HTB Chronicills - Derelict Optimus Narcoticus (DON)

This is Part 2 of 2, please read 

Sherlock Homeless

DON Harold had just landed and made his way down the concourse into a barrage of flashing cameras, jubilant dignitaries, and nodding degenerates. A giant banner stretched across the arrivals terminal which read, 

“Welcome Harold to Narcoleptic, Catatonia”.

A short, inebriated man who Harold assumed to be the mayor of Narcoleptic primarily due to the man's “I'm the Mayor” T-shirt, bowed as Harold approached or maybe he was carpet sharking. Harold watched the man pick at the small bits of fiber, paper, cigarette butts, gently used condoms, and stains on the carpet. Carpet sharking. He was definitely carpet sharking.

The sound of the cheering crowd  began to wane and Harold noticed a sense of dismay begin to rise in the unsober masses. Looking back at the Mayor he noticed the man’s neck craned to the side, the one visible eye looking up expectantly at Harold. 

Harols puzzled over the mayors odd behavior for a few seconds that were easily 11 minutes in total. His brain cells scrambled in preparation to go online, but Harold never engaged the dilapidated board with a nail in it to spur the cells into… uhm… I guess “action” would be the right word in most cases, but there is no word in the English language for the surly, begrudging, and lackluster performance of Harold’s amazingly toxin resistant brain cells brothers when prodded by a 16 penny sinker nail. In order to capture their full potential, a string of adjectives and  cumbersome analogy was necessary.

Yes, the mayor was still eyeing Harold and had been for quite the extended increment of time with increasing unease the entire time.The crowd had thinned considerably, but the remnant's cheers had morph into murmers of unrest and Harold was... was... oh, shiny thingy... distracted by a small shiny object hypnotically glinting on the floor that was so obviously a ball of burnt foil at his feet. Harold bent over to pick it up and the crowd cheered in a loud roar of approval. Unbeknownst to Harold, tandem carpet sharking was the Catatonian equivalent of a kiss on alternate cheeks exchanged between heads of state, dignitaries, and those in a romantic relationship deep enough to share Hep C.

As Harold proceeded down the reception line, he noticed a smokey looking fellow in a fez cap. “Hey, genie dude! How's it going?”, Harold excitedly called out as genie’s familiar face assumed the same impatient scowl that Harold would have remembered had he not been a gelatinous pile of seeping goo at a mystifying Winnebago recital.

The genie’s booming voice shook the ground, “I’ve been homeless for over a year since you recycled my lamp for thirty-four fucking cents, asshole!”

“Hey, me too!” Harold spat back, amazed by the coincidence that he and the smokable one had shared the same path. It's a small world after all with a triple-shit loader of bums.

“Let's get together later. I brought my tooter!” Harold shouted over the crowd holding up the brown goop dripping tube. The genie shook his head in disgust/ disbelief/ disgrunt and disappeared in a puff of the good stuff.

Harold was directed to a podium sporting half a dozen microphone shaped hash vaporizers or maybe they were actual microphones. The massive amount of narcotics he had sampled from the in-flight buffet were reaching cruising altitude. 

A hypnotic four minutes later Harold had drooled over the entire podium and delivered three rousing incoherent grunting sounds. 

The crowd was equally snurggled for the fa-fa-fa, you know what I… what? Let's go snorkeling!

The crowd looked at each other trying to decipher if this was a genuine invitation or if it bore some deeply psychedelic symbolism. When they had nearly forgotten Harold was present and what they were doing gathered here,  they heard a deafening shout...

“Snurggled for the snorkeling!”, Harold suddenly screamed as he raised his head from the pidium like a newborn sloth with down's syndrome. 

The audience immediately went wild with bewilderment. Then a thick impenetrable fog rolled in and Harold's cranium came to rest on the podium with a resounding amplified CAA-RACK!

Braincell #1 - Jesus Christ! What the hell was that resounding amplified CAA-RACK sound?!

Braincell #2 - [Looking incredulous] Have you ever thought about talking to someone about these things you hear?

Braincell #1 - I just did. What the hell was that?

Braincell #2 - No, I mean someone more... eh... professional. Someone who might be able to work through your issue with these audible hallucinations.

Braincell #1 - [Working into hysteria] What issue? You're the deaf one. What the hell are you insinuating? You think I'm crazy. You're the one who's crazy! You can't hear these obviously... 

Braincell #2 - [Withdrawing the thorazine syringe from Braincell #1's cell wall] There, there now. Shhhh. All better, now. I have some very nice white blood cells in white coats coming to take you to a nice place where everyone will hear your sounds. 

Braincell #1 - [Fading into the fog] Snurggled for the snorkeling! 

Braincell #2 - [With pity] He was bound to go fucking nuts like the others, eventually. It's so sad. Perhaps, if he had the grounding effect of a loving mildew collection things would have been different.

A generous double nap time later Harold was in his private 5-star hotel dumpster enjoying the lobster Newburg mixed with rice pilaf and marbled with piney styrene pellets. Delicious!

Aw, man that's not styrene! It's a well tenderized urinal cake. Wow! A breath freshening dessert served within a seafood entrée.  These high falutin Catatonians’ had perfected the sine qua non of bum cuisine.

After a long day of rubbing persistent skin lesions on elbows with the losers and shaky of too high to function in society, Harold retired to the penthouse suite of the tallest bridge in all of Catatonia. While slipping between the sheets of the newly pressed pages of the Narcoleptic Post-Mortem , Harold realized that he hadn't been this popular since the last time he was in the papers.

Harold drowned off into a fitful stupor, and thought… well, he tried to think… he got a busy signal, and then nothing.

Harold lifted his head like a poorly balanced potato sack atop the head of a newborn sloth with down's syndrome only to slam it back down on the extra painful table. The cranial percussion echoed through his head.

Braincell #2 - Jesus Christ! Not me too!

Harold was jarred back to a distorted and poorly interpreted version of reality where he caught a few garbled syllables of a  mumbled phrase.

“What?”, Harold reflexively replied through a sulfurous belch.

“I said, No shit Sherlock.”, the young lad's voice answered clearly.

“Sherlock? That reminds me of a the time Harold donned his tweed deerstalker cap…”, Harold droned on.

The boy shook his head and pretended to listen while he was really focused on his ACT studies. If he was accepted to Stanford he would settle to escape the endless loop of Harold the Bum stories. The application process was two hours shorter than Harvard.

Sometimes one must sacrifice quality for the sake of fucking brevity. One of the valuable life lessons the boy had learned by distillation from the mummy man who droned on nearly semi coherently in the background.