Shane sat under the ill-fated moon, casually glancing... occaisionally looking at the canoe. Nothing sexual mind you, just some casual canoe glimpses. Occaisionally he walked over to the canoe and felt it... or rubbed it. He rubbed the canoe a little. Not a lot, just enough to affect his breathing. As the night went on Shane got a little bit wild, and began hanging around with the cats, and smoking them... and began to consider the idea of getting in the canoe. Nothing that would usually go through his head, just sort of a sort of thing.
Shane got in the canoe. A man appeared in front of him. Shane looked him up and down, nothing sexual mind you. He made sure the man was real, made sure he didn't have any embarrasing scars, the usual things. Shane sized him up to be pretty well a bastard.
"Hey Shane. I notice you're in a canoe," he squealed. "You're one to talk, pal, so shut up, okay?" "Shane, c'mon. What's with the canoe? You deserve better than this."
"It's my canoe y'know, so have some common decency. At least I have some common decency which is more than you can say 'cause ya don't."
The man started throwing his heads off and throwing them at Shane, which made Shane upset because he was losing valuable hit points. Then he changed... and he was wearing a robe. But Shane didn't think it was too becoming so he took it off. The man was really embarrased. Shane offered the man a cigarette. The man decided since he couldn't have clothing he might as well have a cigarette [Y'know, that old philosophy that they have down in Texas... you HAVE been to Texas haven't you? Oh my god. You haven't been to Texas. You heathen. I.. g-, j-.. ].
Anyhow, he accepted the cigarette and began smoking while casually rubbing his back up against the brick wall, trying not to rip off all his flesh or anything, just casually rubbing up and down the wall. Little shards of his flesh fell upon the ground. After a while, blood stains appeared on his shirt and on the wall. The hours lead to days, and he started to dissolve... his innards slowly ripped apart... the crowds began screaming. The press was there saying "Why is this psychotic man doing this. We think he must have had a very bad childhood, involving one too many piano keys."
The man said, "Okay, these are my romantic exploits, are you happy? Is everyone happy?" It was like he was trying to please everyone, like some Victorian nymph. He ripped apart basically, his remains laid in a pile of charred, obscure, plentiful flesh lying on the asphalt just waiting for some nearby Toyota to scoop up in some fit of Romanian ecstacy.
All this time Shane was in the canoe of course. The man who Shane knew by no name other than Bastard was dead. A passing Mongol inquired what purpose the first chapter had served.
"Look, its not a congruently flowing story, different things happen, there could even be flashbacks." Shane thought back. His seventh year. A good year. He was eating cake, when suddenly, no! Wait! Who's that man with the pig? No! Mommy? Help! Shane slapped himself back into reality. Shane bit the Mongol's throat.
"Cut it out. Cut it out!", cried the Mongol unhappily.
"No, you deserve it.", replied Shane demonically. About three hours later Shane had worn away most of the throat. He was about to dive in for the final plunge when suddenly this arrogant woman with a harp started to harass him. Shane was really caught off guard. She smelled of French- African cologne. She had that certain wistfulness about her that one can ONLY find in a Siberian.
About this time the canoe started to rise in the air, and Shane figured "Hey! A little mountainside hunting can't hurt anyone!" So, he reached into his leg and pulled out this barrage of bullets [You have barrages of bullets, I'm sure]. He started firing it at the mountainside. Sure enough, he hit it. Shane was really proud of himself, like some Norman rugby played who had just conquered Spain in a fit of frenzied wanderlust. He was feeling like a pretty big man, like some elk molesting son of an oxen-stabber. It was a centre of the earth kind of thing, how the centre of the earth must feel. That's right... hot.
Shane decided about this time that it was time for him to become an Inuit. So he started paddling up towards Baffin Island [Baffin Island is the MAIN Inuit conversion centre, despite the rumours in Sudbury]. He was just generally doing the thing with the stuff, and an Inuit guy came up to him.
Shane said to him, "So, how many different words do you have for snow?" The inuit replied, "187 billion." "Not bad. I have 30987 billion to the exponent pi."
The inuit man was flabbergasted. Shane watched as his cheeks exhaled air from what little cavern was within his body. His lungs were just pumping like mother fucking blanket weavers. Anyhow, after he'd exhaled enough steam to make a locomotive jealous, Shane decided to let him in on his little secret.
Shane told the Iniut man that snow was an abstract concept, not embodying the physical substance. About this time Shane got to deep for him and the Iniut man's brain exploded. Shane decided to pick up the chunky bits, and he added them to the healthy collection of Spanish monarchs that he kept in his basement for later reference.
Shane decided to sit down on a nearby log... and sit down on a nearby log he did. He wondered about the card family. Why didn't they just call jacks, kings and queens 11's, 12's and 13's? It would make everything so much easier. And why only those particular double digit numbers as the special ones? Why not make them all special? He considered the Catholic Church's position. They would likely reply that since the numbers were higher they deserved a higher ranking. Shane would counter that 10 has no special ranking. The Catholic Church would probably reply that 10 represented the oppressed upper classes. To which Shane would counter the old Jack/royalty question [I'm sure you're familar with THAT]. The Pope would then yell "FINE!" Heheh... little did he know about the swastika on his back, planted by advisors from the dark continent in Shane's backyard.
Shane cringed at the thought of his midnight warriors, with their black lacy panties secretly sneaking out from behind the barn where they performed their satanic cheese rituals. Stealing over towards the Pope's laundry room, where he did strange things involving spheres and juice. Shane laughed... tediously, like some pale black lunch box. Shane said to the Pope "One".
"You know I don't speak English, this isn't fair," whined the Pope. "You're doing just fine," Shane lied.
The pope said 'spaghetti' or 'sardine' or one of those Italian words, and Shane said "Sure. Admit it." Shane pulled out the Pope's tongue, scratched off the sign paper and began to perform basic quadratic equations on his slippery if somewhat satanic, tongue. The Pope seemed rather amused, perhaps one percentage point TOO amused, if it is possible for a Pope to be such a way [which I highly doubt].
Thus, Shane's canoe began to veer to the right. To the right lay a cloud. Shane had never experienced a cloud before [not meaning anything sexual]. As Shane entered the cloud a fine mist fell over him [Not too fine. Not fine at all. Actually, it sucked]. It was the worst mist Shane had ever experienced, and he was a real mist connoisseur. He wandered around the world gathering various mists from baths, showers, saunas, Holland... and compared them on a sensational vagabond, and allowed them to filter themselves out naturally as they respond to the biostates of the chemical origins of the hyperbolic yet somewhat persuasive (if not endeavouring) peraptitude which tends to have this special little tick.
Shane decided that Algeria was the place for he. There he descended with the grace of a thousand black swans as the ancient Egyptian population slowly chanted "We want more.. we want more.." But no, Shane couldn't let that happen so he foreclosed on the mortgage allowing the hotels to explode with the fury of African women.
Shane took over Algeria. He had a theory about taking over countries which he called Moonyaism. He established himself in one town, then began to accumulate hay [straw.. genrally classified in the Dead Grass family of small African Rodentia]. And he began to fill the streets with hay, barring substantial automotive transit. The cars became clogged up and stayed there. The owners got out and turned to crime and pregnancy as their only two solutions. They hated Shane. This was good, bcause they were low-life scum. And when low-life scum hates you, you are befriended by high-life scum. Shane began to be invited to all the high-life scum parties. While at the high-life scum houses, he wandered into the washrooms and stole the false teeth which naturally they had taken out for the party to savour that 'gummy' look. Shane became part of the high-life scum upper (egg) class. He took the false teeth and subliminally painted with faint greys and beiges, "KILL ME". Thus, when they talked to someone, the victim would continually see the words "KILL ME". Somewhere in the back of their mind [like oh.. say.. THE NINTH PART], something clicks and they kill the person they're speaking to. Thus, he pulls out the handy-dandy sword that he always keeps installed in the left part of his pelvis, and jauntily inserts it into the person while calculating pi to the 76th decimal place [yes.. the tricky one]. Then they are humiliated and forced to resign from politics. Politics? Did someone say politics?
Anyhow, yes. Then once all the high-life scum are gone, all the peasants are forced to vote for Shane because hey! Let's face it. Faces will always vote for high-life scum. This is just the way it's done; they're ain't no two bits about it, Sassy [You don't mind if I call you Sassy do you? I didn't think you would]. So anyhow, Shane took over Algeria and began to amass great piles of hay which greatly impressed the bird population of the continent known as Europe. They began to flock to Shane's house in great numbers. They disapproved of Shane's wallpaper. He tried to explain to them "No!", but they're birds and birds always disagree. He decided it would be best if his small bird friends were not alive, so he told them to paint over it with the Liqui-Lustre Passion (egg) Orange colour that they all seem to favour so greatly in Budapest. The birds (being birds) fell for it. He spread bird-poison goop on the wallpaper, and when they began to tear down the wallpaper they began to die.. a lot.
The bird's smiling carcasses were strewn about Shane's floor, and you of all people know how embarrasing that can be. Just then, the queen began to knock on the door almost incestuously. Shane savagely put his mouth through the mail slot, the queen did likewise, it was instant magic. They both had snake tongues. Only his was a boa and her's was an anaconda. And her's won, and Shane was dead.
Anyhow, it was Algeria, nothing to brag about (looks good on a resume'). The orientals were coming around trying to do sick things, like dress up like grissle and hop around in a frying pan (as if to impress me) (like I'm a southern businessman in the FIRST place) [Sorry I shouldn't have said that, I forgot about your mother]. Shane decided to call them very mean names. One day he decided to call someone a name that would make them tremble, and scream, and ruin everything. He, his community, his nation. "You overall strap," cried Shane. The orientals reacted, and did several things I'd rather not talk about involving pasta. It was perverse, like some alcoholic rally in favour of vice grip 97 [my LEAST FAVORITE vice grip].
My canoe began to rise like hot air, and decided that THIS time we were going to the continent of Europe. Which continent of Europe, you ask? The one to the north of Africa. The canoe couldn't take the stress. Shane fell into a large volleyball pit, and became quite a celebrity there, with his stubborn paunch and his never-ending quilt of celebrations. They quickly adopted him and treated him as their own. Shane decided it was about time he gave something back to the community, so he gave birth to a small woman who he named IsabELLe. He raised IsabELLe from infancy and soon grew quite efficient in his properous regime. He quickly ministered her tender, weeping yet somewhat sinful nerve endings, and began to finance the white blood cells which were splitting so repetively in her faint yet morose blood veins. At about age 23 I decided that she was going to be female, so I let her set up a camp. It was a tenting thing (so you've GOT to understand it). She set up about 20 (thousand) tents in a small secluded field just outside Paris. About this time a large fat lawyer exploded somewhere in Austrailia, but that was completely unrelated so I won't even bother mentioning it [oh damn, I did]. Shane let IsabELLe run her camp with the strong handed will of a subterreanean menace, and she soon began to run it the way SHE wanted, not caring in the least what Lake Geneva thought of the entire situation. After about 4 years, several young people began to filter into the camp with the speed of mighty fast things. Unfortunately, they were all very susceptable to polio, as they found out later in life when they all died.
Shane reached into IsabELLe's ear and began to gently tug. He was horrified as he saw that the entire continent of Asia had been hibernating inside her mind for the past 97 years. A crowd gathered and Shane dismissed them [They went on to lead happy but somewhat frightening lives].
Shane wondered how much water had been circulating through his body during the course of his life. He eventually calculated it to be quite a bit, but he couldn't express it as a fraction of the whole. He began to feel... what's the word... when all the skin is two inches too long, and people are throwing hot llama at you and undiscovered races are migrating between your sinus cavities, and you have this feeling that some big wooly creature is about to do something extremely sadistic in Sweden? Y'know? Shane decided to devote his life to find something besides syrup to put on waffles and pancakes. Butter? Never. Shane had a vision of walking into a large black room (painted grey) and becoming the Atlantic Ocean. It would involve a LOT of molecule spreading. [Keep in mind that this is the future, when there is no Atlantic Ocean... like now, but not].
A small Thailand person (I shan't call him a Thai... he doesn't deserve it) waltzed up to Shane, so Shane shot him. Shane began to swing from vine to vine, and found by 1993 most of his limbs had fallen off, except his arms and legs. About this time a huge marble-wielding warrior came up and offered Shane a bit of a saloon. Actually, it was an entire saloon. Shane refused on the grounds that France was something of a colony itself. She looked at Shane slyly and Shane looked at her VERY slyly, but she looked back with the slyness of a shepherd who had eaten 88 lemons, single-handedly. Shane had no respect for her.
At this point, the story ceased to be about Shane, and became an epic of stomach acid. Shane still rules as lord of Algeria, France and Asia. He has a nice wallet.