The Honorable and Most Intriguing Mr. Salv

Mr. Salv, a worker at Fisher-Price, is staring out the window when…
He suddenly realizes what a dumb job he has. “I should’ve gone to college like my mother told me,” he thought to himself. He thought and thought and thought when he suddenly realized (again), “I know that everything will work out all right in the end—at least, I hope so, because the more I think about it, the more I realize that my life hangs in the fine balance between a comedy writer and an alligator swimming in the swamps of the Nile. Wait, that’s not right. Whatever.”
Suddenly a man ran past the window he was staring out. “Who is he?” Salv wondered. “ It’s probably none of thy business” said the little voice in his head. “Thy?” Salv questioned. “ Your! I said your face is the ugliest thing I have ever seen in my life!”
The stranger whirled around, seeking the man whom he would devour for saying such cruel words. He spotted Salv still sitting in front of the window and slowly raised a curved yellow object to his mouth and spoke.
“Ah yesssssss… I love bananas.” With one rapid swing of his head he engulfed the banana in his mouth, chewed for a while, then walked up to the window and spewed it all over.
“Hey!” cried Salv. “That was clearly uncalled for!” With one mighty leap of manliness he swooped through the window, all kung-fu like as he swung from the scaffolding of a mild mannered child.
“Hey!” cried the child, giving him a good punch in the noggin. “You should be more careful; you almost ripped Theodore open again!”
“Sorry!” smiled Salv. He gave the poor child an undeserved but well-intended pat on the head as he leapt to the ground below, seeking his quarry: the man in grey. Off he ran into the wooded area beyond, which of course was the town park, which had never been properly maintained for the last 35 years. Tearing limb from tree he sprinted through the thicket until he came upon a large cardboard box. “What’s in this box?” he wondered aloud. Just as he tried to fathom what could possibly be inside, a fuzzy blue and rainbow-shaded head popped out and startled the very goldfish out of him. “Wha!!” He sighed, wrote “give to good home” on the side, and walked on. “Someone’s idea of a practical joke,” he thought as he sent the box through a portal that randomly opened up.
Continuing on his epic quest into the great already-known, Salv finally reached the end of the park and looked about to get his bearings. “How many words is this?” he wondered. He sighed. “Not enough”, and walked on. The trees were beginning to bald now, and as if to prove the point, a tree fell right on top of poor Salv. “Ouch,” he said.
A little girl just so happened to be walking by and heard Salv’s cries for help. “That’s funny,” she said. “That tree is talking, but I know that cannot be, for trees can’t talk!” So she continued on her way, leaving Salv bleeding and confused. “Alice in… Vunderville. My life needs less Ambien.” He sat down and cried for a period of time, after which period of time he proceeded to bleed and cry some more. He finally got a grip of himself (to stop the bleeding, of course) and tried to relocate the trail of his culprit…er, suspect. He finally emerged onto a city street in the middle of hundreds of cars. As if that wasn’t enough, 8-bit video game music started coming from apparently nowhere, and everyone started yelling “Frogger! Frogger! Go Go Go!” He gulped. “My name isn’t Frogger…it’s Salv.” He turned to face the crowd of thousands staring down upon him from the sky. “You hear me?!?!?” he yelled. “IT’S NOT FROGGER! IT’S SALV!!! I’TS SA…”
A watermelon fell from the sky, crushing the lorry next to him. On it were written all the secrets of all the ages of all the stars from all the galaxies from the beginning of Salv’s unimportant existence. But that would have to wait. Quickly Salv dodged a crazy semi-truck (driven by Middle Eastern dude with a scimitar of course) and started barking at the drivers.
“Bark!” he said. “Bark, bark!”
That did the trick. Everyone stupid enough swerved their cars away from Salv and ran into a nearby cornfield, for they all realized that he was the king of Dogworld. Everyone else…well, they declared him a public nuisance. And who do you think started that idea? Well it was none other than the old man himself, Father Crime—the man with the shady hat and scuzzy five-o’clock shadow. Whoa! Whoa! Major plot point!
I’ll give you a few minutes to enjoy it.
OK, time’s up.
Anyway, Father Crime approached Salv, keeping cool, calm and collected as he always did when he was just about to tar and feather someone. Saying a quick prayer, he drew a 3.14 Pro-Magnum and a banana from his vest pocket and advanced on Salv, chuckling as if at some private joke. Which it was. He was thinking of his junior high school days, but that’s not relevant right now, because this is a stupid story that was written on the fly—no, scratch that, in a Word document. He stepped closer, and closer, and closer. Maybe just a little too close, because Salv roundhouse-kicked him into a garbage can which I put there myself to ensure the hero didn’t die too fast. Or maybe, at all. But you don’t know, do you? I mean, he could still die. Like, explode, and then… explode again! Can you do that—can you explode twice? Well, it’s not scientifically possible.
Salv awoke later with these thoughts entangled in the strings of his brain. Father Crime had wisely disappeared into the putrid night air, leaving behind him a rubber ball, three sticks of chewing gum, a toy cap gun, a length of string, a toy elephant, nine paper clips, and a propeller beanie. I hope you remember all these items, because they will factor in later.
Salv tried to follow the way of Crime, but it only ended in trouble, as he got thrown in prison because he was disturbing the peace. As he sat in his cell, he remembered that the stranger owed him ten bucks. He gave up hope of ever receiving it though, as it is a well-known fact that Crime never pays. The warden came by and said, “I didn’t think you were the kind of guy to do this kind of thing, Salv. I told the commissioner that I’d eat my hat before you’d wind up in jail.” His deputy brought in a platter with his hat on it. “Well, here goes,” and he proceeded to nom the Stetson, spitting out the sweat-soaked inner band and swearing a good deal. As he swore, the Swear Bunny jumped in and pounced upon the warden, which caused him to spew the hat all over the electronic lock and short-circuit it. Salv seized this valuable opportunity to escape and did so quite unskillfully, but at least he managed to get into the cell next to him and lock himself safely in. Still in a quandary, our hero (meaning, Salv) reached into his pocket and pulled out a paper clip. Carefully he intertwined the end of the paper clip into the lock. “Ah, shoot,” he said as he realized that this was yet another electronic lock. The force of the shock sent him soaring back through the stone wall and into the moat right outside the high-security prison. Salv began to swim, but realized that he needed to swim faster. He fastened himself to the rubber ball, after inflating it, with two sticks of chewing gum. Paddling desperately, he managed to make it to shore with scant hours to spare.
It was midnight—a clock in the distance struck thirteen. Suddenly he appeared—yes, it was Father Crime, in all of his dark and shady glory. “So we meet again, Mr. Salv,” he chuckled in a throaty baritone.
“Again… you make it sound like we’re old enemies. We met, like, today.”
“Shut up, shut up, shut up! You… have… no… idea…”
“About what?” asked Salv.
“You have no idea…where bananas come from,” he replied.
“Bananas? BANANAS?!? What is it with you and bananas? Did someone spank you as a kid with a bunch of freaking bananananananas?”
“Where does that… word end, anyway?” He pulled yet another banana out of his pocket and proceeded to fondle it closely.
“You know,” Salv continued, “You may be Father Crime, but you sure could pass as Mr. Banana Monkey.”
“Hey, don’t kid about Mr. Banana Monkey,” said Crime. “He just so happens to be my second uncle, twice removed.”
“That’s… more than I needed to know. And… not relevant to the plot. Dumb oatmeal!”
“Dumb rock! I hate the Beatles.”
“Pop. I hate pop.”
“I like to hop on pop!”
“THAT’S NOT THE POINT”! screamed Salv.
“It’s not? Then let’s make it the point. We’ll call it…the “point of no return.” Slyly Crime reached into his long overcoat for a toxic BANANA OF DOOM, which is so DEADLY that it has to be typed in all caps. Grinning from ear to ear (which by the way you can do too with the aid of our new Smile Stretcher, only $2995.99 plus shipping, handling, processing, and refining), he peeled down the left, peeled down the right, peeled down the middle, and (mmm) took a bite. Crime chewed for only a moment, then spit it all on the ground. Instantly the grass withered, the flower faded, but the Macbook Pro abideth forever! (Can you tell our budget is failing?) He continued talking in the fashion that only an evil genius who is about to do something incredibly stupid would talk. “This is only a small demonstration of my powers, for I have been growing these deadly bunches of fruit on my resort in Gondoland. Where, may you ask, is Gondoland? I’m glad you asked. Gondoland is the resting place of all the good little gondolas at the end of the day. And at the end of every day, all the gondolas join together and sing in perfect harmony. It is such a beautiful sound.”
“I don’t doubt it is,” interrupted Salv, “But what does that have to do with your bananas and their evil plans?”
“Nothing,” responded the villain, “I just like gondolas. And spaghetti. And bubbles, actually.”
“WHAT?” yelled Salv. “This is getting us nowhere fast. What we need is a random plot twist.” He thought for a moment, then continued, “Look, a chia pet!”
“Where? Where?” asked Crime as he looked around for the second or third-most horrifying object in the world, next to antique clown dolls and ventriloquist dummies. But it was too late, as Salv brought down a heavy object upon his head.
The next thing Crime knew, he was riding along a country road to Hindenburg, Tennessee, home of the world famous (well, in Tennessee, anyway) Hindenbrothers. They, of course, were famous for Hindenburg blimps, but that’s irrelevant to our story. Crime continued to ride along to his impending doom, which did nothing to improve his dark mood. He growled fiercely. Actually, it might have been his stomach, but that’s also irrelevant. Of course, being hungry would do nothing to improve his mood, either.
Anyway, Crime finally arrived at the Hindenburg jail, which, fortunately for him, was at maximum occupancy. The warden on duty reported that they could transport him to the Walla Walla, Washington jail, but it would have to be completed in the morning. For now he would have to sit in the darkest section of a zoo, right next to the…
I mean Monkeys. Not the screaming rock kind. Gah, how those Monkees disturb me. I’d really like to take a club to their head and…well, that’s not important right now.
What WAS important, however, was that Crime was mysteriously starting to get messages from some strange voice he had never encountered before. It said:
“Hey man, gotta nickel? OK, how ‘bout a dime? OK, how ‘bout a twenty? No? OK…”
It disturbed him. Deeply. He realized that he had spent all his money on that one giant coloring book he saw in the store one day. What a price to pay for just a coloring book. And do you know what the coloring book had in it? Why, bananas, of course. This whole thing starting to make sense now?
We put a lot of work into it and it still doesn’t make sense?
Huh. So much for life.
OK, remember the whole banana thing? Should we start back at the beginning? Probably not, because you are probably confused out of your skull at the present. Why don’t we just continue where we left off and stop rambling off into pointless conversations?
So Crime escaped. It really doesn’t matter; after all, he’s Crime. And Crime always wins.
Wait, what? Wrong notes, sorry. Geez, I was going to say, I mean, you don’t get that on Barney.
So, how did Crime escape? Well, it’s a long story, but I guess I’ll tell you, since you’ve had the patience to read this heck of a too-long-already story.
While Crime was on the strip to Walla Walla, he thought about how stupid of a name it actually was. As he thought about that, he started thinking about concrete, gin, and bananas. Well, he was always thinking about bananas, so I guess that’s no surprise. But gin, really? Turning towards more concrete topics (get it?), he started to admire how wonderful concrete walls were in keeping prisoners, and whatever else was behind walls, behind them. But he also thought how flimsy they truly were. After all, one can completely shatter a concrete wall simply by blowing on it, if one has really obtained balanced feng shui, Shi Tzu, and whatever else one must achieve to blow on concrete without attracting odd stares. Fortunately there was a copy of On the Blowing Over of Concrete Walls in the squad car he was being transported in and he took it upon himself to read it, master its secrets, and blow over the road he was traveling on. How that is even possible, I don’t really want to know. Maybe he too drinks Monster, the official drink of champions and druggies everywhere.
Finally the squad car stopped at a green light (well, the driver lost his contact lens). Crime seized his opportunity to put to use the knowledge he had gained from the book. He hastily rolled down his window, rolled up his stockings, and hopped to the side of the road with thumb outstretched. He fastened a sign to his face:
Meanwhile, across some stretch of land, Mr. Salv was just finishing up his daily shave at the local barber’s.
“That’ll be $7.25,” said the barber in as polite a tone as he could muster.
“For a shave?” questioned Salv incredulously.
“Brother, you gotta big face! What can I say?”
“How about ‘That’ll be $4.38’?”
“Absolutely not—that would be against my religious principles. I also have a priority.”
“Oh,” said Salv, “That’s different. Here’s your money and a $10 tip. Don’t spend it all in one place, and be sure to….” He trailed off as he stared at a strange figure right outside the shop. He gasped. The strange figure was not strange at all! The man across the glass was no stranger to him.
“My Buddah, it’s HIM! The stranger! Avanti, I ride!”
“Wait, who is the stranger you speak of?” shouted the barber.
“Why, Colin of course!” cried Salv in response.
“Colin WHO?” yelled the barber, only to be left in complete bewilderment, just like you, dear Reader.
Returning from a late night banana binge, Father Crime was good to go. He chuckled indulgently at a few urchins in the street, the swore as he impaled his foot on one.
The Swear Bunny was there in a heartbeat. He quickly pulled out a bass drum and started pounding loudly, for what he said was not worthy of writing in this story. As quickly as he arrived, he vanished, only becoming a legend of sorts among the small children of Las Vegas.
Quick as a flash, Salv reached into the pocket of his boxer shorts and pulled out the toy elephant. Using a special laser gun we gave to Salv just for the fun of it, he turned the toy into a live elephant. He climbed upon its back and began to scream at varying pitches. As a side thing here, we should probably mention that this was due to hoarse, achy throat, something you need never suffer if you use Old Spice.
Wait, gimme that card.
His screaming awoke Pachakuni, the lesser-known third brother of Mario and Luigi, who lived in Doklik. He responded swiftly to the cry for help, carrying with him proudly the war-worn tool and weapon of his trade.
The toilet plunger made a deafening and really grossly sickening SMACK as it thudded against the side of the elephant. “Ah, the elephant must be like a tree,” said Pachakuni. Being blind, and consequently never having seen even a Japanese cartoon elephant, it was an easy mistake.
“No, Pachakuni, it’s that way!” burbled Salv, dancing frantically from side to side. “Hit the guy next to you!” He ducked as the plumber’s helper soared just above his head. “No, the OTHER person next to you!”
Too late. Crime was already sprinting from the scene. Quickly Salv grabbed the toy elephant, dashed it to the ground, and had the propeller beanie out in a jiffy. He was quickly soaring over the treetops, humming “A whole new wooooooorrld!” and keeping his enemy in sight.
“Wait for me!” wailed Pachakuni as he ran helplessly, listening to the sound of the propeller for clues to Salv’s location.
But Salv was too excited to listen. He quickly hovered over Father C., pierced him with eight paper clips, and bound him securely with a length of string. As he chewed a stick of gum, he took out his cap gun and pointed it at Crime’s thigh. “All right, Crime, your days of crime are over,” he said, trying to sound like the tough guy he wasn’t.
“It’s not over yet, Salv!” Crime screamed, writhing in discomfort and the gosh-awful smell of Salv, who had forgotten to Smell Like a Man that morning.
Actually, he did smell like a man that morning. He had clearly identified the select different smells of the wilderness. He had only failed to clearly identify his own scent. Was that necessary? Nah.
“Oh, it’s over, Crime. Game Over.”
But seriously, it was capitalized, man. All I’m trying to do is a simple product plug, right? So you can smell like a man, or you can Smell Like a Man. Was that necessary? Nah.
Who cares? I’m on a horse.
But anyway, you all know what happens now. Salv sent Crime to the asylum, became rich, and wore Spandex forever. And that’s… just the way it goes.
Hey, wait. Horses moo?
THE END (Would you like fries with that?)

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