The Story of Verbenstein

“Hail to thee, O noble Verbenstein!” the humble crowd chants in perfect unison, raising fists in the air.  It reminds me of when my parents made me to go to church as kid.  Oh, what a terrible time that had been.  Don’t get me wrong, I’m no satanist…I don’t pray to the dark lord down below…far from it.  I’ve even been referred to as an angel sent down from heaven…now, I would never say anything like that about myself, but it has been said by others.

Anyways, before I start tooting my own horn (only a select few people in the world can actually toot their own horn, one being Marilyn Manson if you believe the rib-removal rumor, that is), why don’t I start with how I got to be where I am today.

I was born in Slargenburgingtonville.  I don’t know who my real mother is because she abandoned me at birth – she left me on the doorstep of a child molester’s doorstep.  No joke.  I’d like to think she didn’t know…

The molester’s name was Victor Sphincterface.  He was wanted by the FBI for multiple child molestations.  His method was driving around in a large unmarked white Astrovan and asking kids to help him move something out of his van and then lock them in afterwards, just like Buffalo Bill did in Silence of the Lambs to that poor girl who was rocking out to Tom Petty in her car just before being abducted and succumbed to strange closet tranny activities.

Luckily, Victor wasn’t able to put his slimy paws on me because he was picked up by the feds on the same day my bitch of a mother left me on his doorstep.  I don’t even care if she knew that he was a molester or not, either way it’s a shitty thing to do to a newborn infant, and for that she’s a fucking bitch.  I could use a lot worse words, but negativity has never really been part of my twang.  Let’s just say the word I’d like to use rhymes with bunt.

After that I was put in an orphanage, or a group home, or youth treatment center, or whatever candy coated politically correct bullshit name you want to give it.  Any way you slice it, I was a kid living with a large group of other kids, all of us having one thing in  common – our parents either wanted nothing to do with us, or they were dead…and in some cases both.

I met a lot of real good friends at Cauliflower Mountain up in the boonies of Slargenburgingtonville.  That’s what they called it – Cauliflower Mountain.  Don’t ask me how they arrived at that name.  To me it makes about as much sense as an Ozzy Osbourne monologue.  Whoever named it must have been eating a heaping portion of cauliflower when their lightbulb went DING!  Just so happens they had it plugged into the wrong socket.

My first and best friend at Cauliflower Mountain was Timothy Thompson.  He was brought there when he was five years old.  He had it pretty rough in the years before that.  His mother, Dorothy Thompson, was addicted to Meth, and in order to support her habit she decided it was a good idea to set up a small amateur lab in their basement.  The problem (one of the many) was that she had no experience in chemistry and didn’t think to have any type of ventilation system.  It didn’t matter to her, she could get higher than a kite just by sitting in the basement and soaking in all the fumes, like some kind of fucked up steam room.

One day while Timothy was at school, Dorothy was down in the meth dungeon cooking up a batch for the upcoming week, and she decided she could use a cigarette.  The spark of her shiny Zippo was enough to blow the entire house off right off its foundation, killing her and her husband, Casey Thompson, who was sitting on the john and reading the newspaper, shitting out the remnants of his previous Budweiser binge from the night before.

Casey never really messed with the meth.  He had tried it before, but he didn’t like the way it made him feel all jumpy and paranoid – like he had drunk ten pots of coffee in one concentrated shot.  It did, however, allow him to drown himself with a superhuman amount of booze without any notion or need to pass out.

“That shit’ll kill ya darlin’,” Casey had said to Dorothy on more than a few occasions, and he was right about that.  He just didn’t know it would take his own life as well.  He’d reserved alcohol poisoning or liver cirrhosis for his cause of death.  Being shot like a rocket across Ryder Street in mid-defecation had not been on his list of mortality options, but life’s just full of surprises.

After this child services wanted young Timothy to live with close relatives, but this was not possible, as over the years the Dorothy and Casey had burned all the bridges to their families due to their addictions.  They were able to get a hold of his grandparents from Dorothy’s side, but they were both half in the grave and sorrowfully senile and in no shape to take care of a young traumatized child.

I remember the day I met Tim like it was yesterday…

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