81 Elephant fart

Truth about Methane Man. An intimate confession, a novel, a jeremiad, a bitter lament, a righteous prophecy, dictated by me, Methane Man.

I am not human, but rather a creature from Saturn, a universal explorer given the despised C3-route in the lottery of 1877 (Earth calendar).

The only thing giving me human shape is this spacesuit. It is basically a diving suit, Jules Verne era. Big round heavy metal head, hoses.

He wrote From the Earth to the Moon in 1865. I landed on your planet in 1877. I was sent here to interview him. That did not work as planned.

I am made of gas. I smell funny. OK, I smell bad. I smell like a fart. Like an elephant fart. You get the idea. Jules Verne was unimpressed.

He opened a window in his hotel and waved a pillowcase and I blew out onto the street and began to disperse. I was in very grave danger.

Across the street, fortuitously, Barnum and Bailey had a circus show called Tomb of The Unknown Astronaut. I fartseeped into the spacesuit.

I was a sensation. People paid a nickel to see me. Lined up all day in sweltering sun. I used my voice modulator to communicate with them.

I was not the most pleasant exhibit in the circus. I leaked fartsmells. Hurled insults. I was throughly obnoxious. The line ups got longer.

When the circus disbanded, I was placed in storage for 70 years in a warehouse by a bridge, my suit sealed inside a box, heavy diving boots.

In 1947 I was sold to the owner of Joy Motel, to be used as decor in the lobby. Fartastronaut from 1877, I don't know what he was thinking.

Eventually he stuck me in a room at the back where the smell from the factory next door made the room unrentable. Methane smell. Perfect.

The factory is still there, leaking methane. I capture it in red tanks. I have about 30 of them stacked in my room. They keep me going.

So that's me. I'm immortal. I left Saturn as a kid with big dreams. Came to a planet with smelly horse droppings on the streets. Not bad.

The thing is, I have visions. I see all. Well, let's not boast. I see pretty much all. I see into the shower next door. I see the Pentagon.

I see flowers blooming in Wichita. I see atomic bombs making mushroom clouds at Trinity. I see Kindred, Dick Overtone, K Tate and Lala.

The red balloon here at Joy Motel is a bit of me, methane filled, floating, exploring, investigating, casing the joint, stretching my legs.

This I know: Joy Motel is a sentient evil presence, breathing in, breathing out, alive and souldead at the same time, driven by turbines.

Dick Overtone is its malevolent technician. When he does not like the way things are going, he reels them in, pulls back, rewinds, reloads.

Then he spews things back out again, alternate universes, new personas, experimenting with truth and lies, the propaganda of life on Earth.

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