PDHugh Bach (theriteofspring) wrote in otyugh_nation,
PDHugh Bach

Ann Rinds' Store

"I'll have it for sixty-five nods then", says the long haired hippie, in an attempt to barter with the shopkeeper who happens to be Ann Rind. "It ez volly to dizregard ze evidenz phrovided by yur senses!", Ann Rind responds, speaking with a perfect Russian accent. "zis zign makes ze price blain and cleahr. A yjar of biickled feet khost zeventy and a haf nodz." The long-haired dude gives up and starts nodding. On the thirtieth nod, the shopkeeper raps "Zoo that last von again! Unless my eyes betchray me, and they never do, I mean, just look at my eyes. Their eagle-like piercing radiance certainly eemply zat they're backed vy vormidable eentellect and perceptive abilities. Unless my eyes betchray me, your chin deed not touch yoor neck on zat las tsarry atteempt of a nod". While vigorously nodding, the hippie mutters "I don't have time for this.... wait, actually, I do. I'm too free-loving to not have time." and smiles at this.

Nods are the currency of Stag Nation, wherever it is accepted. So really, nods could at some time, not be accepted anywhere. That is not the case at the moment, as the residents of Stag Nation have nodded away transactions peacefully for ages. Or so I've been told. By a very trustable source! That some he once knew speculated upon this fact. Ahem. I think the long haired hippie will finish nodding by the time you finish reading this sentence. Ah, here we go.

The hippie finishes nodding. "Dank you. Come again", Ann Rind said with such a brilliant timbre, she almost applauded. The hippie picks up the jar and leaves.

As he leaves the door, Ann Rind lets out another piercing Russianized shriek "Ahrem!". The hippie keeps his smile and his gait. "Iz zeems. No. It ez zertain zat you haf mistaken me for a jyar of biickled feet. Take me bvack!"

The hippie snorts "I'm certain I took the jar because I reached for where I left it."

Ann skorts "I moved the jyar. Now, does the evidence of your zenses not betray your carrying me? Vat iz this if not my voice from the jar?"

The hippie skoffs "You could be following me from underneath, you pervert."

"Vor ze zake of ze lack of god! Look zown and see vor yourself!"

"Why? So when I bend over, you can take pictures underneath my billowing kilt?"

"Zoo I look like ze type off person who'd do zat? I mean, look at my piercing eyes"

The hippie keeps his gaze, smile, and direction of his gaze. "Someone with eyes that could discern anything, perhaps with a photographic memory behind them? You are a pervert."

"Kant you just axume eetizz me?"

"When you axume, you make an ax out of you and me"

Today is a wonderful day to be out in Stag Nation. Flowers are blooming. At least the non-sentient ones are. Some of the sentient ones aren't blooming, because the bees annoy them. They're rare though, because avoiding bees leads to lack of pollination. Lack of pollination leads to lack of seeds being fertilized. Lack of seeds being fertilized leads to this particular type of flower not bursting open violently, spewing its seeds everywhere. Lack of bursting open violently, spewing seeds everywhere leads to this particular type of flower being rare. Were I writing a bible, the cynics would cut out the sentence before this one as the prime example of a curiously seemingly blatantly contradictory statement. I'm trying my best to gather broad appeal here. Back to today, a wonderful day. A road cuts through a plain of brilliant rolling green, spotted by mushrooms, flowers and a convenience store, and a spiral. Each loop of the spiral is precisely ten feet away from the previous loop. There are currently three loops in the spiral, the path of which sparkles when the plain rolled. At one end of the spiral is a convenience store. A very healthy set of vines is achieving victory over a side of the store, plowing through flaky paint and wood at the speed of the pollination of flowers. Several ladybugs and black beetles with delicate wings reside in these vines. On the other end of the spiral is a hippie with long hair, wearing a kilt, carrying a hurricane lamp which is, to the tactile senses, nearly identical to jars of pickled feet, sold at a convenience store three loops of a spiral away. The hippie noticed the flowers, even the sentient ones, the brilliant rolling plains, mushrooms, the vines on the side of the convenience store and even the ladybugs and beetles, who are currently auctioning off individual vines in which to reside at only a few dozen nods apiece. The contents of the hurricane lamp failed to notice the sentient flowers, ladybugs, rolling plains, but she did notice the vines creeping up her store. And the mushrooms. And the cow and silly but aesthetically pleasing man with the frills beside the mushrooms. More specifically, the smiling cow, doing ballet and man, who is trying to smoke a mushroom in a ridiculous, but aesthetically pleasing performance.

Ann Rind realises she is fighting a losing battle. She realises that her straightforward nearly one-dimensional approach at justifying her needs simply can't be grasped by long-haired hippies with kilts with roundabout methods. She realizes this as the fiftieth loop of the spiral is forming. Now, as the fifty-first loop is forming, she conforms to the hippies' conditions. The spiral stops forming and the path of a very specific hurricane lamp is that of a line. This line happens to be the shortest distance between two points, one being the convenience store and the other being the end of an impressive sparkling spiral. At every other loop they pass, the hippie says "who da man?". At every other other loop, a thick Russian accent exclaims "You ze man".

Off in the distance, a cow attempts to jump over the moon, but only succeeds, on the fiftieth try, in jumping on a man, whose appearance has changed because either this text has been converted into a graphic novel and the artist is incompetent, or because ones' opinion of that which is aesthetically pleasing is temperamental, but this is still the same man since he's still trying to smoke a mushroom, despite being underneath a cow. Were that cow to actually jump on the moon, he would probably pass by an amateur astronaut, barely in orbit, and about to mistakenly plug a fuel line into the oxygen tank because he has an irrational fear of spirals. He will soon be relinquished of this fear in fifty seconds as by then, his space ship starts to travel on a path, that of a spiral. Someone somewhere not too close by to any of these characters, someone I haven't mentioned until now writes down in a small notebook that an astronaut owes a hippie with long hair for relinquishing his former irrational fear of spirals. Well, okay, not to confuse anyone, but this someone I haven't mentioned is not the author of this long string of text, nor is it any witty fool who has read this who is trying to get credit by copying it down either.

After you have finished reading this long string of letters, or have had this long string of letters read to you, you owe the author a nod, according to trustable sources.
  • Post a new comment


    default userpic

    Your IP address will be recorded