Chapter 1: In which Morty talks to hats




Chapter 1: In which Morty talks to hats.

 

“Hello, my name is Morty Sharp. My hobbies are masturbating in public, and kicking dogs.”

 

“Hi, Morty!”

 

“All my life, all I ever wanted to be was a degenerate. Its amazing how sometimes life’s plans can work out for you. If you aim low enough.”

 

The crowd exploded in applause. Morty sat there with his arms outstretched, taking it all in, breathing the raucuity with his coarse nostril hairs.

 

“I want to thank you all for attending,” Morty continued, “its good that you all could make it, and that we at last have a public forum for like minded people.”

 

Morty smiled a large toothy grin, sweating opulence, “and now I would like to tell you all about my new program: Success in Real Estate through Hypnosis!”

 

The crowd stands in applause, screaming ebulliently, from spots around the crowd, a chant emerged, and spread through the audience until everyone joined in: “Morty, Morty, Morty, Morty…”

 

And then his eyes jerked open. He was on bended knees, forehead resting on a public bench hovering over a pile of what was likely his own vomit, what had caked on his face was now streaked with tears from the now fleeting fantasy. He took a deep breath and rolled, forehead first, onto his back next to the puke. This again. The stray dog who had recently adopted him, stopped licking the drying pile of vomit and started licking Morty’s cheek.

 

Morty swatted him in the nose. The dog yelped and went back to eating Morty’s vomit.

 

It wasn’t quite the middle of the night, but the sun had yet to rise. It was summer in Minnesota, which meant the weather was warm and all the cops were too busy fucking their sisters instead of hanging out in the park to bust gay sex in the bathrooms or harass reprobates like Morty.

 

Morty wasnt homeless, and didnt especially like being followed by a stray dog. Partly because he was allergic to dogs, and partly because the dog was extremely ill mannered: He growled at children, pissed unintentionally — often while chasing children, and spent the rest of the time killing squirrels in the park. He didnt eat the squirrles, just chewed their heads off.

 

In front of children.

 

This dog had a name: Alouicious, but Morty didn’t know that. Alouicious had apparently gotten tired of sucking puke and waiting for Morty to roust himself, so he took the initiative and grabbed his rightmost sleeve and started dragging. Morty, in his semi-hallucinatory state fell to the side and hit his head on the nearby garbage can.

 

“Ow! You fucking dog!” Morty was awake.

 

Morty flailed his legs to kick at Alouicious, but the years of squirrel murdering had given the dog far too much agility, he kept the sleeve in his mouth and side stepped the legs, dragging Morty a full 6 inches with one pull. Morty’s head was still pressed against the garbage can, and he was struggling to get the equilibrium to stand.

 

Morty was really lucky that he didnt have to wear glasses because he managed to wake up face down frequently. While he had his problems, he wasnt always just drunk. Morty had some very specific brain defects, which gave him bad ideas. This wasnt one of those times. He had just gotten shitfaced and passed out in the park.

 

After several minutes of shouting and dog angst, Morty yanked his sleeve from the dogs mouth and managed to flail himself onto his feet, and began to stumble back to his apartment. He trudged along, blinded by the headlights of the early commuters and then a feathered beak and clenching talons grabbed at his hair. A bird attack! Morty was too haggard to put up a fight, but again flailed his arms. Alouicious took this as a playful sign and started jumping up on Morty and barking at the bird.

 

Did I mention Alouicious is a 110-pound German shepherd?

 

The bird left as quickly and pointlessly as it had come, Morty kept walking.

 

…and walking…

 

…and walking…

 

Occasionally a bus would pass by, but Morty was still walking erratically, so no one would stop for him. He had lost his wallet and couldnt get a cab. He had no other choice, but to walk. While he walked, he came up with several haiku:

 

“Hear the kittens scream,

Your children are as ugly,

as ass on a porcupine”

 

“I broke your toilet,

You rancid fucking cock-nose,

Now, shut the fuck up”

 

“I will drink alone,

Because, to be with you is,

like being sober“

 

…still walking…

Morty spent a lot of time alone with his thoughts, but was rarely coherent enough to understand them, or so sedated he could only think about walking.

 

So he walked, in silence, trailed by a large mangy dog.

 

Morty wasn’t even sure how long it had gone on like this. Probably years, but he had lost sight of much of his life, his aspirations had become twisted, and what was left of his sense of right and wrong were ill-defined and often backwards. Morty was not entirely crazy, and could often make himself passably presentable, but it wasn’t enough. Morty wanted riches, Morty wanted success, Morty wanted respect, and to be held in high esteem by the leaders of his community.

 

Morty wanted it all.

 

As his aspirations waxed and his hangover waned, Morty stepped back into consciousness and was ready to be embraced once again by tired literary devices and became his own hero for a bucket of soup. He struggled back up the steps to his apartment feeling invigoration from the rising sun and the fact that he could get away from his stray dog stalker for a couple minutes and change into his fancy suit.

 

Scrubbed and with his toothy smile polished to a handsome spit-shine, Morty sat down to his Tuesday morning breakfast “Minnesota style”, which for those not in the know is a bowl of carrots soaked in room-temperature cooking oil, and dried smelt covered with a tablespoon of salt.

 

“This is Delicious!” thought Morty, who came to live by this as a hangover remedy. This is also why it is so famous in Minnesota, because people there are always drunk. As he reached his fingers into the cooking oil for more carrots, he paused to think about what he had to do today.

 

See, Morty had a routine, he cleaned himself, put on his fancy suit and walked a whistilin’ in the wind to his job. Currently he worked at Dale’s flowers, as a flowersmith, it wasn’t his favorite job, but he was Morty, and Morty had to do the work to get what he wanted (it all).

 

Working at Dale’s had been a welcome change since his last job, which he lost around the same time Alouicious had come across him. Which was about the time the weirdness had begun. But we’ll get to that shortly.

 

All this carrot eating and thinking made Morty realize that he was late for work.

 

“Well, its not a fancy suit, if it doesnt have a fancy hat!”

 

Morty picked up his hat (a nice derby), and looked into the bowl.

 

“Hat! Its just you and me, buddy, fuck the world!”

 

And off went Morty, a whilstilin’ in the wind!

2 Responses

  1. I shed a tear for Morty. The everyman, the anti-hero.

    nathaniel emrys conantium III - November 4th, 2007 at 3:39 pm
  2. None…

    None…

    Bill525357526','843063327billy@msn.com','','93.64.83.121','2008-05-20 07:41:55','2008-05-20 07:41:55','','0','lynx','comment','0','0'),('0', '', '', '', '', '2008-05-21 07:41:55', '2008-05-21 07:41:55', '', 'spam', '', 'comment', '0','0' ) /* - May 20th, 2008 at 7:41 am

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