Return of the Sniff (Or, a Return of the Return)

Thanksgiving Gratitude

The puddle spittered and whizzed, a real cacophony of perdition. As the residents of Tent City waited to see what would emerge from Bingo’s liquidated corpse, Wilderness’s attention was focused on winning the heart of Angeline, the grocery store plebe bred of quality nephilim genetic material. He was fantasizing about planting his Marmaladian seed into her Rh negative energetic signature when a somewhat monstrous being emerged from Bingo’s plasmafied remains.

“I’m back up in this motherfucker,” Mr. Sniffles announced, delighted to once again be amongst the deranged inhabitants of Earth.

“What’s up with that giblet hanging off your chin?” asked a rum enthusiast named Mr. Gower.

“My unicorn DNA got spliced with a dash of turkey juice,” Mr. Sniffles explained.

“Can I flick your giblet?” asked Mr. Gower.

“You are gross, old man,” said Mr. Sniffles. “Go back inside your tent.”

“I traded my tent for rum,” said Mr. Gower, somewhat ashamed of himself.

“You should hop a train to Canada and get yourself euthanized,” Mr. Sniffles suggested.

“You and that thing hanging off your chin are the ones who need to be culled from the herd,” said Mr. Gower. “You ever set foot inside my drug store, you will get smoked.”

“George was never born in this timeline, dumdum—your drug store was confiscated by the feds when you went to prison for peddling fentanyl in Afghanistan.”

“That never happened,” said Mr. Gower. “You’re a craven lunatic!”

“Someone get this geezer away from me,” Mr. Sniffles barked. “He smells like vampire shit.”

Two security guards escorted Mr. Gower to a section of Tent City unaffectionately referred to as “Bum Town,” which is where unhoused folks in the neighborhood were sent to fester until they could afford a proper home. Some of the residents of Tent City wanted to use weaponry to motivate the bums in Bum Town to move to a different encampment, but this desire wasn’t backed by a triumph of will which would lead to objective action.

“Who are you?” asked Wilderness, delusionally assuming a leadership role amongst the inhabitants of Tent City. “I will soon be king of the Marmalade people.”

Mr. Sniffles rolled his eyes at this air of pompous bullshit. He was acquainted with Wilderness’s mother, Queen Beatrice, and he knew that she had no intention of ever handing the throne over to this dunce—she would sooner abdicate the monarchy altogether.

“I come in peace,” Mr. Sniffles responded, fingers crossed behind his back.

“You have trustworthy physiognomy,” said Wilderness, his voice’s cadence robotic as a result of being mesmerized by Mr. Sniffles’ giblet.

“My giblet dangles and strangles, but life comes correct when you pick the right angle,” said Mr. Sniffles.

“Does your giblet dance in the dark?” asked Wilderness.

“My giblet is the bell of the ball.”

“Does your giblet dance in France?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Sniffles, becoming agitated. “My giblet does all sorts of dances—can we move onto a more interesting topic?”

“Does your giblet do ballet?” asked Wilderness, unable to help himself.

“It once starred as the mouse king in The Nutcracker. If you ask me one more question about my dancing giblet, I’m going to place your feet inside concrete boots and throw you in the lake.”

“I was born with a condition which makes me incapable of drowning,” said Wilderness.

“I need to go to the grocery store,” said Mr. Sniffles, hoping to separate himself from this troublesome denizen of decay. “I want to rent a movie.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Wilderness, deciding at this moment that Mr. Sniffles was his new best friend. “I need to pick up a can of mayonnaise.”

“I’m really not in the mood for company,” said Mr. Sniffles. “I think it’s time for you to buzz off.”

“I’m not a bug, silly. Future kings don’t buzz.”

Mr. Sniffles began walking away at a brisk pace, determined to ditch this loser. Sadly, Wilderness was unable to grasp the hint, following him all the way to the store like a deranged puppy.

Upon entering the establishment, Mr. Sniffles noticed an employee dousing the entirety of the vegetable section in disinfectant chemicals as a means to combating a respiratory illness which was allegedly making its rounds amongst Earth’s population of moronic cattle. This employee was none other than Wilderness’s nephilim crush, Angeline. She immediately took coy offense to Mr. Sniffles’ giblet.

“No turkeys allowed in the store,” said Angeline, letting her shirt slide to the edge of her shoulder, exposing a gravy-stained bra strap.

“Get back to your task, plebe,” said Mr. Sniffles. “Where’s the VHS section?”

“You’re here to ruin the town’s Christmas parade, aren’t you?” Angeline sleuthed.

“I’m here to make it more profitable,” Mr. Sniffles replied, having no idea what she was talking about. “As it stands, this hilljack town loses money because of this stupid parade. I’m thinking about implementing a cover charge for entry.”

“A COVER CHARGE? Half this town is out of work—they can’t afford a cover charge!”

“Maybe a cover charge would motivate them to get off their sorry tails and seek gainful employment,” Mr. Sniffles speculated. “Nothing denigrates the working class more than a free lunch.”

Wilderness was annoyed that his love interest wasn’t paying attention to him. He farted in order to fill the vicinity with pungent aroma. Angeline sprayed him in the face with disinfectant.

“I’ve been assaulted!” Wilderness bellowed. “This is a crime against humanity!”

“You don’t look like a human to me,” said Angeline. “I thought your whole schtick was being descended from a race of booger people.”

“My consciousness was transferred from a normal human body into a booger, stupid.”

Once again, Angeline sprayed Wilderness in the face with disinfectant, hoping to teach him some respect. Mr. Sniffles was becoming anxious, eager to separate himself from these rubes.

“Where’s the video section?” asked Mr. Sniffles, his voice tinged with venomous impatience.

“The videos are in the video aisle, dumdum. Did you just blow in from Stupidville?”

“I’m of the philosophy that women shouldn’t speak in church, nor on the job,” said Mr. Sniffles.¹

“You better watch your mouth,” said Angeline. “I’m queen of the ham cubes!”

“More like queen of the deluded fruitcakes,” said Mr. Sniffles, rolling his eyes. “My new goal in life is to takeover this store in hostile fashion via eminent domain and turn this neighborhood into a food desert, rendering you unemployed in the process.”

“I’m going to self-publish a book about whales,” said Wilderness, wanting to be part of the action.

“You don’t know how to read,” said Mr. Sniffles.

“True, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know how to right,” Wilderness countered.

“Are you okay?” asked Mr. Sniffles. “You seem to be slipping into degeneracy.”

“I’m fine,” said Wilderness, no longer certain of his location in the time-space continuum.

“You’re not fine! You still have PTSD from four episodes ago!”

“You weren’t even around for that,” said Wilderness. “What would you know about anything?”

“I achieved omniscience sometime back in the eighties, around the same time I was doing your mom.”

“My back is a bit sore from being stuffed inside a rubbish bin,” Wilderness admitted.

“We’re about to close,” said Angeline, attempting to facilitate a temporary freeze on the abundance of idiocy which was ensuing. “Please locate your items and complete your purchases as quickly as possible.”

“That Christmas parade is going down,” said Mr. Sniffles.

“I like whales!” said Wilderness, drooling all over the place.

NEXT WEEK: MORE HOLIDAY CHEER! (AND EXCLAMATION POINTS!)

1. Let your women keep silence in the churches: for it is not permitted unto them to speak; but they are commanded to be under obedience, as also saith the law.

I Corinthians 14:34