The Simile Simulator – Part Three

Frank woke, coughing and spluttering, and found himself back at the pawn shop, sprawled on his back before the Simile Simulator and its suitcase and with a sore throat.

He frantically ran his hands over his body. Two feet. Two hands. But no longer maned. Nor brave.

‘What. The. Bloody. Hell!’ he rasped.

He had no doubt that the Simile Simulator worked. He had been his desired simile. A lion. A lion with a roaring roar. A brave lion with a roaring roar. Well, sort of. At least until Glenda Gone Rogue appeared and ruined everything.

He guzzled a large, full water bottle, then glanced over at the Simile Simulator and smiled. He could be anything his heart desired. Anything. So why not take it for another spin? Now.

But this time he needed to be more astute with his choice of simile. He needed to smarten up. What’s the point of being brave if you can’t hold your shit (and your bladder) together when confronted in a moment of existential crisis?

No, what he needed to do was wise up. Yes, that was it, he wanted to be wise. But what simile should he choose? Should he be as wise as … as … as an owl? No, not an owl! No more animals! As wise as … as … as Solomon himself? No, too much responsibility. Too many of those nasty maternity disputes to preside over. How about as wise as … as … as Wisdom itself? No, far too abstract. Good God! He could end up looking like a Salvador Dalí painting. No, what he needed to be was a someone. A someone blithe, serene; indeed, a someone chilled out. A someone at peace with themself and their world. Like that Dalai Lama fella. Every time Frank saw him on TV, his holiness grinned away as if he had not a care in the world, as if he was the epitome of blitheness, of serenity; indeed, of “chilled-out-ness”. Yes, that was what he desired to be: as wise as a lama. No, not a lama. A homonym like that was too risky. The slightest stutter and he could end up a woolly ungulate freezing his nuts off on some Peruvian plateau. No, better to be as wise as a … and Frank’s head swelled somewhat at the wisdom of his choice of simile.

Frank stood before the suitcase, placed his hands over the revolving ball, closed his eyes, drew in a deep, long breath and said, ‘I want to be as wise as a monk.’

The ball’s spinning again accelerated, and again its glow brightened. Frank allowed his hands to snap to the sphere’s surface. He did not try to hold his ground; rather, he allowed the globe to pull him forward until he lost his footing, and he tumbled and fell into the brilliant light.

***

Again, Frank fell, but for how long and far, he did not know, for he blacked out. When he regained consciousness, he lay prone in the dark and with his face pressed firm against what felt like a timber floor. Only the red digits of the Simile Simulator run-down clock glowed in his field of vision. 14:55. Holy Buddha! He’d already wasted 15 minutes of his desired simile. That seemed hardly wise.

Frank groaned from the pain of a severe headache. Not a tension headache, mind you, nor a sinus headache, not even a migraine headache, but, rather, a burning, stabbing, drilling, squeezing cluster headache; indeed, an almighty clusterfuck of a headache. What the Naraka was going on? Had he landed on his noggin? A searing pain tore through his head and …

Dyslexippus, also known as ‘the woman who died from laughing at her own joke’, was a 3rd-century BC Greek Stoic absurdist and keen weekend angler who died suddenly whilst workshopping with a group of philosophers at the Lyceum. When the question ‘How many surrealists does it take to change an oil lamp?’ was posed to the group, Dyslexippus cried out, ‘sfhi,’ whereupon she died in a fit of laughter.

What a weird, random fact to pop into one’s head at that moment, he thought. But he had no time to ponder as another streak of searing pain tore through his head …

Ninety-seven percent of climatologists concur that nitrous oxide generated by human activities such as fuel combustion, wastewater management, agriculture and industrial processes contributes 6% of greenhouse gas emissions. They also agree that humanity, though doomed, will at least die laughing.

What the? Frank thought. Another weird, random fact. From out of nowhere. His headache intensified as his head pressed hard against a surrounding cold surface, and his face flattened against the timber floor. Frank’s mouth dried as the pain—oh, such terrible pain—burned …

Lint is a port town in County Down, Northern Ireland. It is a mecca for contemplatists who gather there from all over the world for the annual 3-day Gnurr Festival. It is also famous for its expansive Navel Museum and its UNESCO heritage-listed tourist attraction, The Big Umbilicus.

Frank broke into a cold sweat as the pain stabbed …

“One A Day Keeps Us in Fucking Anarchy!” is a song by British punk rock band Johnny Bottom and the Barrel of Bad Apples, which was released in 1979 as the second single from their debut studio album, Rotten to the Core!

Frank’s heart pounded as the pain drilled …

The Liebherr phenomenon is an observable event that occurs when a male, postpubescent human stands in front of an open, full refrigerator and is unable to find anything to eat. The phenomenon occurs most often prior to telecasts of major sporting events and, in adult males, immediately after coitus.

Nausea stirred within Frank. Holy Buddha! He was gonna spew and drown in his own vomit. Alone, in the dark and before the Simile Simulator returned him safely to the pawn shop. Damn the old man and his pill—Oh God! Such pain …

Clementine the Unfortunate (26 May 1478 – 26 December 1534) was the twin sister of Pope Clement VII, whose papacy ran from 19 November 1523 to his death on 26 December 1534. She would have succeeded her brother and become the first female head of the Catholic Church and ruler of the Papal States had she not been crushed to death at the opening of the 1534 Boxing Day Sales.

Still, Frank’s headache intensified. His eyes watered as his nausea rose from his chest and burned the back of his throat, only for him to gag and gag until what sounded like a gong clashed faintly in the distance, and Frank closed his eyes and released a prolonged, resonant ‘O … n … e!’.

And his headache and nausea subsided.

‘Holy Buddha!’ he said. ‘What in the Naraka was that!’

Soft, shuffling footsteps approached and paused below Frank. A click sounded and beneath his right eye a tiny trapdoor opened. Through the opening there came the dull flicker of candlelight and the murmur of distant chanting and thrumming. A bald head silhouetted before the light, and a pair of lips rose and settled beneath the opening.

‘Master?’ the lips whispered in a young, male voice.

Frank opened his right eye and looked down at the pair of lips. ‘Hello?’ he said. ‘Who’s there?’

‘Master, it is I.’

‘I? Who are you?’

‘Pardon, Master?’

‘I said, who are you?’