Another scintillating peek into the twisted - no, mangled - world of Crackbarry and Fleen:
By the time he had slummed and slurped and struggled his way to his 24th birthday, Dunsten's nickname had evolved from "Dun McCrack" to "Goin' Down McCrank" to "Goitervillanueva Cracklinberries" to "Smokin' The Crack" to simply "CrackSmoke." He had arrived at the Lake Wad School of Business Gloaming with an undergrad degree in Clown Arts (minor in Theology) and a burning desire to further his education and master auto-erotic asphyxiation.
He taped copies of his mother's latest letter all over his dormitory room, to inspire and propel him onward toward his goal of becoming Fleen's second-in-command.
"You stupid sod - why are you wasting your father's hard-earned ducats on that stupid circus degree? You'll burn in hell for this, you will! You could have been accepted at the horse
school, or even the sheep college - sea monkeys community institute, at the very least. But no.
We're ashamed to have ever found you by the side of the lane and brought you home to be raised by our dog, we are. Pooey on you, and write back soon, sweetie. Love, Mum" was all it said.
"Aw, sod off, mumsie," Crackbarry would say every night (excepting those on which he was too drunk to see or speak or both, and the rare night when he had co-ed company, or the time he spent the evening in the infirmary with that piece of balsa wood shoved under his toenail - ouch) as he
patted the note with his fingers on his way to bed...
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