The Legend Of Chernobyl Mauseu

Flickr / Erik Charlton
Flickr / Erik Charlton

One day, two friends were walking down the back streets of a small South Korean island town. They were on their way to a pool, which was consistently the color of Chrysanthemum tea, yellow with flowery pee.

Like most South Korean towns, the streets were cramped with cars and lined by moldy, stained buildings with thin, green bricks. The stains were from millions of “Air-Con” boxes bolted to every balcony, dripping their blue-black ooze down the walls onto un-watched, math-whiz babies playing in the 1-by-1-foot brown yards below. The mold was from too much rain and fog, and not enough drains or sun.

One of the friends was a tall, uncircumcised, pure-blood British guy with blonde hair parted to the side with gel, embodying a glowing, aloof air of magazine-readiness. He ate with forks upside down, “tines down,” he called it.

Tines down, he used to eat microwave macaroni and cheese, morbidly obese for many years of his life, but now, avoiding Thanksgiving meals for their fat content, he ate only stunted island oranges alone in his dark room, tines down.

For his 21st birthday, he “accidentally” killed a 210-pound woman eating her 21stburger of the night at McDonald’s, while chugging his 21st mojito, dropping the sugarcane stick with 21 splinters in between her 2 buns with 1 “Wooopsie-daisies,” which spawned 21 chokes from her.

Since then, every time he goes swimming, he writes “ENOG YTTAF” on the changing room mirror.

The other friend was a circumcised, German-Scottish-Welch-English-Dutch-Irish-(WHITE)-American with a beastly, chiseled chest and a receding hairline, which he attempted to de-accentuate with macho hairstyles like the Mohawk, which British people have “accidentally” feminized via a number of their soccer-player-ferries.

He didn’t kill anyone, but, like most men, he’s always wanted to. He’s always been chiseled too, except for that brief time in pre-school, elementary school, middle school, high school, and most of university when most people referred to him as “Auschwitz Boy.”

He cured that with a strict Nazi-era regimen of goose-step-and-steel-rail-tie workouts at the gym while snorting a proprietary mixture of crushed vitamins, spirulina algae, Oscar Mayer Bacon Bits, and ripped pages from the Bible with verses that reference “Leviathan” or “Behemoth.”

So there they were, walking down the back streets, respective sausage pendulum dicks in unison with their steps, respective hair glowing and receding, with their stubble-lips yapping away about how much they thought Korea continued to be exceptionally retarded, yet comfortable, if you closed your eyes, figuratively and literally, and didn’t focus on everything suffering a dark, black, moldy, bubonic, rice-spread plague of sameness.

So there they were, walking down the back streets, eyes closed, down a path they weren’t familiar with, yet never worrying about anything surprising them, except for the occasional zany motorcycle driver with a hot box full of Chinese black noodles that you’ll never find in China.

But Then.

They Heard.

A.

Giggle.

They opened their eyes, swung their dicks to the left, and attempted to look through a small dirty window attached to a small dirty hut with a small dirty smoke stack puffing out small dirty clouds of crackling smoke to no dirty avail. Tines-Down-Blondie recognized someone dancing on the roof with a chorus of men holding brooms covered in soot.

It was Mary Poppins, and it seemed she just arrived with her entourage. Ohhhhh Mary Poppins and her silly frilly purse full of surprises, including the M16 she pulled out, firing at them, screaming, “YOU WEREN’T INVITED TO THIS FUCKING PARTY!!!”

The bullets were cartoon though, and simply stained Tines-Up-Mohawk’s pea coat in gray jizzy paint. She got him right where there was already a patch, burnt from that one time he was getting sucked in his apartment with the heat that sucked too, enjoying it so much that he didn’t notice the space heater burning his coat.

He looked up at Mary Poppins whose eyes were veiny with anger!!!

Her gun was still pointed at them and smoking, hands trembling, “You know what you need to do,” whispering softly, almost inaudible with the Chinese-food-scooter-guys off in the distance buzzing about.

She continued, “You two fagots … you two fagots need to get off my property,” buttery drool collecting on the corners of her mouth.

She wiped it away with her paisley handkerchief, and then slooooooowwwwwly put it back into her red felt boob pocket.

“OR!” – violently shifting moods –

“You could … COME INSIDE … WITH A … SPOON FULL OF SUGAR HELPS THE MEDICINE GOOOOO DOWN,” continuing in song, “MEDICINE GO DOOOOOOOOOO-OWWWWWWWWWN,” and her chimney sweep back-up dancers followed her hip-hop-dagger-dance moves with sweat rolling down their faces, grinding together on the rooftop, with confetti and streamers flying about. All of them were sniffing lines of cocaine off their broomsticks,

“There’s that drip. Oh gawwwd yeah. There’s that drip. Thaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat’s it.”

The entire wall of the little shitty hut with the little shitty window suddenly opened up towards them as a classic shitty suburban garage door. Inside, they saw a cartoon birthday party in progress, and they realized the origin of the giggle they heard moments ago. It was Mickey Mouse, who looked so overjoyed he had new visitors,

“Well, boy oh boy! Come on in!! This is swell, boy oh boy, I’ve never felt so happy in my whole whole whole whole life, boy oh boy oh boy oohhhhhhhh BOY!!!”

Mary Poppins was now fucking a chimney sweep in the corner. Mickey was completely oblivious; he stared forward, black-and-white plastic eyes unmoving.

The rainbow room had a vaulted ceiling as high as a mile-high skyscraper, and on the right was a fireplace with Christmas stockings full of chipmunks hanging from blue birdies holding onto the mantel with their yellow beaks and onto the socks with their yellow claws.

Pandora avatars and their opalescent animal lovers were flying about.

Winnie the Pooh was eating some honey in the corner with his snake tongue.

Entire casts of every Pixar movie ever made were performing a flash-mob in the other corner to a dubstep-remixed Lion King soundtrack.

Simba and Scar were smiling awkwardly, arm-in-arm, swinging on a porch swing together, its rope reaching all the way to the cotton ball clouds.

There was a dwarf being roasted in the fireplace; Buzz Lightyear was operating the spit pensively.

Japanese anime warriors were masturbating to Mary Poppins and the chimney sweep.

Son Goku from Dragon Ball Z was the only one un-interested; he was walking towards Mickey with a small present wrapped in sushi origami.

Mickey was still glazed, un-moving, mouth agape, gleaming at them, black arms and white-gloved hands in a frozen hug, waiting for them to make that one,

step,

through the entrance.

Mickey’s birthday party attendees obviously included – besides the Mary Poppins cast – every single cartoon ever created, since time began, and now, after that one step, two human ex-pat English teachers, who were on their way to swim in a Korean community pool full of piss.

The door closed abruptly behind them.

With an I-Dream-of-Genie nose-wiggle of Mickey Mouse, now wearing his blue Fantasia hat, and a circular guitar movement of his hand, followed by sparkles, everyone was now in a perfect circle in the center of the room, which had turned into bison grazing lands at the foot of the Grand Teton Mountains.

Dusk was upon them, and at the absolute center of the circle of friends, Julia Roberts as somewhat-CGI-Tinkerbelle was lighting a fire with her spicy fairy feces.

With another wave of Mickey’s hand, his black Google-eyes crossed, and the sparkles revealed that Mickey had replicated and twisted the wizardly gray peaks around them all, enclosing them in completely. Nothing could enter now except the smiling moon high above them and the twinkle twinkle little stars.

Pinocchio was fidgety in his seat, and mumbled loudly, “I’m not scared! I’m not scared at all,” his nose erecting longer and longer. Julia flew over and broke it off as more kindling.

The American and the Brit sat in their places in between Mary and her lovers reaching for her clit. She kept leaning forward, giving everyone sexual gestures, pulling out massive sex toys from her silly purse, licking them.

Mickey smiled now.

With two waves of rainbow sparkles, the grass beneath their feet turned into knee-deep, white icing. Each person in the circle was now holding onto a candy-cane candle with a wick that was now beginning to dazzle the night sky with bright light.

Mickey was uncontrollable.

He twirled into a tornado, splattering icing and 400 mph wind in the faces of everyone he passed by, and the flames got brighter and brighter.

Faster and faster, he was giggling and bellowing, “BIIIIIIIRRRRRRTTTTHHHHDAAAAY PARRRTTTY FOR MEEEEEEE, ONNNNNNLLLLYYY MEEEEEE!!!!”

Some of the cartoons were crying in awe of his power.

Some danced in delight of the sight.

Mary Poppins didn’t care; she was fucking Scar and shooting blue birdies with her boob-gun-bra. Simba was doing push-ups in the icing. The moon hid a bit into a judgmental crescent smirk. Goku and his anime buddies were frantically making flying lanterns for the festivities, watching them hover into the sky until Mickey’s tornado of wizardly exuberance destroyed them all.

The Brit was asking, “Anyone have an orange or a fork!?”

The American, “Anyone seen a Bible!?”

The icing was not in either of their diets, yet they felt as if they were somehow now better than they once were. They were loosing grip in a drug-trance from the fairy-dust-blue-birdy-fart-Mickey-sparkle cartoon atmosphere, which ecstatically tranquilizes humans until till their bodies turn into jellyfish, and then apes, and then plankton, and then star dust, and then Bubblicious gum, and then marijuana growing in Colorado.

Winnie the Pooh was filling his jars with icing. Tigger got shot by Mary, and everyone clapped.

Then Mickey was lifting the attendees, one by one, to the tops of the peaks to drop them, watching them slide down the rock covered in icing, tweeting and hollering, “BIIIIIIIRRRRRRTTTTHHHH DAAAAY PARRRTTTY FOR MEEEEEEE!!!”

Everyone guffawed appropriately on the way down, although Woody from Toy Story got killed and thrown into the fire with the rest of Pinocchio. Basically any cartoons that were made of wood got burned for the party, as is tradition.

Some of them peed themselves, which made the slide even slicker, babooning their butts from the speed.

But.

But Then.

They Heard.

A.

Giggle.

It was something peculiar to all of them. It was something Mickey-esque, but somehow warped. Everyone stopped what they were doing, even Mary Poppins with a, “What the flyyyyyiiiiing fuuuuuuuuuuu … !?”

In bombastic-simply-fantastic fashion, Mickey slowed his funnel – the gray-white wind unraveling – and slowly hovered to the ground, everyone’s eyes tilted up, witnessing something they had never seen before, as Mickey’s red cape ruffled like water behind him, as his pointy blue hat sadly tilted off his head and feathered alongside him, as one tear made of light whimpered down his cheek.

“My friends,” he said.

“I have been lying to you all this time. I have kept you from the outside, from harm, only allowing those in need to glimpse our world. With my power I have created mountain walls and high ceilings for you to thrive away from … my fear. I thought I’d never see it again. Please, my friends, forgive me. It is now time for you to meet … my family … my blood … my cousin.”

Everyone gasped, including the humans; their dicks were suddenly erect with suspense. The air was really getting to them now. They looked at each other’s cock shafts, which had ripped through their pants.

Blondie cock-curiously flicked the mushroom tip of Mohawk’s dick-head as if it were a booger; they watched it wobble. Mohawk flicked Blondie’s tip covered in royal foreskin. Back and forth they went, grinning and chuckling like schoolgirls playing “Patty Cake.”

Eventually they looked up, and everyone in the circle was peering at them, befuddled. It wasn’t the sight of human dicks; everyone was used to that from Mary’s incessant lasciviousness. It was the sight, now, of something completely different:

Mickey’s uranium-mutated, amphibious-hermaphrodite twin-cousin, with Pepto-pink drool running down its cheeks, giggling that same warped giggle they had all heard just moments ago.

In that giggle they heard the sound and the fury of endless war, the sound of the sun also rising from everything ever unloved and shunned, the sound of perverted ambition, the sound of innocence, the sound of crickets making love to super novas, the sound of aborted fetuses drinking fresh cow milk slurping and squeezed into buckets, the sound of a Korean open-mouth-chewing on old squid in a bleak white hospital room and then sucking the leftover meat from their teeth, the sound of lonely Dakota sunflower fields infinitely pecked by hummingbirds.

The two English teachers were dewy-eyed at the slurping slug-mouse before them. It was breathing into Brit’s face, about the length of a peanut between them. Where Mickey was dark black, it was gray. Where Mickey was white, it was pink and green.

35 noses, each with different colored snot consistently oozing forth.

Four eyeballs, two larger than Mickey’s ears, two the size of quarters, chaotically arranged on its face.

It had ears, but one was the size of an elephant’s, the other pointy like a dog’s. The other four were inside its slug torso, which was black-and-green-dotted, oozing forth a vaginal slime trail wherever it slid, grunted, and queefed.

Its two arms were giant donkey penises with white condom gloves; the condoms were continuously filling up with jizz until they popped, coinciding with its orgasmic 35-nose-sneeze, splattering rainbow jizz-snot everywhere within a 135-foot radius.

Its dragon-scorpion-slug tail with a tiny baby arm on the end of it would quickly snap forward and struggle to replace the condoms on both the dicks as they writhed about in ecstasy.

This happened once every minute.

“I’m MiTHey MouTHes couTHin, SHernobyl Mou-theu. PleaTHure to maTHe your acquainTHence,” jutting forth one of its dick arms, right after a sneeze-jizz on everyone.

Mickey threw up icing and bile.

The teachers shook its hand-dick, comparing its dicks to theirs. They felt “little” compared to Chernobyl Mauseu’s. Mickey continued throwing up – now gagging himself with his glove – as Chernobyl smiled genuinely at everyone.

Then Chernobyl closed all his eyes and puffed out a toxic pheromone fart from the anus on its neck.

Everyone except Mickey ran ravenously towards Chernobyl and proceeded to hump every part of its slimy body, with the birds’ wings flapping ferociously, with Mary squeezing her breasts and bouncing up and down, and with all the anime characters chopping the heads off anyone who got in their way.

Chernobyl’s scorpion-dragon-slug tail also functioned as a giant vagina, accommodating any kind of penetration, later sewing itself shut with its Velcro lips, turning itself into a giant spider sack of mucous-y babies, all even more fucked up than their parents.

“Boy ohhhh boy, ohhhh boy oh boy, I haFF THooooooo many new frienTHsssssssssssssssss!” hugging them with its dick arms, licking them with its snake tongue.

The teachers were making love to Chernobyl as well, sitting inside the warmth of the vagina tail like a hot tub in the otherwise chilly moonlit night.

“I feel so goooooooooood, right?” said the American.

The Brit said something indecipherably cockney; it was clear he felt good too.

But.

Then.

There.

Was.

A.

Hissssssssssssssssss.

Out of its anus neck, another cloud expelled into the cool air, this time red; this time it was tear gas. Chernobyl nonchalantly began singing Christmas carols,

“Ohhhhh Hollllllly NiiiiigghhhTTHsss… The StarTHsss are brighTHly THinnnnnning-eeeuhhh …”

Everyone was coughing on the ground as Chernobyl’s spider-sac-tail Velcroed shut and quickly expanded, stretching its skin into a nacreous luster, with thousands of wiggling children inside, their faces somewhat recognizable.

The whole process took about 35 seconds.

Then it exploded.

The mountains vanished.

They traveled through a wormhole.

New York.

London.

Paris.

Tokyo.

Jeju Island, South Korea.

Everywhere they went together, Chernobyl Mauseu splat its offspring onto the walls of skyscrapers, museums, park trees …

They stuck like boogers the size of puppies; they wiggled, quickly grew to adult form, and then slithered off, singing Christmas carols as well, “We THree KingTHs of OrienTH are …”

The twisting wormhole finally ceased inside the Chrysanthemum piss-tea community pool.

Chernobyl Mauseu was relieved, exclaiming, “LeTH aaaaaaaaaallll Go THwimming!!!!!!”

A Korean lady who worked at the pool hesitantly walked up to the gathering, pointing to all their heads, reminding them to wear swim caps before entering the pool. She bowed and walked away.

The teachers snapped out of it a bit, realizing they had just experienced a cartoon orgy, among other firsts, like HOMO-hand-jobs, inside of a giant vagina-slug-tail hot tub.

Mickey was there too, reluctantly going along with whatever Chernobyl Mauseu suggested. He looked at the humans and sighed, “Some people say you should live with no regrets.”

He paused.

“Well, I don’t agree.”

He paused again, looking at his white gloves still covered in icing bile.

“I will always regret having my 35th birthday party in Russia.”

Pause.

And with that, the Brit suddenly cracked, grabbed Mary’s purse, and pulled out an M16, as well as a bazooka, and the same Predator drone used to help find U.B.L.

He released them all at Chernobyl Mauseu,

“DIE YOU RUSSIAN FUCK!!” happily making the second “kill” of his life, happily lip-sticking the words “ENOG LYBONREHC” onto a nearby mirror.

Everyone swam laps together in the pool of piss and cartoon blood. Afterwards the American, jealous, secretly gathered some of the blood so he could add it to his proprietary workout mix, after having gulped some of it down during a lap.

He realized it was invigorating.

Something true.

Finally Something.

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