Bugs Of Dhoooooooooom by Timothy W. Long

(The following is a story my good friend and co-author Tim Long wrote for me on my thirty third birthday. What a cool dude, right?)

Bugs of Dhoooooooooom



The day Mr. MoOn died was a fine one indeed. Not even a summers eve douche commercial could match it’s brilliance. From chirping cicadas to neighbors - who for once, did not require any help moving items around their house – leaving Mr. MoOn to his own devices.


McDonalds was out of the question. Our crack-mac-daddy of dhoom required a breakfast of sustenance. Thus, he arose to an eerily quite house and set about making the largest pile of Belgian Waffles the county had ever seen. The plan, such that it was, involved blending the ingredients in his bathtub. Unfortunately, his last batch of LSD had been created here. Yes, his wacky tik-taky’s, his trip, his dots of love, mixed with the batter.


Son of a bitch Leon had been by. Probably that very night. Ghosted in like he owned the place. Mr. MoOn’s traps were nothing to this man. There existed a school of secretive men in Koga – Shiga Prefecture, Japan that didn’t possess half the prowess that Leon did. They would weep at his fleet footedness, toss shuriken like popcorn at his fleeing form and yet none would ever be the wiser to his passing.


The waffles were prepared and set out on a eighty seven foot long table. Towns people came from near and far to partake. They brought a collection of honeys, syrups, and toppings of various girths, like a tidal wave of sweets. They rolled in, backed across his lawn, tore up tulips and daisys, cut down trees to make room, and even used the house across the street as a giant shitter.


Fun and games it was. Love and beer flowed like urine at a portapotty in Bangladesh. Chicken nuggets were brought in on a flat bread truck to join the waffle convention. A dump truck filled with gravy joined the hijinks. Mr. MoOn slaved over the hot griddle until it was night fall. Exhausted to his very core, he finally went outside to consider his constituents.


They lay in piles, sat in clumps, and ran in naked gangs that abused the wildlife in the area. A crafty raccoon saw the writing on the wall and high tailed it to the roof. He set up a video camera and sent the feed directly to Fox News who latched onto it like a junkie with a fresh bag of heroin.


The orgy started at midnight and ended in blood. MoOn, for his part, had grown tired of cooking Belgium Waffles one at a time. He heated a brick of aluminum to the point of melting, then shaped it into a giant circle and used the old waffle iron to stamp little nubs in it. As it flattened it grew until the new waffle iron took up then entire floor.


The revelers, upon learning of a new batch of super waffles, abandoned beating the shit out of each other to join together in a mass psychosis dream of forty foot tall grasshoppers. MoOn grew wise to the hallucinations and popped a series of pills to offset the images. Uppers, downers, sidwaysers. He finished it off with a cake of hash the size of a gold bar and promptly passed out.


Bathed in waffle batter, honey, syrup and massive piles of powdered sugar (more than once mistaken for cocaine), the party goers, led by a one armed monkey, scampered into the city proper and ate most of it.


Mr. MoOn woke a few moments later to a scene of devastation. His city burned. Flames rose into the night painting the sky a patina of randy hues. Across this nightscape strode things from nightmares. Grasshoppers the size of sky scrapers marched to the beat of a Ramstein dirge. The noise pulsed against the air as did the howl of party goers as they were consumed by the waffle seeking bugs.


Upon eating all the partygoers, the grasshoppers started on Mr. MoOn’s house. They ate the chimney, then the roof. They went at a bedroom and then patio. They found the kitchen and lowered arm sized extruders to lap at the batter - which didn’t last long.



This meant that they also found the trace amounts of bathtub LSD and consumed it.


Then, with visions of headless unicorns emoting rainbows and broken dreams from their asses, the grasshoppers consumed Mr. MoOn and his marvelous waffle maker. Leon watched from a shadow the size of a postage stamp. He cackled with glee and then faded into the night on ghost feet.


Then the grasshoppers started on the rest of Idaho.