Hey gang! I think it's time to foist some Crackbarry and Fleen upon your unsuspecting noggins. I have been trying to come up with a nice succinct introduction to this madness, but I can't, so I've decided instead that it will be much more fun (and just as coherent, really) to simply foist away with a random excerpt. I like saying foist. It rhymes with. . . stuff. Anyway, I will say that the characters have a co-creator, and until I confirm whether or not he is actually still living, this sample may be all I will be able to share with you, and that makes it all the more special, non?
News from Crackbarry's dorm room:
Fleen stared at the telly with murder in his eyes. "We're going to make that 2-bit lounge donkey wish he'd never been spawned of the wretchedness of his foul mother and the seed of the murderous dentist. Crackbarry my man, I'm going to need your help. But first, I must tell you what happened to me on the way here from my Auntie Ashlee's summer home in Middle Pussexton."
Crackbarry wiped the Armadillo dribble from his face and listened with rapt attention as Fleen related the story of his short but intriguing journey of that morning. The Ashlee vacation house was no more than five minutes behind him when Fleen had been run off the M5 by a pair of lime green Mini Coopers with fake police insignias on their doors. The entire contents of his newly-opened bottle of Absolut Peach found its way onto the floor mat of his modified, heavily armoured Hummer (which he lovingly called Betsy-Wetsmee and to this day, no one knows why) as it left the road and went briefly airborne, landing in the cornfield of one Roberto "Flaxseed" McManus. In the course of the wreck, Fleen's ever-present spice pipe (today he was smoking a mixture of cumin, sage and oregano, but the oregano was way too dry this time,
which was a bit of a buzzkill) fell to the floor and immediately ignited the vodka-soaked carpeting.
The flames of the polycarbon carpet fibers, spices and booze had created a sweet-smelling but powerfully hallucinogenic smoke which quickly filled the interior of the Hummer, and Fleen was overcome within a few breaths. He tripped all over the landscape of his cerebral cortex. He saw himself torn to bloody shreds by the girls of Miss Pinklebaum's kindergarten class, the pieces carried off by Australian parakeets, all to a soundtrack of "White Light, White Heat." The
expression on his face in this image confused him, as it was a pre-adolescent smile of sheer glee. There was a scene from "Too Close for Comfort," only the Ted Knight role was played by Fleen's first romantic conquest, Kiera Pukingintheskya, and her Russo-Yapese broken English was here more menacing than funny.
When Fleen had emerged from his peachy fog, he had found himself sitting on the living room sofa in the frighteningly country home of Mr. McManus. "Hey Flaxseed. Sorry about your fence. Where might I find my pants and an Atari 5200 with a pair of joysticks that fuckin' WORK?" The farmer's wife, a giant mannish thing named Bobbi, stopped Flaxseed's cross-living room lunge with one of her hairy arms, clotheslining the man and sending him to a gurgling unconscious spell on the floor. She seized Fleen by his elbow and led him to the barn, where her three strapping sons had already returned the Hummer Betsy-Wetsmee to a close approximation of road-worthiness. Fleen had lost several hours of his life and some good vodka and admittedly sub-par spice, but still managed to make his way to Crackbarry's dormitory by mid-afternoon.
"Well, that explains the news reports and that weird peachy pizzeria scent coming off your smoky clothes." Crackbarry chuckled. "Now what do you need me to do to this Crustedseabass bloke?"