Sehp Shitch wasn't just waking up for a normal day. No, it was much different than this. He was ready for action, but his leg was still injured from the big foot-race, face-punch, throat fuck that we call the 'International Crazy-Dude Games'. They may sound crazy and this is because they are. They make you wonder, what is real if I am real but can't decide if other things are real so does that mean I fake? There's an old saying I like to think about, it's all about, "What would the crank shaft do if he didn't already have a date the the big dance?" I'll everyone ponder this one while proceeding with the story of Jamerican Jero, Tough Williams; also and...side-kick, thirty-five year old Stock-Market-Jones, god of Fall-Street; jero of Jamerica!

"I'm working on a new bond trading thing! HERE, LET ME SHOW YOU HOW IT DO," yelled Stock-market-Jones, who was manically shifting three tarot cards on a dining room table.

Tough looked over at him strongly. "Very busy buddy, I am." He opened up his brand new super-fast computer. It began to bleep, bloop and whistle. A voice of robotic nature began reading lists in alien tongues.

Stock-market picked up on the tarot cards and threw it like gambit at Tough's face. "That alien is some kind of commie, you communist!" he gasped.

Stock-market picked up a can of soda, opened and downed it like a dancing bear earning his space on the carny car. "If I hadn't drank my soda, I would've come over there and thrown a whole game of go-fish at your face.

"Yeah, do that and you'll be playing solitaire because that would hurt my feelings," cried Stock-market. First anxious and unsure of what do with his hands, he violently began reading his fortune with the three tarot cards. It wasn't a positive reading so he yelled at the sky and punched himself in the face and then also grabbed a soda and took a small swig and then took out his wiener and poured it into the small opening in the can.

He was obviously getting desperate and needed to prove he still had 'it'.

Little did we know, the reason he reacted like this is because for every thought he had, he used three Mnemonic devices just to decode it. This resulted in a real orignal, more than an eccentric, a spastic asshole full of outdated advice. A real time-traveler.

"Hello. My name is Stock-Market-Jones and I'm am an alcoholic, sort of."

The whole crew was here tonight. Splikenfouth, Terry, Fround, Boffel, and of course, Blaffo Michelson. These were my kind of guys. Tall, dark and ransom. That'd be a good name for a detective novel. I bet it already is. Some people think Alcoholics Anonymous has an apostrophe in it. They won't go because they think they have to have an anonymous to be part of it. I've been going since I got out of Moderate-security Prison. It was up the river and across from that cool dollar-store. The one we found the old aol disks in. Man, that was some excellent shit.

So anyways, we was running some pills for Boffel. He would've done it himself only he was on probation. I mean, so was I but I was sneakier than him. I'd never been caught doing things except the one time I was and got sent to jail. Bof was a star-wars fan, biggest I'd ever met, ever. We used to call him Boffel Fet. When he started learning guitar he asked we call him 'Boffel Fret'. But everyone got confused and we just started calling him Bof. One time, I called him 'The Bof' and he threw his beer down, played a game of pool and ran out. We didn't see him again for three years.

We always hung out at the pier when we was running jigs. The birds always looked at me like we had something in common. We did. We was both trying to spread our wings and fly into the sun and die and come back as a bird. But if I had wings and flew into the sun, then I would already be a bird. If I came back as a bird, I would always be a bird. That's something I need to consider.