The walk to the video store was becoming more and more lonely for him. He kicked along an empty Solo can as he whistled. The song was free and loose and matched the spring evening air. His knuckles hovered off the ground. The enormous weight hunched his body forward as if two giant hams were stitched to the end of his arms. As Graham read the last sentence he drooled in awe of having two giant hams at the end of his limbs which, for the interest of the reader, currently held aloft 3 footlong meatball subs, half a pizza and bucket of chicken. Snack time.
Along the path were littered chocolate wrappers, smashed beer bottles and condom packets. His mind was cast back to his amorous encounter with the Cockie Monster. Num, num, num. The voice growled in his mind. His body being molested by a woman whose idea of sexuality was framed somewhere between Sex & The City and Pretty Woman. That Hollywood sexualisation of ageing women which has managed to con them into believing that promiscuity equates to some sort of sexual revolution. After this divergence of thought away from the Monster he looked down and saw the dying throws of an erection within his jean shorts or jorts as they have become colloquially known. Or, and perhaps most importantly, regarded as formal attire by Geoff.
The jorts strained at the zipper and subsided with the resignation of the tide against a breakwall littered with Asian rock fisherman. The same Asian rock fisherman that believed a lack of ability to swim, a 10 ft pole with nylon string and some seafood entrees was tantamount to an extreme sport. The same kind of extreme sport that Craig enjoyed. The face off against death that can only be encountered by attaching 4 wheels to the bottom of a skiboot, grabbing the tow ball of a convertible sports utility vehicle, wearing something sparkly and throwing your body from side to side whilst maintaining the flourish of the wrist, much akin to that of a rhythmic gymnast.
Alas, the jorts won and his shoulders sunk further down. The misery was becoming overwhelming. Almost the same brand of misery that one could experience from engaging in a Hawaiian cultural tradition, only to have their voice reach a high falsetto at the same time a photographer snapped a picture of the emasculating incident. The photo would be purchased by a member of the friendship group and thrust in the face of the performer as the chants rained down upon him like $1 bills showered Eastern European women at a New York supper club called White Lace in the October of 2006. The personification of a harshed buzz.
Trudging now, the journey continued. It required a fitness or stamina that one may see in a supreme athlete. A Marion Jones type physique. Funnily enough, the exact same physique of George. How is it taking this long? Why am I walking? What has to be so important? A quest. This quest.
His hands dragged him downward. Almost to his knees. He needed a break and pulled a sandwich out of his day bag. A day bag is a brilliant piece of luggage. It can be slung over the shoulders and worn like you would piggyback a midget. I digress. He needed sustanance and dug into his bag. He removed a sandwich. Holding a half the sandwich having just attacked it with the gusto Gibbo might attack a family meal, he now stared upon it. "No, not too much. We still have a long way to go." Fucking Bastian.
The story grew more and more arduous. The journey seemingly neverending and then he saw it. Standing up like somebody standing up when everyone else was lying down, it was there. Glowing the fading light of dusk. STAN THE VIDEO MAN. His clothes were tattered. His face have grown a layer of stubble and eyes sunken in his skull. He propped himself up on the counter. Cracked lips moving out of the way as his tongue ducked in and out of his moistureless mouth. The pleasure couriers (his nickname for the lips) required some lubrication and the Cockie Monster was nowhere in sight to provide liberal dashings of KY Jelly.
The store clerk could see he was in distress and plucked a can of ice cold Snow Cap from his personal fridge. The condensation on the outside dripped slowly down and seemed to have come from somewhere mystical, like Scarlett Johansson's vagina before Sean Penn ruined it. The drink cooled his mouth and he was able to speak.
"I have something for you. I have come many miles for this and I am told that you are the only one that can help."
'Sure, what can I do for you' replied the clerk.
'I need the sequel to this.'
His arm swiftly drew something from his day pack. The giant catchers mitt hand covered whatever it was and the video store clerk winced in anticipation. The huge arc the arm was travelling seemed to take an eternity. Clocks ticked as the hand finally met the counter. His hand moved and there it was in all its splendour.
"THE SISTERHOOD OF THE TRAVELLING PANTS"
