done the wrong. In fact, I wanted him to undergo such
torments as are unimaginable by mortal men: demonic IRS
audits, endless AL-ANON and Planning and Zoning meetings,
eternal confinement in a auto-repair waiting area.
It must be understood, that neither by word nor deed had
I given Dobbs cause to doubt my good-will. I continued, as
was my wont, to smile in his face, and he did not perceive
that my smile now was at the thought of his immolation, or at
least screwing him twice as bad as he had screwed me.
He had a weak point--this Dobbs--although in other regards
he was a man to be respected and even feared. He prided
himself on his connoisseurship in 'Frop. Few Americans have
the true virtuoso spirit. For the most part their enthusiasm
is adopted to suit the time and opportunity--to practise
imposture upon the British and Canadian rubes with too much
loot. In painting and salesmanship Dobbs, like his
countrymen, was a quack--but in the matter of good ol' 'Frop
he was sincere. In this respect I did not differ from him
materially: I was appreciative of the American version
myself, and bought largely whenever I could; and otherwise,
when I could not, I bummed it from the generous.
It was about dusk, one evening during the supreme madness
of the arbor-day season, that I encountered my friend.
He accosted me with excessive warmth, for he had been drinking
much. The man wore a Motley-Crue tee-shirt beneath his suit.
He had on a tight-fitting partistriped dress, instead of
pants, and his head was surmounted by the conical cap and
bells. I was so pleased to see him, that I thought I should
never have done wringing his hand, imagining in its place his
neck.
I said to him: "My dear Dobbs, you are luckily met. How
remarkably well you are looking to-day! But I have received a
pipe of what passes for Bonobollado, and I have my doubts."
"How?" said he. "Bonobollado? A pipe? Impossible! And
in the middle of the arbor-day festival!"
"I have my doubts," I replied; "and I was silly enough to
pay the full Bonobollado price without consulting you in the
matter. You were not to be found, and I was fearful of losing
a bargain. NENSLO said it was genuine."
"Bonobollado!"
"I have my needs."
"Bonobollado!"
"And I must satisfy them."
"Bonobollado! Do tell! From NENSLO?"
"As you are engaged, I am on my way to Stang. If any one
has a critical turn, it is he. He will tell me--"
"Stang cannot tell Bonobollado from 'Martian Red'."
"And yet some fools will have it that his taste is a match
for your own."
"Bullshit. Come, let us go."
"Whither?"
"To your vaults."
"My friend, no; I will not impose upon your good nature.
I perceive you have an engagement. Stang--"
"I have no engagement: they are just well-heeled Pinks--
come."
"My friend, no. It is not the engagement, but the severe
cold with which I perceive you are afflicted. The vaults
are insufferably damp. They are encrusted with slime."
"Let us go, nevertheless. The cold is merely nothing. Just
a reaction to some paraquat-tainted 'Frop. But Bonobollado!
You have been imposed upon. And as for Stang, he cannot
distinguish 'Arcturian dung-weed' from Bonobollado."
Thus speaking, Dobbs possessed himself of my arm. Putting
on a mask of black silk and drawing a roquelaire closely about
my person, I suffered him to hurry me to my palazzo.
There were no attendants at home; they had absconded to make
merry in honor of the time. I had told them that I
should not return until the morning, and had given them
explicit orders not to stir from the house. These orders were
sufficient, I well knew, to insure their immediate
disappearance, one and all, as soon as my back was turned.
You just cannot get good help these days.
I took from their sconces two flambeaux, and giving one to
Dobbs, bowed him through several suites of rooms to the
archway that led into the vaults. I passed down a long and
winding staircase, requesting him to be cautious as he
followed, as the stairs were newly moistened with the steaming
liquid. We came at length to the foot of the descent, and
stood together on the damp ground of the catacombs of the
Zinns.
The gait of my friend was unsteady, and the bells upon his
cap jingled as he strode.
"The pipe?" said he.
"It is farther on," said I; "but observe the white
globules which gleam from these cavern walls."
He turned toward me, and looked into my eyes with two
filmy orbs that distilled the rheum of intoxication.
"Slime?" he asked, at length.
"Slime," I replied. "How long have you had that cough?"
"Ugh! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugb! ugh!--ugb! ugh! ugh!--ugh! ugh!
ugh!--ugh! ugh! ugh! Braaaack! 'Scuse me!"
My poor friend found it impossible to reply for many
minutes. "It is nothing," he said, at last, wiping the vomit
off with his sleeve.
"Come," I said with decision, "we will go back; your health
is precious. You are rich, respected, admired, beloved; you
are happy, as once I was. You are a man to be missed. For
me it is no matter. We will go back; you will be ill, and I
cannot be responsible. Besides, there is Stang--"
"Enough," he said; "the cough is a mere nothing; it will
not kill me. I shall not die of a cough."
"True--true," I replied; "and, indeed, I had no intention
of alarming you unnecessarily; but you should use all
proper caution. A draught of this Mad Dog will defend us
from the damp."
Here I knocked off the neck of a bottle which I drew from
a long row of its fellows that lay upon the mould.
"Drink," I said, presenting him the sauce.
He raised it to his lips with a leer. He paused and nodded
to me familiarly, while his bells jingled.
"I drink," he said, "to the buried that repose around us--
the parentage of a 'Bobbie'!"
"And I to your long life" I said, through gritted teeth.
He again took my arm, and we proceeded.
"These vaults," he said, "are extensive."
"The Zinns," I replied, "were a great and numerous
family. We reproduce like rabbits."
"I forget your arms."
"When I am as drunk as you, I often forget my arms, too" I
said. "I meant your coat of arms" said Dobbs.
"A huge human foot d'or, in a field azure; the foot is
inserted in the mouth of my ancestor. A scroll signifies the
Munich Agreement. The hangman's noose signifies inopportune
expropriation of livestock. The broken arrow is the most
recent addition."
"And the motto?"
"Vengence is Fine, Sayeth the Lord."
"Good!" he said.
The wine sparkled in his eyes and the bells jingled. My
own fancy grew warm with the Mad Dog. We had passed through
walls of piled bones, with casks and puncheons
intermingling, into the inmost recesses of the catacombs. I
paused again, and this time I made bold to seize Dobbs by an
arm above the elbow.
"The slime!" I said; "see, it increases. It hangs like
hemorrhoids upon the vaults. We are below the river's bed.
The drops of moisture trickle among the bones. Come, we
will go back ere it is too late. Your cough--"
"So your family doesn't care much for housekeeping. It is
nothing," he said; "let us go on. But first, another draught
of the Mad Dog."
I broke and reached him a flagon of Night Train. He
emptied it at a breath. His eyes flashed with a fierce
light. He laughed and threw the bottle upward with a
gesticulation I did not understand. Broken glass rained down
on our heads.
I looked at him in surprise. He repeated the movement--
a grotesque one, with a full bottle. It made a sticky mess.
"You do not comprehend?" he said.
"Not I" I replied. "The wasting of perfectly good hooch?"
"Then you are not of the brotherhood."
"Huh?"
"You are not of the Illuminati!"
"Yes, yes," I said; "yes, yes."
"You? Impossible! A Trilateralist?"
"A mason," I replied.
"A sign," he said.
"It is this," I answered, producing a trowel from beneath
the folds of my roquelaire.
"You jest," he exclaimed, recoiling a few paces. "But let
us proceed to the Bonobollado."
"Be it so," I said, replacing the tool beneath the cloak,
and again offering him my arm. He leaned upon it heavily.
We continued our route in search of the Bonobollado. We
passed through a range of low arches, descended, passed
on, and descending again, arrived at a deep crypt, in
which the foulness of the air caused our flambeaux rather
to glow than flame. I could hardly believe the amount of
liquid Dobbs was capable of passing at once.
"Who farted?" he said, before giggling.
At the most remote end of the crypt there appeared
another less spacious. Its walls had been lined with human
remains, piled to the vault overhead, in the fashion of
the great catacombs of Paris. Three sides of this interior
crypt were still ornamented in this manner. From the
fourth the bones had been thrown down, and lay promiscuously
upon the earth, forming at one point a mound of some size.
Perhaps he had a point about my families' poor housekeeping
skills. Within the wall thus exposed by the displacing of
the bones, we perceived a still interior recess, in depth
about four feet, in width three, in height six or seven.
It seemed to have been constructed for no especial use
within itself, but formed merely the interval between two
of the colossal supports of the roof of the catacombs, and
was backed by one of their circumscribing walls of solid
granite.
"We rent it out to New-Agers. We tell them that it is a
focal point of a Sino/Egyptian/Mayan vortex that will open
one's chahkras and make one eternally insightful, wealthy and
beautiful.
But it is the off-season; when we normally sub-let to
college students, when they are here on spring break" I said.
It was in vain that Dobbs, uplifting his dull torch,
endeavored to pry into the depth of the recess. Its
termination the feeble light did not enable us to see.
"Proceed," I said; "herein is the Bonobollado. As for
Stang--"
"He is an ignoramus," interrupted my friend, as he
stepped unsteadily forward, while I followed immediately at
his heels.
In an instant he had reached the extremity of the niche,
and finding his progress arrested by the rock, stood
stupidly bewildered. A moment more and I had fettered him
to the granite. In its surface were two iron staples,
distant from each other about two feet, horizontally. From
one of these depended a short chain, from the other a
padlock. Throwing the links about his waist, it was but
the work of a few seconds to secure it. He was too much
astounded to resist.
Withdrawing the key I stepped back from the recess.
"Pass your hand," I said, "over the wall; you cannot
help feeling the slime. Indeed it is very damp. Once more
let me implore you to return. No? Then I must positively
leave you. But I must first render you all the little
attentions in my powers."
"The Bonobollado!" ejaculated my friend, not yet recovered
from his astonishment.
"True," I replied; "the Bonobollado."
As I said these words I busied myself among the pile of
bones of which I have before spoken. Throwing them aside,
I soon uncovered a quantity of building stone and mortar.
With these materials and with the aid of my trowel, I began
vigorously to wall up the entrance of the niche.
I had scarcely laid the first tier of the masonry when
I discovered that the intoxication of Dobbs had in a great
measure worn off. The earliest indication I had of this was
a low moaning cry from the depth of the recess. It was not
the cry of a drunken man. More like the first signs of a
truly impressive hangover. There was then a long and
obstinate silence. I laid the second tier, and the third,
and the fourth; and then I heard the furious vibrations of
the chain.
Apparently, he had taken the brief repose to pleasure
himself.
The noise lasted for several minutes, during which, that
I might hearken to it with the more satisfaction, I ceased
my labors and sat down upon the bones. When at last the
clanking subsided, I resumed the trowel, and finished
without interruption the fifth, the sixth, and the seventh
tier. The wall was now nearly upon a level with my
breast. I again paused, and holding the flambeaux over the
mason-work, threw a few feeble rays upon the figure within.
A succession of loud and shrill screams, bursting
suddenly from the throat of the chained form, seemed to
thrust me violently back. For a brief moment I hesitated--
I trembled. He was singing show tunes from contemporary
Broadway musicals!
Unsheathing my rapier, I began to grope with it about
the recess; but the thought of an instant reassured me. I
placed my hand upon the solid fabric of the catacombs,
and felt satisfied. I reapproached the wall. I replied to
the yells of him who clamored. I re-echoed--I aided--I
surpassed them in volume and in strength. I did this, and
the clamorer grew still. My best rendition was from "Grease,"
and his accompaniment in the duet was a hilarious falsetto.
It was now midnight, and my task was drawing to a close.
I had completed the eighth, the ninth, and the tenth tier.
I had finished a portion of the last and the eleventh;
there remained but a single stone to be fitted and plastered
in. I struggled with its weight; I placed it partially
in its destined position. But now there came from out the
niche a low laugh that erected the hairs upon my head.
It was succeeded by a sad voice, which I had
difficulty in recognizing as that of the noble Dobbs. The
voice said--"Ha! ha! ha!-he! he!-a very good joke indeed--an
excellent jest. We will have many a rich laugh about it at
the palazzo--he! he! he!--over our 'Frop--he! he! he!
braaack!"
"The Bonobollado!" I said.
"He! he! he!--he! he! he!--yes, the Bonobollado. But is it
not getting late? Will not they be awaiting us at the
Palazzo, the Ladies of Zinn and the rest? Let us be gone."
"Yes," I said, "let us be gone."
"For the love of Me, Hieronymous!"
"Yes," I said, "for the love of "Bob"!"
But to these words I hearkened in vain for a reply. I
grew impatient. I called aloud:
"Dobbs!"
No answer. I called again:
"Yo! Stupid!"
No answer still. I thrust a torch through the remaining
aperture and let it fall within. There came forth in return
only a jingling of the bells. My heart grew sick--on account
of the dampness of the catacombs, and certainly not because of
that pastrami and greasy-egg sandwich I had eaten before my
journey. I hastened to make an end of my labor, and find some
antacid. I forced the last stone into its position; I
plastered it up. Against the new masonry I re-erected the old
rampart of bones. For three days now, no mortal, save
rats and other vermin, has disturbed them. In pace
requiescat, asshole!

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