Hump Slappers: An A) or B) Story

  You are a malodorous molar in the mandible of humanity. You

are a cantankerous coil in the crapper of conformity. You are a

26-year-old “Sales Associate” with no wealth, knowledge, or

social aspirations to call your own. You have but one hobby in

life: hole up in your coffin-sized apartment and renounce the

outside world. Pretty soon, if you do not change your ways, you

will go wholly, totally, irrevocably deranged.

  “Egads!” you say. “Not deranged! Anything but deranged! I’d sooner eat a falafel sandwich filled with my own putrid droppings than go deranged! For the love of Dog, tell me, how did this happen, where did I go wrong?!”

  Who knows? Maybe you swallowed a fluke worm. Or maybe that dusky waif you insulted at Burning Man ten years ago was telling the truth, maybe he really was a witch, maybe he saddled you with a dusky, waify curse. As of this moment, the particulars of your downfall are somewhat elusive. However, that being said, one thing is certain: the dint of your troubles began last year, right around the time you immigrated to Oregon.

  Last year, compelled by boredom and the overwhelming urge to lie among lumber, you said “goodbye” to the dirt flats of Albuquerque and “hello” to the pine glades of Portland.

  Initially, the transition proved rewarding. Then, after about a week or so, the novelty wore off, and you found yourself slipping further and further into a bog of self-seclusion.

  Once, prior to your relocation, you enjoyed a sizable network of magnanimous friends. After, your only associate was your brain. But that was okay. Or, rather, it was okay for a while, up until last week. Last week was when your brain adopted the personality of a displaced conspiracy theorist harangued by delusions of global persecution. Yesterday, while you were scouring the Internet for pictures of Howard Hughes in drag, he highjacked your Amazon.com account and purchased a six-hundred-page diatribe entitled, “Cold-Blooded Conquerors: The Reptoids Among Us,” which purported to expose a group of shape-shifting aliens who had immigrated to Earth some thirty thousand years ago with the express purpose of drinking our blood while simultaneously robbing the planet of diamonds and gold.

  Needless to say, your association with your brain suffered after that.

  But fear not, fate has thrown you a bone! This morning you received an email from your old pal Sanjay. Like you, Sanjay is an immigrant from The Land Of Enchantment. Unlike you, he has assimilated to the change. While you have slipped further and further into a bog of self-seclusion, he has obtained a sizable network of magnanimous friends. The evidence of which is inherent in his letter. In it, he has requested your presence at a giant three-story music venue on the south-side of town. According to the letter, the venue is called Hump Slappers and it’s located somewhere on the corner of Mississippi and 23^rd. Other than that, he has provided very little information; only that he and his band, The Pachyderms, have agreed to headline a show at this establishment, and thereby provide the management with an ample supply of booze-hungry friends.

  Bewildered, you re-read the letter in an attempt to glean insight from the underlying text. You absorb all of three lines before you are interrupted by an announcement from your brain.

  “Holy jeeze!” he screams. “It’s so obvious, so apparent – Sanjay is a fucking space alien! My god! Why didn’t I see it before? The lusterless eyes. The grotesque, spindly limbs . . . Undoubtedly, this Hump Slappers place is a headquarters for his terrestrial operations. I can see it clearly: the moment we pass through the door, he’ll attack our jugular vein and alleviate our body of all its vital essences. We’ll spend the remainder of the night sprawled across the floorboards, gasping for life like some freshly gutted trout.”

  “And yet, if we stay here, we’ll go insane,” you say.

  “Not necessarily,” he says. “We may just have a nervous breakdown and spend the rest of our life conversing with flies in the state-operated looney bin.”

  “Wonderful!” you say. “Great! We’re screwed either way!”

  Undoubtedly, it’s a delicate situation, one which requires several hours of thoughtful deliberation. Unfortunately for you, you don’t have several hours at your disposal. Sanjay’s show starts in less than ninety minutes.

  You must make a decision and make it quick.

  Do you A) leave your house and possibly forfeit your vital essences? Or B) stay home and listen to your brain recount stories of a ridiculous nature, such as the time Walt Disney tried to install Ponchito Pistoles into the Office of the Peruvian Presidency?

  If A) is your choice, turn to the page 8. If B), continue to page 5.