OCTOPOPE!
by John Smallberries
ANYTHING I CAN’T EAT PRESS
Story © 2011 John Smallberries
Cover design © 2011 Spatchcock
Editor-in-chief: Gordan K. Smith
Upcoming Books
from Mr. Smallberries:
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The Oblivion Spitefuck
Froth With the Limbs the Blue
Spaceman!
With Gusto
Triumphant Chorus
What? No. OH, GOD NO.
Wow I Really Hate You
My Life with Armstrong
Armstrong’s Greatest Escapes
Part I:
FUCK!
The phone was ringing. Nobody claimed responsibility, due to us all being hung-over from a night of Holy Partying and a tad too much consumption of the Holy Booze. So the phone kept ringing. Now, you might think it was just because it was early, or that perhaps it could’ve had something to do with the effects of the Holy Booze, but I firmly believe that it was Divine Loudening that made that phone so god-fuckingly loud.
See, when a phone is that god-fuckingly loud, it can’t just be due to mere mortal shit like early-morning hearing or a massive hangover. That theory is stupid and I will not waste my time thinking about it. No, the best and most obvious answer is Divine Loudening, caused by the Divine Something-or-Other as a warning of what lay ahead.
But we didn’t know that at the time. As I said, we were pretty hung-over and not only did the phone’s ringing hurt our ears, it offended our poor hung-over sensibilities to such an extent that it kind of pissed us off.
“For fuck’s sake,” somebody grumbled from the floor.
“How very dare you,” said someone else, possibly from behind the couch.
“How very fuck you.”
“Answer the phone.”
“I’m the fuckin’ phone.”
“You’re hung-over.”
“As are you, fuckwit.”
“Don’t be a dick.”
“I am Dick.”
“Sorry Dick.”
“It’s ok.”
“Answer the phone please, Dick.”
“I should say not.”
We tended to get grumpy when hung-over and pissed off. It was a well-known and proven fact. We did the figures. Hangover + pissed-offedness = grumpiness. The exact level of grumpiness is directly related to precisely how pissed off and/or hung-over the individual is. Given the levels of hangovertude and pissed-offedness, the grumpiness level could range anywhere from “not too much” to “very much so.” It’s pretty scientific.
We were extraordinarily good at math and science and numbers and things.
* * *
Meanwhile the phone kept ringing. Me personally, I hate ringing phones of any volume. They offend my sense of hearing. And after a too-long period of time spent listening to that fucking phone ring, I took it upon myself to pick it up.
I slid out of the chair I’d been asleep in, crawled over to the phone and answered.
“Hello?”
“He’s dead,” said the voice of the incredibly persistent fucker on the other end.
“Who’s dead?”
“The Octopope.”
“Hm?”
“The Octopope is dead.”
“Long Live the Octopope!”
“No, I mean he’s seriously dead.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, we kicked him and everything.”
“And?”
“He’s dead.”
“FUCK!”
Part II:
The Divine Drive
So that was that. The Octopope was dead. Seriously. They kicked him and everything. And as such, we, being the Holy Cardinals and things, were called to the Divine Palace to pretend to give a shit and wait for the next Octopope to be chosen. As it stood at the moment, there was no Octopope but the dead one, and a dead Octopope is about the same as no Octopope at all, except in this case there was a corpse and not nothing. So technically, while our theocracy wasn’t without a leader, we were temporarily left without a leader with a pulse. And a pulse is very important when it comes to Octopope-itry. We’ve read the books.
And so, after I finished the unpleasant task of waking up my fellow hung-over Holy Cardinals and shit, we packed ourselves into Dick’s Divine Car where we were Divinely Driven by Jeff to the Divine Palace. We were so pleased that Jeff was able to drive us that we all promised to make him a Saint or something when he died, provided he died before we all did. Otherwise, that’s just tough.
We almost made it the whole ride without anybody upchucking, too. But Jeff took a turn little too sharp for Andy’s gut to handle. Luckily, he was able to lean out the backseat window and empty his belly outside.
“That better not peel the paint,” said Dick from the Divine-passenger seat.
“Pray that it doesn’t,” called Wally from the floor in the backseat, using a tentacle to shield his eyes from the sun.
“You do it, I’m bitter,” said Dick.
Wally, easily the most devout of us, folded up his tentacles and said, “Oh Divine Something-or-Other, please make the paint not peel, ok? Amen.”
“Amen,” echoed the rest of us.
“And if it does peel,” growled Dick, “grant me the strength to skin Andy alive.”
“Amen,” said Wally.
“It was a joke, fuckwit.”
“The Divine Something-or-Other does not joke, Brother Richard.”
“Dick,” said Dick.
“Uncalled for, Brother Richard.”
Hoping to prevent any forthcoming altercation, I called to Jeff, “Are we almost there?”
“We’ve been here for five minutes.”
“Damn, you’re good.”
“Thank you, Milo.”
Part III:
Seriously Dead
It seemed we got there just in time. Everyone in the Palace had evidently lost their shit, and we were greeted by two Archbishops who told us as much.
“Everybody just lost their shit,” said the Archbishop of Someplace.
“You guys have to pick a new Octopope, NOW,” said the Archbishop of Someplace Else.
“That’s what we’re here for,” I said in my most reassuring, Cardinally voice.
Wally poked his head up and added, “Have no fear my brothers, for we shall help you all to find your shit.”
“They’re not being literal, Wally,” said Jeff.
“I once lost my shit,” said Wally, “It was most unpleasant.”
“That’s enough, Wally,” said Jeff.
“And Brother Andrew just recently lost his breakfast!”
“That’s enough, Wally,” said Jeff.
“Oh! But we know where that is, though, so don’t you worry, Brother Andrew, we know where your breakfast is and we will return it to you.”
“Wally. ENOUGH,” said Jeff.
“How peculiar though, that everyone seems to losing things today of all days!”
“WALLY.”
“It must be a sign! It mu-”
Dick, standing behind Wally, coiled three tentacles into a ball and slammed them down on his head. Wally spun quickly, said, “Uncalled for, Brother Richard,” and hit the floor.
“We’re very sorry,” said Andy, “he had a long night.”
“Yeah, sure,” said the Archbishop of Someplace, “but can you get on with the Divine Picking? Without the Octopope, we’re pretty well fucked.”
“Of course, Archbishop,” I said, taking charge, “but may we first see the body?”
“I guess,” said the Archbishop, “but he’s seriously dead. We kicked him and everything.”
“I understand,” I said, “we would simply like to pay ou
r respects.”
“Whatever,” said the Archbishop of Someplace Else, “but you’re probably too late. He’s seriously dead.”
“We understand. We won’t be a moment.”
Andy dragged Wally along as the Archbishops begrudgingly led us to the Divine Chamber where the Octopope lay, quite seriously dead.
It was a shame too, because it was a seriously nice Divine Chamber complete with seriously nice curtains and a seriously nice Divine Bed, unfortunately occupied by a seriously dead Octopope.
“See?” said the Archbishop of Someplace Else, “He’s dead.”
“May we have a moment?” I asked.
The Archbishop of Someplace looked at his watch and sighed. “Ok,” he said, “but make it quick.”
“Thank you,” I said, growing quite sick of these Archbishop assholes.
They left the Divine Chamber and shut the door behind them. Andy slapped Wally into consciousness, and we approached the Divine Bed.
“Wow,” said Dick.
Jeff shook his head. “I know.
“That’s a seriously nice bed,” said Dick.
“Did you see the curtains?” I asked.
“No,” said Dick as he glanced up at the seriously nice curtains hanging over the Divine Chamber’s big-ass windows. “Daaaaamn…”
“I know,” I said.
“And they’re absolutely positive that he’s seriously dead?” asked Jeff.
“Lemme check,” said Andy, as he climbed up onto the Divine Bed. “Damn,” he said, “this is a seriously nice bed.” He moved close to the Octopope, extended a tentacle and kicked him in the side. No reaction. “Yep, he’s dead.”
“You’re positive?” I asked.
Andy kicked the body again. “That’s one seriously dead Octopope.”
“Ok,” said Jeff, “so now what?”
“I guess we say goodbye,” said Andy, hopping off of the Divine Bed.
I was about to start my farewell to the dead Octopope, when the Divine Chamber’s doors opened and an Archbishop stuck his head in.
“You almost done? We’d like to get a new Octopope sometime soon.”
Now, maybe it had to do with the high levels of both hungovertude and pissed-offedness, but that just about wore out my patience.
“Who the fuck are you assholes?” I said.
The Archbishop puffed up in annoyance. “I happen to be the Archbishop of-”
“I don’t fuckin’ care,” I interrupted, “we’re Cardinals and shit, and the last time I checked, we’re higher up than you pricks. Now, unless I have an outdated copy of the fuckin’ Divine Hierarchy Book, which I highly doubt seeing as we co-wrote it, I suggest you get your sorry ass out of here before I demote you to…to…”
“Peckerwood,” Dick said.
“Peckerwood!” I yelled, “Now get the fuck out!”
The Archbishop of I-Don’t-Give-a-Fuck huffed and left the Divine Chamber, doors slamming behind him. The room remained quiet for a while.
Dick finally broke the silence. “Milo the Militant, man. Nice one.”
“Yeah,” I muttered, “can we just say our goodbyes and get this over with?”
“Sure.”
Nobody said anything, awkwardly looking around for someone else to start. This went on for a full two minutes and twenty-eight seconds.
“Goodbye,” we all said at once.
And we fell into silence again.
“…that was fuckin’ weird,” said Andy.
“Let’s uh,” Jeff cleared his throat, “let’s not talk about this ever again, huh?”
“Agreed,” we all said together.
“FUCK,” said Dick.
A few more minutes passed before we left the Divine Chamber in absolute silence.
Part IV:
Divine Pickiness
The Archbishops, who wisely kept their asshole-heads down, led us to the Divine Octopope Picking Room. Most of the time it was just the Divine Second Floor Meeting Room, but when the circumstances were called for, it was converted to the Divine Octopope Picking Room much to the chagrin of the Divine Maintenance Guy who was made to replace the usual sign over the door with the fancy (and heavy as shit) gold plaque he had to dig up from wherever those fuckers in Divine HR moved it without telling him. In his defense, the people in Divine HR really are stupid bastards.
Once we got to the Divine Octopope Picking Room, we took our seats around the Divine Meeting Table. I made sure to take a little more time dicking around before taking my seat, just to piss off the Archbishops before telling them to fuck off and let us think. They obliged and left the room, shaking with what I hope was pure unadulterated hatred. That’s why you don’t fuck with a Cardinal. Or whatever.
We were all seated and munching on the bagels that had been left for us, when I finally asked what we were all supposed to be pondering.
“So. New Octopope. Who do we want?”
“Fuck if I know,” said Dick, “I do know, however, that I’m not thinking about it until we run out of bagels.”
“I’ll second that,” said Jeff.
“Andy?” I asked, turning to him.
“Makes sense to me, Milo. These are damn good bagels.”
“And Wally?” I asked.
“Clearly,” he began with a mouthful of bagel, “the Divine Something-or-Other has given us these bagels to aid us in our thoughts. I wholly endorse the consumption of the bagels.”
I thought about what he said. “What?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Bagels, then Divine Picking. Yes?”
“Yes.”
“Outstanding.”
* * *
After we finished the plate of bagels, we all sat happy and contented, tentacles folded on our bagel-filled bellies.
“Hey,” said Dick, “think we could get those assholes to bring us more bagels?”
* * *
After we finished the second plate of bagels, we decided that it was seriously time to begin considering thinking about picking the new Octopope.
And so we thought.
“Balls,” said Andy.
“I don’t know him,” said Jeff, “and I will not Pick him.”
“It was an expression of frustration, not a suggestion for Pickingness.”
“I stand by my word,” said Jeff.
And so we continued to think.
“I believe,” began Wally, “that we may have been too quick to dismiss this ‘Balls’ fellow. I, for one, should like to meet him before reaching a decision.”
“Balls isn’t a person, Wally,” said Andy, “it’s an expression.”
Wally shook his head. “Well we can hardly pick an expression, Brother Andrew. I’ll ask you to be more serious, if you please.”
“Fuck,” groaned Dick.
Wally’s face lit up. “’Fuck!’ Now there’s a good strong Octopope-name, ‘Fuck!’”
“Wally, please,” I started.
“No no,” continued Wally, “think of it: ‘Octopope Fuck XIII’! I like it! I like it and I endorse it! We should bring this Mr. Fuck in for Octopopeification at once!”
I turned to Jeff. “Did Wally take his medicine this morning?”
“Wally doesn’t take medicine, Milo.”
“Fuck.”
“Excellent, Brother Milo,” said Wally, “I was just thinking the same!”
Andy slammed his head on the table. “Can we be serious for one fucking minute and just pick a fucking Octopope, please?”
“Alright,” I said, “any real suggestions, anyone?”
“Dickweed,” called Dick.
“A relative of yours?” asked Wally.
I slammed my tentacles on the table, shaking the room. “Come on! This isn’t that difficult! We pick a new Octopope, we burn the dead one, we release the purple smoke, we go home, and we partake in a bit more Holy Booze. Yes?”
The table aye’d in agreement, save for one.
“I’m afraid we aren’t taking this seriously, Brothers,” said Wal
ly, “this is a major decision and it is in our lowly tentacles. We must be careful. We must be-”
Before Wally could finish his thought, Dick’s coiled tentacles crashed down on his noggin again. Wally’s head hit the table.
“Let’s do this,” said Dick.
“We need Wally’s approval too, though,” said Andy.
“Fuck it,” said Dick.
“An excellent choice.”
“Shut your fucking face, Jeff.”
* * *
And so we thought, minus the input of Wally, who, let’s be honest, wouldn’t have been much help anyway.
“It doesn’t seem like it’d be much fun,” said Andy, “maybe we could make one of those Archbishop douches be Octopope. That’d learn ‘em.”
“Hell no,” said Dick, “you saw that bed. That’s a seriously nice bed. I’m not wasting it on one of those idiots.”
“One of us could do it,” said Jeff, “That way we know the bed wouldn’t be wasted.”
Dick pondered this. “It is a seriously nice bed.”
“Don’t forget the curtains,” I added.
“Damn nice curtains.”
“I wouldn’t mind living with those curtains,” said Andy.
“Keep in mind,” I said, “that you’d also be stuck here until you die. Octopopedom isn’t all curtains and seriously nice beds.”
“But that’s a seriously nice bed,” said Dick.
“And seriously nice curtains,” said Andy.
“Seriously nice curtains,” said Dick.
“No Holy Booze,” said I.
“Fuck that.”
Part V:
Hat Bastardry
And on the fifth hour, with the Archbishops growing increasingly pissed off, we finally made our Divine Decision.
Well, I did.
“Look, everybody just write down a name, throw them in a hat, we pick one out, and POOF, Octopope. Good?”
“Depends on the hat,” said Jeff.
“The hat is inconsequential,” I said.
“I disagree,” said Jeff, “the hat is everything.”
“A hat is a hat.”
“Do we have a hat?” asked Andy.
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