Though the town agrees it is rather pretentious to write a lore about a man who was condemned and silenced by the people, it is only fair that all story is told. And here, before the reader, I lay, as the Towns Mayor, the lore of Mr. Dingle Waffle Poopustus, Jr.
Abode was home to all sorts of things, a human visits often, to revisit the day they came from their mother’s womb. Stripped of all artificial and man-made attire to stand face to face with nature, a battle that resounds for hours or minutes. As the Towns Mayor of Shitsville, it is my duty to preserve anonymous identity of all artists. Yet I see, and I hear all the songs and dance and what-nots. Here’s the thing, Mr. Dingle Waffle Poopustus Jr. or Poopustus from here on, was shit.
Dear reader, I am a respectable man, and I would never use it in the sense that humans degrade our people. Do not forget, after all Poopustus is the "Ultimate Guider" or the "Enlightened One" as we call him. He was quite… an odd child I must say. My people say he studied Latin and aspired to become a writer as I, myself am.
(STICK TO THE AUTHENTIC STORY! YA RASCAL!)
The town cries. When Shitsville cry, the mayor must listen.
Poopustus was born late than expected. Which meant he did have quiet the hardened childhood. This deformity did keep him at bay from most of his friends or colleagues. Yet, he was smart. He was an overflow of ideas. 10 minutes after his birth he already had written Shitsville’s best soliloquy. 20 minutes later, in his prime, he performed in the Globe and became the Shitsville’s own Shitspeare. He did indeed become a global sensation. Fast forward to the fame of this young gentleman, there did come a moment of downfall.
II. THE SLUMP
How can I describe the Slump to you? The monster of Shitsville, a terror and nightmare among the children that keep them awake at nights. Though it is unfeeling of me to call any creature so, I must call this nature’s dark matter as just that. Vile creature, living in the swamp among the fallen words, swimming and feasting on the terrors of a poet’s mind and an artists trembling hand.
The Slump destroys all.
One morning, Poopustus, set out on a journey, without a second knowledge of what was to come. He wanted to write his work—Toilet and Cressida, when he lost his path.
All heroes must face such a challenge, dear reader, no matter even if it means going to the Slump.
The road was dark and weary, filled with thorns and bushes full of malicious and undead creatures, unable to make out of the artist’s mind, struggling to come out but by the time it did it has become souls entrapped deep within the Hadesian Underworld. Mere thread-like webs of an existence, set to haunt the life of any artist all together, a dead idea, dear reader, is cursed to be a monster that feeds on the unfulfilled minds of the artist.
'What world?' thought Poopustus, 'what name?' echoed the Flush Sirens.
Poopustus, not trusting the Flush Sirens one bit turned to the only source of weaponry he had.
-The self of the artist.
Dear reader and my beloved Shitsville, when I tell you the next part of the story is nothing but straight out of a legend, you would laugh. Because we all know, Poopustus is the greatest legend himself to be alive, not another soul could have written.
The Flush Sirens called; "so many things to enjoy in this life! There's drinks and food, come sing and dance, let the music begin, let the entertainment take hold of you, this one more reel and then we will get to work"—it kept repeating. Poopustus’ will to not go lasted 3 seconds before he found himself swaying, in the midst of a little dance. His body flowing, the music too sweet to his ears. Yes, this must be it. This is where I can go and so I must.
A minute later the music stopped, and in the muck and dirt he finds himself, unable to push up, surrounded by dead music, dead artistry and the ashen remains of a word.
‘Ho! What world!’ he found himself repeating, with more intensity than before.
‘So you have come to my swamp’ said the Slump, ‘bold move, Mr. Dingle Waffle’ said the creature of the dark.
‘I’d rather be called Poopustus’ said the adamant artist.
‘Who cares what your name shall be, when no one will utter it after your artistry?’ mocked the creature.
‘I have written greatest of works Sir, I beg your pardon!’ said the irritated artist.
‘One great work is not the only idea you have, you sing and sway to the music and all pleasures of life and kill your ideas without a grave. And that grief is my ration’ he said, followed by a booming laughter, that echoed through the swamp.
The sirens hummed and chanted the creature’s name. So tempted was our dear Poopustus, to run to the music and all the entertainments of life, to drop his pen and paper and dance. And so close he got, oh he did!
A wisp, so faint and dying appeared in front of his eyes, rising from the swamp. ‘Do not betray the word, the art, the dream—it is eternal death of the mind without a grave’ it whispered. Not quite knowing what or who or which dead idea this was, Poopustus’ life flashed through his eyes. This must not be.
So he arose, defeating all the pleasures of life, and he scribbled the first three lines of the greatest play—Julius Peesar, from those hands itself we got our beloved story; one of treachery, betrayal and disheartenment—a signifier of all ideas never written. Poopustus himself calls it the Great Nirvana, for without truly standing face to face with fear, there is no way to unleash the greatest creation. So he made it out of the Swamp, followed by rigorous writing the next few days. With each sentence the Flush sirens grew louder and louder, tempting Poopustus to dance again.
Discipline, fellow reader, discipline was the key. For even when he wanted to give in, discipline made him think that he did a few lines, a few more couldn’t hurt.
And so, a great writer was born. Not his talent alone could be credited for his works, its commitment to his art that made him the great artist as we know today.
Applaud, audience. Fall, curtains.
Rona F.S
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