Lake of the Floaties, not so much a lake as a cesspool. A vile, putrid cocktail of disgust, fueled by the flush.

But it is his home.

He revels in the beauty of his home atop a bobbing styrofoam mat. He is one of the few who belong here, who is happy here, who would not leave this island for anything. He is ignorant of his insanity, and perhaps that is his savior, for any other would be surely overwhelmed by the rotten filth of his habitat, would surely be infected, poisoned by the deadly gurgle of bacterial breakdown, would surely choke on the rancid gasses which hover in thick, yellow clouds above his abode. Not Dingle, for it is his livelihood, his life, his power, his happiness.

Dingle does not often venture from his raft, he is overwhelmed by the need to protect his treasure. Although most people would not venture within a mile of the lake he believes it is a sought after treasure, a gift of godly magnitude, and he remains on his raft ready to defend it with ferver. His weapon of choice is a potato gun, fueled by methane and armed with bacterious fecal filth and toilet paper wads, his poisonous artillary can easily pick off a target 300 yards off shore.

On the occasions he does venture off his raft he is likely to be found in the saloon drinking bar whiskey and shouting obscenities at any passerby. The locals know better than to give him any lip, for he always carries a hip pouch of deadly bacterial fecalsludge which he wont hesitate to smear on your face, but all too often some poor soul tests him, and they usually end up dying in vomitus convulsions as he stands over them, grinning, laughing. His shit stained teeth have an evil yellow glimmer caused by uric acid, his glowing teeth are the last thing his victims see as they choke on their vomit. He always removes the crap filled underpants of his victims and flies them as a flag of victory upon his raft.

Fear the lake.
Fear the raft.
Fear the feces.
Fear the man.

You have been warned.

[a muRdeReR among us] | | [goodbye says it all]

Time. Does a madman have a concept of time... or does he just not care to be bothered with it?

It comes and goes for Dingle. A minute may as well be a week on his raft, but not because he can't concieve of time, rather he's ignorant of it. He is immensely intelligent, much too intelligent to worry about seconds and minutes and hours, but he is also completely mad. As a child, a hypnotist detected and identified over 2,000 unique personalities in him, and estimated as many as 5,000 more. Rumor has it as he floats upon his raft for weeks at a time his personalities are carrying on conversations with each other in his head, but none realize it's much, much more than that. Dingle is watching over his world...

Dingle is a god.

He does not have multiple personalities, rather he is a universe. Each being contained within him has it's own awareness, consiousness, emotions, personality... he is aware of each and each is aware of him. They worship him, praise him, fear him. They live, love, die, learn, evolve. His world has grown to millions. He believes he is their god as we are mere thoughts in the mind of another madman, God.

His true genious is unknown.
His true insanity is unknown.

And his universe comes to a standstill.
And he comes out of his trance.
The seconds and minutes and hours start ticking.
And he is no longer God, he is Dingle.

Dingle needs a drink.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Slappy's Bar and Grill is a rather popular place. It's dirt floors and dark wood walls give it a rustic feel, and it's swinging doors and antique register give it a western feel, but it's very clean and quite cozy. A wobbly ceiling fan slowly spins in the center of the room, churning thick clouds of smoke. Old neon lights, many long burnt out, hang on the walls. The ones that do work hypnotically flicker and buzz. Each of the square, wooden tables is covered by a red and white checkered tablecloth with a single candle in the center and surrounded by antique wooden chairs. Booths line one wall, thick, cushy booths, so cushy they're hard to get out of, and each booth has a miniature jukebox bolted to the wall. The bar lines the opposite wall, a long, dark, oak bar with wooden stools and a brass footrest. Bottle rings and cigarette burns are polished into the finish giving the old bar immense character. The wall behind the bar is lined with bottles of liquor and big jars of pickled feet and eggs, meatsticks and jerky. And of course behind the bar stands slappy, greeting every customer with a smile.

Everybody loves Slappy's, but to Dingle it is special. He doesn't mind the long journey, he spends it in progressive anticipation, and usually arrives at a sprint. It is the only place other than his raft that he feels comfortable, safe. He does not know the reason, but he has never tried to discern it. It's not the atmosphere, he prefers a much harsher environment and doesn't care for crowds. The whisky provides some consolation, but what he really seeks, unbeknownst to himself or slappy, is acceptance, friendship, companionship.

Slappy provides that. She is one of the few who do not fear Dingle, do not scowl at him, do not pity him. Rather she is intrigued by him, by his ingenious insanity, and she talks to him, and he talks back, and she has a gift for discerning his mad jumble of words. He enjoys that, being talked to rather than talked at, or talked about.

He's lonely.

But he won't consciously accept that, for he fears he'd be putting his universe in peril if he did, as a lonely god would be an angry god, or an evil god, and his people must come first.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The day is bright. The puffy, white clouds shine in utter brilliance against the dreamy blue sky. The leaves are as bright green as springtime in Montana, so bright they seem to glow. To the south the mountains paint the horizon, the northern skyline fades into the endless beauty of the sparkling sea. It is much too perfect a day for the pain that he feels.

Sorrow.
He doesn't feel excitement or anticipation this time, all he feels is anguish, he is mourning his love.

This will be his final journey...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The bar is empty. It usually is this time of day. The wobbly fan doesn't start churning smoke until dusk.

Slappy is busy rinsing glasses, slightly annoyed that she can't enjoy the sunshine, but she knows people will want to cap such a beautiful day at the saloon, so she rinses in anticipation of the crowds sure to come.

She has her back to the bar and fails to notice Dingle as he comes in and claims his regular stool at the end of the bar. Normally she would be able to smell him, but not today. Today she could feel him.

A cold lump formed in her chest, and trickled down her spine like a melting icecube. An overwhelming feeling of sadness came over her, of fear, panic. She turned around quickly to see Dingle in his seat, and shocked at his appearance, the glass she was rinsing shattered on the floor. He was tidier than she had ever seen him, his clothes were clean and he didn't smell, but he looked worse than ever.

Dingle sat, leaning forward, hands crossed, staring down at the bar. His skin was pale, his eyes bloodshot. His pain was unmistakeable and his grief seemed to cast a shadow of gloom across the room. His despair radiated, and penetrated, and slappy's eyes began to fill with tears, and she knew his pain was unfathomable.

Dingle sat motionless, slappy stood frozen.

But what could cause such dismay in a man?

"Are you O.K.?" slappy finally asked.

Dingle looked up, his eyes were glazed and erratic.

"The duke isn't dead, he's frozen." Dingle replied.

"Oh, I see..." began slappy.

"His cold heart is preferable to no heart, mine was taken, ripped, deep, cold, empty pit, why do you see me as mad?" continued Dingle.

Slappy opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted again.

"Can I get a witness?" spouted Dingle.

"Of course" replied slappy as she pulled a bottle of scotch from the shelf.

She set a glass on the bar.

"The satellites, the satellites are in space." said Dingle, motioning at the bottle.

"Sure" said slappy, and she slid the whole bottle to Dingle and turned around to put the glass away.

She stood still for a moment, silent, listening to him gulp the scotch. Staring at the sink, wondering what to do, whether to talk to him and find out what's ailing him or to let him be, then a voice rang out.

"Heya slappy!" shouted Mordecai as the doors flew open.

"Oh, hi mord" replied slappy as she scurried down the bar to pour him a drink.

Dingle didn't flinch, didn't notice, didn't care.

"Just finished a game of Rat Rape at the junkyard and meeting the boys here for beers" said Mordecai.

But he could sense it too.

"What's wrong with Dingle?" he asked.

Slappy leaned over and began whispering in his ear.

Dingle didn't flinch, didn't notice, didn't care.

People began to filter in, laughing, shouting, joking. The wobbly fan began to churn smoke.

Dingle didn't flinch, didn't notice, didn't care.

"Hey you fuckin meatheads, you'll never guess what I did last night! Hahahaha!" a loud voice shouted, and Wonderaz entered the bar chewing on a stogie, smiling ear to ear.

Dingle noticed, he knew that voice, he knew, it was him, and he stood up, and he saw him, he saw him, that was him, it was him, and his heart pounded, and his teeth clenched, and his mind raced, and it was him, it was Wonderaz.

Wonderaz could feel him, he could feel the stare, a laser beam gaze of rage that burned through the back of his head and into his mind, and he knew it, he knew Dingle was there, he knew why Dingle was mad, he knew Dingle was looking at him.

"So what is it Wonder? What you do that you're so happy about?" Asked Skapegoat.

Wonderaz turned around, hesitantly, and as his eyes met Dingles furious gaze his body froze, his skin turned white, he became paralized with fear.

The entire room became cold, and silent, and scared. They could feel the immense anger, they could almost see the pure hatred flowing though Dingles stare into Wonders petrified eyes. The only sound was Dingles grinding teeth and the soft squeak of the wobbly ceiling fan. Wonderaz began shaking uncontrollably, and urine dripped in a puddle underneath him as he lost control of his bladder. His knees gave out and he fell to them, but he couldn't turn away, he couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't breathe.

"Uhh, let's get goin guys" a voice squeaked after a few moments.
It was Paint CHiPs.

Dingle didn't flinch, didn't notice, didn't care. His gaze was increasing in intensity, his hate ravaged throughout his universe, and his people were petrified, and the fear of those millions was focused on him, it was him, he did it, it was Wonderaz.

Paint CHiPs and Skapegoat grabbed Wonderaz by the arms and pulled him out of the bar, his limbs frozen, his muscles tightly contracted. Everyone else followed in a hurry.

Slappy herself felt the fear, and for the first time ever was scared of Dingle. She turned towards his stool only to find him gone. She was slightly relieved, yet confused and worried.

Next to his empty bottle was a single teardrop. Under the bottle she found payment in full for his long running tab, and under that she found a note, scrawled out on a length of toilet paper. And she read it...

And Dingle began his final journey home.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

My foes...

I sit in disillusional dismay, scrawling my farewell in feces. What happened today is an appalling crime, a heartwrenching violation of decency, and I cannot bear the heartache. My heart and soul have been stolen, my hopes and dreams have been crushed, and i cannot begin to portray the immense grief that is overwhelming me. Everything I live for, everything I have ever lived for, and everything i ever hoped to live for, has been savagely destroyed by one man, Wonderaz.

This morning I awoke to a site so ghastly, so horrific it is indescribable. Last night Wonderaz released hundreds of gallons of chlorine and toilet bowl cleaner into my pond, murdering my family, my friends, and me.

I now go back to my home, which is nothing more than a mass grave of my loved ones, to join them. I will sink to the bottom and fill my lungs with my disinfected infectant, drowning my grief, ending my pain.

Farewell

Dingle

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

and as his universe collapses, millions of voices scream out in terror, and are suddenly silenced.

Silence