#his opus

{It is the final evening of Our Fellow's true Narrator status spell. He heaves a sigh and gets up from His desk chair. He composes His thoughts and speaks aloud.}

Hold for a moment, spirits. I have one last passage I'd like to read...

{He clears His throat and folds His hands solemnly, then musters all His narrative power and speaks in a ringing, melodious voice.}

The Narrator (Also known as Oliver Wheaton) was going about His business as usual when a strange feeling overcame Him. A sudden, queer but powerful compulsion, an urge, an itch so strong that His very arms shook made Him stop. 

What was this wild, gnawing feeling? What was this burning, searing desire?! For a moment, He simply couldn't fathom it, but then He glanced to the side and spotted a strip of flypaper left out on one of the desks.

Why it was left there was anyone's guess, as there were no flies to speak of in the office, but this sticky sheet was exactly what Oliver needed. It was exactly what His deep dark desire craved.  He snatched it up, beaming; "Fortune has smiled upon me today!" He called gayly to anyone within earshot.

Wasting no time, He lifted the flypaper to His forehead and applied it evenly to His brow. Then, trembling with anticipation and glee, He slowly reached His shaking hands up and took ahold of the end of the flypaper and gave a sharp tug. He tore away the strip of paper, and with it, much of His thick, loathsome eyebrows. Most of them. Patches. Oh well. Now, now He was free! His desire quenched! His urge fulfilled.

But He had little time to bask in His grand accomplishment, for He began to feel rather unwell. A gurgling began in the pit of His stomach, accompanied by a faint, indistinct sound just on the edge of hearing. His nausea grew by the minute, building and building in His great, enormous digestive tract, swelling along with the strange sound that became more and more recognizable as it increased in volume.

Finally, Oliver simply could not stand it any longer. With a great gurgling roar He opened His mouth and began to vomit copious amounts of Orange Tang mixture (the powder, to be precise, without the liquid element).

He practically fountained the stuff into the air, and with this great eruption of tang came the sound, the wondrous, glorious sound of one thousand air-horns in orchestral arrangement playing Beethoven's Ode to Joy. 

It burst into the air, this unholy, divine mixture of crude wind instruments and cheap, citrus-flavoured drink mix, bringing great joy to the hearts of every employee. Even Oliver Himself felt a single tear trickle down His cheek at the incredible phenomenon issuing from His esophagus. 

It lasted for the duration of the piece, and when the air horns finally honked their last, Oliver fell to His knees, eyes skyward, arms outstretched, tang settling around Him like vibrant orange snow.

He found Himself unable to move with the sheer emotional power of the experience. For eight hours.

Truly, it was an event that He would never, ever, not in a million, billion years, forget.

{Our Fellow bows His head, steps down from the table, and allows the magical anonymous to reclaim its gift. He feels drained, but momentarily, truly content.}