He would do both. Because he could go both ways. He was bimoral. Besides, he wasn't the only one in the world who had an outwardly respectable persona with a dark side. There was Brocko's side kick...The Right Reverend Wrong...

BatHam stood proud in the smoggy city with his hands on his hips and his chest thrust upward, as most superhero's do. A roguish smile crept across his face as he looked below at the garish scene. Robin lay sprawled in the street, face down in an expanding pool of blood. Suddenly, BatHam's face changed into an expression of seriousness and regret. Regret, not for the sin of murdering an innocent side-kick in cold blood, but because he suddenly remembered that Robin owed him five dollars.

Big head Ted and Robin layin dead and Jay Mac on the move...And polygamists screamin, squeezin and wheezin as the calliope crashed to the ground...And bitter gun man and zombie girl and Hillary and Brocko and Tyler too...And batdude Alex and Ring and Timmy and current events ad nauseum...She said I'll turn you on son into something strong....

"Is it okay if I laugh or cry? Is it okay to choose? Is it okay to do both at the same time?", I ask myself, as I lay in the vicinity.

It seems as if...

On the other side of town, a woman was weeping. A man with three nostrils stood by her, ostensibly to comfort her, but behind his back he held ...

...a large booger on his index finger. He was trying to find a place to put it. He managed to transfer it to a copy of "Popular Rhinology" on the coffee table. "Why can't you be a normal artist?", the woman sobbed. "I'm tired of being humiliated because of your mucous paintings!"...

She continued, "I just don't understand wh..."

"That's it right there!" shouted the man, "Don't you see? No one understood Picasso or Pollock either!"

"Picasso was a brilliant cubist, Pollock was a great abstract expressionist," the woman cried, "What are you?

The man lowered his head, "I'm A Neo-Nasalist. I've told you that a thousand times."

"Neo Shmeo!" exclaimed the woman, "If there was ever such a thing, why haven't I heard of it?"

"Because the work of the neo-nasalists has been suppressed for centuries," the man explained, "Throughout history there have been nasalists, but their works remain unknown. Artists like ..."

"Boog Powell."

"Boog Powell!" she cried. "I've never seen any artworks from the former first baseman of the Orioles, Indians, and Dodgers!"

"Exactly!", he gloated. "He's just one example of the many nasalists whose work has been suppressed and is unknown! Then there is..."

"My grandfather, Snoddy," the man retorted.

"He was retarded," said the woman.

"He was a genius!' exclaimed the man, "And as Snoddy III, I have been specially chosen, and equipped, to carry on the nasalist art form."

"Oh," said the woman, "You mean because you are the 3rd Snoddy, born on the 3rd day of the 3rd month and you have that monstrous 3rd nose-hole, then you are some kind of chosen one? Some kind of Messiah of Mucous?"

"Well I ain't no, new messiah, but I'm close enough for art from nose. You can call me sir. Sir Real. I'm no Picasso. I am Picknose-o. Vincent Van Blow...

The woman paused to think. She knew quite well that her contentious behavior toward Snoddy wasn’t because of the medium he picked to create his art, nor was it the third nostril, nor the mess that he made when he worked. After all, she too was an artist and she had her own peculiar ways. Besides, she had worked with artists her whole life and she was well accustomed to temperamental, idiosyncratic creative types. No, the reason she found him so maddening was that she was jealous of him.

The first time she saw his work, she marveled at the rich hues, the complex textures, and the exquisite techniques that he used to display his passion. When she first saw his masterpiece ‘Nasal Decongestion,’ she felt that it had been dredged from his eternal soul and not just from his nose. Later, when she first saw his Andy Warholesque, ‘I Can’t Believe It Snot Butter,” she knew she had to meet him.

That was a long time ago and her feelings had changed since then. Although he was yet to be truly appreciated, she knew the time was coming when the world would take notice of his talent and all eyes would be on him, not on her. It was then that she decided that she had to kill him.

"But wait!", she thought to herself, "There are people at work who put their boogers on the walls. MAYBE he's not as good as I thought, and so maybe he doesn't have to die. Maybe I should just go have sex with him instead."

So she did.
But it only made matters worse. Snoddy was so bad in bed that now he deserved to die, she thought.
Her mind went to work to devise a way to eliminate Mr. High and Snotty.

She got up to blow his semen out of her nose. Just one more thing she wouldn't have to put up with if he was gone. The elephantitis of her nose had attracted him to her in the first place. So nose job would be a priority with his demise. Although she had discovered that there was a G spot of sorts in her nasal canal, it only produced a sneeze instead of an orgasm. But now, how to get rid of the rhino reamer...

The woman began to have difficulty with the idea of killing Snoddy. Her apprehension wasn't based on traditional moral grounds, because as an atheist and former President of the Ayn Rand Society, she believed her actions should serve her own interests. Her aim in life was to use Reason to find Purpose and Self-worth, unencumbered by religious dogma. However, since murder was illegal, and carried rather harsh penalties, it defied her sense of reason to go that way, unless it was the perfect crime. But she could disable him somehow and render his art void. So, she pondered what to do next. Devise a perfect, undectable murder? Or, find a way to rob Snoddy of his muse?

She thought to herself, (again), "How can I be entertaining his demise when all I REALLY WANT is more of his mucus?"

Gathering her viscosity measuring equipment,
her hands trembled at the thought of his varied expertise,
in all manners of fluidity.

As she gathered her viscometer, she had an epiphany. Using her love of Art and her appreciation of Science, she would use both to study and reveal the secrets of Snoddy's nose. Once she had a clinical understanding of the inner workings of his nasal passages, based on empirical data, she would then be able to devise a methodology for taking him down. In the meantime, she would have to pose as his lover, his one and only, his girlfriend.

Unfortunately, they were all lying with each other, and the bed wasn't big enough.

She decided a "king" might not be so bad, after all.

So I decided to provide the human blanket.

No one in the world had an inkling of what was about to happen;
the almighty absolute healing power of the Human Blanket,
was about to be utilized after three long weeks of anticipation.

The "victim", disbelieving,
at last "sacrificed", believed in itself,
& it felt ascendancy...

...found its way
to its primary
and expired.

Should I not regress?
With what I might believe in?
Okay, I'm on it.


But not without discontinuing this threadjack:

The woman's reverie was broken by a baby's cry.

She thought of her fucked up life and how it was like an esoteric poem; full of resonance and passion for her, but unappreciated and incomprehensible to everyone else. She then thought of Snoddy and was struck by the similarities between her life and his. Both of them were unappreciated artists, struggling to find audiences for their art, and both of them had noses. It was right there in front of her face. How she had missed it, she wasn't sure, but she knew now that she and Snoddy were meant for each other and that she was in love with him. She decided to run to him and tell him everything - the near murder plot, plotting to steal his muse, posing to be his girlfriend - and she just hoped that he would understand and forgive her.

From somewhere, there was another baby's cry.

Irritated, the woman yelled out, "Hey, shut that baby up!"

A fat man with beard stubble and a tank top t-shirt shouted back from a nearby open window, "I don't have a baby!"

The woman snapped back, "Well, when you get one, shut it up!"

Then the woman ran wildly down the street to find Snoddy and throw herself into his arms.

Running...like a catarrhal nose. The green and brown hues of schnozzart made for a grey world. Red. A tacky but valid color. Blood. An unlimited source of red. Runni kept running...

The critics didn't like it...(They compared it to Georgia O'Keefe)

Of course, they were wrong.

Georgia O'Keeffe, Georgia O'Keeffe, that's all Runni could think about as she ran with wild abandon. She ran past poppies, Jimson Weed, and Bleedin' Hearts. Soon she was devoid of clothing, reaching for her Snoddy - her Stieglitz - the man who knew her like no one else,; or so she thought ....

More babies crying. She realized she was running naked through a daycare district. All of her artsy-fartsy thoughts turned more fartsy than artsy when she also realized something else...she had to shit, bad. The last few yards to Snoddy Stieglitz's house found her running with stiff legs and scrunched up ass buns. She burst through the front door and slammed open the bathroom door and there was Snoddy...masturbating with a picture of Georgia...
http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedi..._Corrected.jpg

When she burst through the bathroom door, Snoddy looked at her with a puzzled look. Runni ranted, and she raved, then she ranted some more. When she was spent, she fell to her knees and asked,

"Well, aren't you going to say anything? Are you just going to sit there and say nothing?

Snoddy looked at her through squinted eyes and asked, "Who are you?"

Runni was about to explode on him, when she noticed a trickle of blood coming from Snoddy's middle nostril.

"What happened to your nose? Why are you bleeding?" she asked with some concern. "And what do you mean, Who am I?"

"What do you mean, "What do I mean?"?, asked Snoddy rhetorically and existentially. "The question is What am I...Until now my palette has been excretions but it is time to give my body to my art. My blood. Crushed bone for texture. The yellow green of bile. Pureed liver for browns. Pulverized brain for gray. I am paint. I am paint!...

Snoddy continued, "Runni, you're a magnificent artist. I've seen what you can do. Now I want you to do me. Transform me into a work of art - Your work of art. You can start with my toes and work your way up."

She somehow was not shocked by all of this. Although she had no idea what she was going to paint, she proceeded with the gathering of "supplies". She took a cigar cutter and snipped off his left small toe. An expendable appendage. Snoody cried out somewhat but immediately shouted "YES!" at the loss. She was secretly enjoying it too. She put a tourniquet around his foot and drained the blood into a dixie cup. She peeled the flesh off like a small fruit and crushed the bone and nail in a coffee grinder. She carefully took all veins and capillaries and put them in another dixie cup, intact. The outer skin was carefully peeled off and the remaining dermis crushed with mortar and pestle. A rush ran up her spine as Snoddy had turned his back for a moment and she dipped her pinky tip into the pureed flesh and tasted it. "Tastes like chicken" she joked to herself. She really thought to herself it tastes like human flesh. Funny how one knows what raw human flesh tastes like before one ever tastes it. She entertained the thought how this "human sushi" would taste wrapped in rice and seaweed, with a little soy sauce, ginger and wasabi...

Inspired, Runni scattered the paints across her palette and began to paint, while Snoddy moaned in painful ecstasy. She didn't know what she was to create, she just started creating. Soon, she was out of pigment and had to go back for more.

She had already created a picture of a middling dipshit, but she didn't realize its prevailing mediocrity and was drawn to prevent the creation of anything more meaningful.

Mired in mediocrity, Runni pressed on. With every stroke, the middling dipshit became more and more mundane. No matter how she tried to elaborate her subject, the dipshit remained the same. He was vapid, puerile, and bland. Runni couldn't stop. As her pigments waned she grew even more determined. Finally, and with only the benefit of Snoddy's one pinky toe, she had produced her piece de resistance. A striking portrait of Henry David Thoreau.

On to the next project. No middling dipshit this time. Maybe a diddling midshipman. But she needed more paint. Another small toe. And a different color or two. She got Snoddy good and drunk and drilled a small hole in his abdomen with a large manual egg-beater type hand drill. With a vacuum cleaner's crevice cleaning hose she managed to get his liver to the surface, snip a bit off, sew it back up and slapped a bandaid on the wound. Mortar and pestle produced the rich reddish brown she needed...

As she was busy pestling away,
she realized her grave mistake.

In her haste to achieve the desired shade required,
she forgot that snoddy's alcoholic liver contained other elements
that would taint her desired tint.

The artistic quicksilver brain of hers came up with a plan so bent,
her yoga master would of been impressed.

The yellow jaundiced liver paste would be good for strokes that called for that hue later. But the brown she desired could only come from one place; Snoddy's 3 pack a day tar infested lungs. So with the same drilled entry hole she would use her pincers to travel in and up to secure a piece of blackened treasure...But only after slamming a few shots of Everclear down his throat and one or two down her own...

As Runni collected her biopsy of Black Gold, Snoddy's lung suddenly collapsed and he suffered an immediate cardiac arrest. With the skill and confidence of a really good surgeon, Runni retracted her pincers, carefully avoiding further damage. Then she freaked.

"Oh my God, Oh my God! she screamed, "Somebody help me, Stat!"

"You've committed a crime and nobody can help you," offered those who showed up.
"Maybe we can try."

uh-oh...
everyone involved had forgotten how keen the nose
of a social worker is.

Full of blood-hound lust, they lazily, yet doggedly pursued the easily evident
trail of visceral chaos.

Runni was suddenly motionless.

Deafened by silence as time suspended everything around her, the vein above her left eyebrow twitched and pulsed as the fluorescent bulb flickered in the corner of her dilated and jaundiced eye.

Droplets of sweat surrounding, motionless, like frozen rain, panning...
just like before Trinity kicks the cop in the face...

Runni remembers why she came to the bathroom.