The Blue Nazarene is a snarling aluminium mako shark on studded slicks. She nourishes herself on twice-distilled jet fuel and shits sinister swirling galaxies of sulphurous gas. She despoils and riles nature with her speed - God shudders to see her fly.
The Duckman alone has the skill to control her. He presses the ignition switch, a huge red, clitoral orb, moist and pulsating with power at the centre of a leather dash. Ignition gasses are ejected into the crowd. They claim the virginity of a trembling teenager in the front row. She falls to her knees, her legs lame with pleasure. Five howling cones of hell-fire now erupt from separate ceramic sphincters at the vehicle’s rear. The incredulous crowd clutch at their viscera as cataclysmic vibrations reach the grandstand. Before the deflowered teenager has had time to sigh, the rocket car has vanished over the horizon at incredible speed. The wicked forest no longer looks like an impossible jump.
Through slit-nostrils cut in the alabaster beak projecting from the front of his helmet, the Duckman sees the ramp approaching. Wooden boards rumble beneath the tyres for a second, sending a powerful vibration through the rocket car and liberating a long string of saliva from the corner of its driver’s masochistic grin. The Blue Nazarene is launched.
Commentators forget themselves. ’Intolerable fu-king speed!’ they shout in overawed warbles; ‘intolerable fu-king speed!’ they weep.
The wicked forest begrudgingly abides below in great blurred swathes of grey and brown. A thousand ghouls eyeball the silver bullet passing over them and claw at the sky with licentious hunger and degenerate lust. They tear at each other in dank frustration.
Death coalesces from a glittering cloud. He straddles the torpedo backwards, squinting through the reflective glass wind shield at the vicious beast salivating behind the controls. ‘Not this again, Trevor. I thought I told you!?’ The Duckman bulges an eyeball at Death, and with magnificent force demands: ‘Get the hell out of here, maggot brain, you’re creating drag!’ Death fumbles for words, then disappears in a pale yellow mist.
One radio commentator’s heart is still beating. ‘Intolerable fu-king speed’ are his last words.
The Blue Nazarene approaches her goal: an improvised runway of mud and balsa wood, crudely painted in places with her image and that of her driver. The Duckman can see the crowd now. It waits for him in writhing swarms, clamorous, suicidally close to the runway. A big-chested blond reaches out, straining, breasts jiggling atop excited lungs. He can see the whites of her eyes, they are glistening with sex and mad with adoration. Only now does he throttle the engine back. He is the second coming, a wild hormonal beast-god poised to dictate reality to endless disciples.
God hears all thoughts; he jealously cracks a fuel line. The Blue Nazarene erupts into a mile-long streak of liquid fire. The explosion vaporizes all but an iron-clad, granite erection and a single golden feather from the Duckman’s suit. The crowd ceases to undulate. Unthinkable. God is supplanted.
Created: Jan 27, 2011Colossal_Squid Document Media