Monday, July 04, 2011

The legend of Morning Monday

In the kingdom of Work, lived many a hard-working slaves. The kingdom was ruled by the rather tyrannical Morning family. The Mornings were of the warrior class. And they had settled in the land of Work way before people could remember when. And there were no schools. And so there was no history.

Over the years, the Mornings had grown into a large family and as brothers over generations kept splitting into clans. The most powerful clan of which were the Monday Mornings. The only clan, which over generations of progress, had stuck to its warrior ways. In fact, they had only gotten more fundamentalist with every new row that got added to the family tree.

The leaders of the clans took their rounds to look into the matters of their subjects. Also known as slaves because of it being the relevant word for their lifestyle. So basically, imagine a fortress district in Japan. Over generations, the position of the leader had just become a costume. The person inside kept changing.

Monday Mornings were always the healthiest of the clans. Healthy as in if they went shopping in America, they would mostly be allowed only in the Plus stores.

After Sunday Morning had implemented a wake and bake policy for all the subjects, and Sunday Evenings had introduced sluggishness-inducing decadent red velvet cake as a ritual, the Monday Mornings were left fuming.

"People should not be smiling. They should be working." A fuming Monday Morning slammed his fist at the breakfast table. Mrs Monday Morning was upset. Why wouldn't he, for once, eat the goddamn rice cake quietly. Yes, they were also hippies. Can you imagine, a giant hippie named Monday Morning, wearing a robe and a rice hat, carrying two swords, walking briskly on the bridges that ran over the countless fields? Always walking between the farmers and the direction of the sun because his large silhouette and the shadow it cast on the farmers was supposed to be terrifying.

So yes, Mrs Monday Morning and the two little Monday Mornings were shaken at Daddy Monday Morning's breakfast table outburst. Little did Mr Monday Morning know that after he left for his rounds, she would be playing bridge with Mrs Sunday Evening and Mrs Sunday Morning and get baked. And if the weed was good, she'd even let Mr Sunday Evening fondle her bosom.

So it was a little after Mr Monday Morning had left for his rounds. Slaves had begun to gather in the farms after Mrs Sunday Evening's home made red velvet cake. No kidding: she had an oven the size of a fucking castle. As his large body passed across the bridge, like the moon walking across the sun during an eclipse, one heard the racking of a gun.

Mr Monday Morning's pursed lips met at two corners like everybody else's. One of the corners curled into the cheek. His rice hat low, covering his eyes that nobody could see. He did not stop. Just slowed down the pace at which he glided over the bridge. Mr Monday Morning's hand slowly reached his waist, fingers stroked the thick ribbed handle.

Far, far away in a room with red velvet curtains, Mrs Monday Morning was sucking some smoke out of Mrs Sunday Morning's mouth except that their nostrils shot out that same smoke and they continued kissing.

"MONDAY MORNING!" A slave screamed as he pulled a big, fat gun out, "I have come to avenge the death of my father."

Monday Morning did not say a word. His fingers slowly moved over the thick ribbed handle and wrapped around it tight. He continued walking, a voice inside his head droned on, "If I had a slave for every time a slave threatened to kill me... I'd have a lot more slaves. But this one has a gun! They all can get guns. The fort walls have been weakened by my kin..."

Meanwhile, Mrs Monday Morning was being pampered to no limit. Her eyes bloodshot and her robe undone from the front as she was being fed and smothered with red velvet cake by Mrs Sunday Morning and Mrs Sunday Evening.

"He fired! The motherfucking goddamn son of a bitch fired!" Monday Morning thought before yanking out his giant sword and whipping the bullet out of its path. The priest of that little hamlet lost his eye that day. No records of how have been found. And the slave who fired at him... Wait, what slave?

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