Holy Waters Over Dogsh*tsville... needed some major rewrites in the third act, mostly for the parts that involved large quantities of babies and fire that simply weren't feasable on the one-hundred dollars your father had paid you to stop your brother from fagging shit up uncanny while he held a business conference across the weekend with his poker buddies in the den, oh and don't stare at the strippers when they're at the door or it might cost extra on account of you being a traumatic mongoloid about it, so you averted your eyes and just held out the money he'd told you to steal out of your mum's dresser, and if she asked, your brother needed it for a topical cream to stop that vagina from reopening across his pussy little chest, or I dunno just make some shit up, cockgrill.
* * *
The garage had ample space, but your brother was not at all content with the lighting arrangement. "In the name of Bruce Fredrick Joseph Springsteen where the fuck have you got those halogens pointed?" and so on, and then there were the costumes, because apparently a tuxedo made out of greaseproof paper, no matter how fine the craftsmanship was not gonna cut it on this stage. "Anyway," your brother said, "that's not what the crowds are coming for," and he took you by the hand, "we all know the real reason." Dearly departed, he meant for you.
This was just dress rehearsal, meaning that the roller door was strictly in the closed position until further notice. You gave the messy existentialist stuff some rounding, and the addition of certain jovial characters; Torpus the Centipede who had drunk himself to the point of alcholic hepatitis on account of murdering his brother to take his place by the side of his wealthy schizophrenic bride, was now Toby the Labrador who dealt primarily in high-fives and questioning the idea of rainbows.
Your quick-change artistry was a sight to behold, even if there was no-one to behold it, even if it was with such an unpleasant array of costumes. Having fallopean tube legs glad-wrapped over paper mache venison haunches left the entire membrane soaked by suffocating pores making the whole thing somewhat of a messy ordeal as you thrashed about between each scene to get that shit off, and your brother loved the way you used it. "A struggle between the inner sanctum, and those we interact with." Sure, you said. Just explain to me first what the meat-pants are for.
The third act, you thought you had already explained, would not involve the explosion of a children's hosipital, saved only by the steady-streamed urination from a selection of Britain's most well endowed and noble firefighters. And your brother said "fine, but just try on these trousers I made from a couple of packets of mince meat, and I'll mash them into your legs so you get a good fit," and you couldn't not agree to this; the guy had one of those spikey meat hammers, and it's not like you didn't once see him hack the muscle around a caved shinbone when he was in one of his moods.
* * *
As the rehearsal rolled out, Odile Mauswiche, that filthy child with his blackened gums and scabby edges, was busy scampering around the back alleys and parking lots of town, under the instructions of your brother to round up as many wandering dogs as possible with the aid of a fox on a stick, which your brother had earlier procured for him.
Odile lured seven of the most contemptible specimens into a kind of involuntary rickshaw, and with haste delivered them to your front lawn. At your brother's signal he would unlatch the cage door and out they would pour to break the fourth wall in a way your brother would later state, in his police interview was nothing short of genius.
* * *
The central character, Moses McGuiness was reaching his pivotal scene, after being emotionally bruised and battered (symbolised by the uncooked mince), he would atone for his sins and be washed down the Nile river which would lead him back to his wife, his nineteen children, and that modest farmhouse in Conneticut.
You were laying on the floor arms open when you delivered your final line: "Heal me by the grace of God," and your brother simultaneously hit the button for the roller door, and fired a flare which landed on top of you, setting you alight, but also giving Odile the signal to unleash the pack of rabid dogs, who at that stage had spent a good twenty minutes biting at each other, growing ever more savage.
If everything had gone accordingly with your brother's artistic vision, the dogs would have run in, licked your character back to good health with their commodius antiseptic tongues, then they would have carried him out into the street and woken up the neighbourhood who would then meet you along the sidewalk with momentous ovation.
Instead the dogs bit his fucking hands off. All the while you were rolling around on the floor and it probably didn't help that you were wearing a blazer made out of Superwipes and a long flowing wig coated in shellac for extra lift and shine. Once Odile had extinguished you with that poncho he'd fashioned from a hospital blanket, you had a whole other problem to deal with. You were in the presence of starving dogs, clothed in a mixture of processed animal parts, that with the fire had even cooked a little, and you smelled good.
You began ripping them off in handfuls and throwing the mince at the hungry beasts. It didn't take you long to realise that a good portion of it was caught in the chickenwire cargo pants you had on underneath from a scene that had to be cut (in order to keep the narrative flowing apparently), and so it wasn't coming off fast enough and you made a dash for the street. If it wasn't for that hideous mastiff cross with a misspelled swear carved in his hind leg getting a head start on the others you might have made it to Mr. Czapnik's front door and he might have overlooked that time your brother tried to smoke his prize winning chrysanthemums. You felt the animal's hulking jaw close around your foot, but you still gave a good fight, with the kicking and the screaming, and your teeth sinking into bulbous scrotums, and fingers going up at least one dog's bumhole in the hope of making you the most damn unpleasant meal they ever had.
