Matt Nelson is celebrated world-wide for his ability to turn a clever phrase and tell a good story. Please enjoy this offering of artful story-telling.


The Clover Eating Sparrow

"Don't you eat that clover," said the orange cat.

"But I want to eat the clover," said the sparrow. The sparrow was also prejudiced against Mexicans.

In a nearby hydraulic fruit-picker, a syphilitic widower was listening in, smiling vacantly. Her hand looked like a normal hand but with wrinkles and oldness.

"What are you looking at, older woman?" spake the cat.

The older woman pulled three feet of slack out of the skin in her abdomen and knotted it. As she did so, she began to speak.

"As it happens," her voice hissed, "I also enjoy eating clover."

"Of course, you do, you're a Scientologist," said the sparrow. "I can tell"

"Stop being so prejudiced or I shan't play with you forthwith," said the lispy gardener with rosacea, who hasn't been mentioned yet.

The gardener produced a pipe and grinned with no teeth (because he had no teeth not because he was doing a special grin where he hid his teeth while grinning which would be aggressive and strange in the circumstances) between long satisfying draughts on it. He blew three smoke rings in a row.

Then the sparrow said, "enough of this," and threw his sword on the ground where it could easily pose a real and credible threat to an orphan were they to be playing in the area and were they yet to be properly educated as to the dangers of playing with battle-ready hand weaponry.

The cat ran over to the widower in the fruit-picker and jumped upon the console to manoeuvre it upwards.

"There isn't a moment to lose!" declared the orange cat.

"You're not wrong," said the lispy gardener. The lispy gardener, whose name was Rupert, turned into a hovercraft and sped away in the direction of the supermarket and was never seen or heard of again forever. Some say he died, some say that he dances for nickels in late-night saloons, some say that he turned into avarice, thus fulfilling his life-long dream of being an abstract noun.

The sparrow dipped his head to the clover and sniffed hungrily at it.

The syphilitic widower and the orange cat were now at the utmost height that could be achieved with the fruit-picker.

"Can't this thing turn into a rocket? How old is this piece of junk?" asked the frantic cat.

"By all means it can," said the syphilitic widower, as she punched her soggy fist at the control panel, making a squishy sound.

The fruit picker turned into a rocket and it immediately launched and flew toward the moon, just as the sparrow took its first bite of the clover.

Then the clover turned black and the sparrow realised that it had made a terrible mistake and the clover was really a trigger which would set off a chain reaction on the quantum level and unmake the existence of things in the immediate vicinity.

A black hole appeared and the sparrow and the immediate vicinity was sucked into nothingness and then the planet became uninhabitable because of global warming and the orange cat and the old syphilitic widower had to establish a new population in outer space of half orange cat, half syphilitic widowers, and they called themselves the Organotropes and were a small peaceful race and they lived in relative quiet and stability for the majority of the remainder of time until the heat-death of the universe.

To be continued...

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