1.
	
   Jonah Biscuit loved to watch TV.  He would sit for hours on end,
captivated by the flickering phosphors.  Tonight was no exception.
   The drapes were drawn, all lights were extinguished, and the only light
in the room was provided by the idiot box.  The last strains of the national
anthem blared triumphantly, as scenes of America in all her majestic
splendor flashed across the screen.  Jonah grumbled as snow replaced the
picturesque imagery, and harsh white-noise took over the patriotic music.
   He rolled over as the couch's springs squealed, protesting the heavy
burden placed upon their metallic shoulders.  Sleep never came easily for
Mr.  Biscuit.  He tossed and turned fitfully for well over an hour, trying
various positions to find just the right one.  Finally, it came.
   Edgar Alan Poe was once quoted as saying "Sleep.  Those little slices of
death.  How I loathe them." Jonah felt quite different when it came to
nocturnal nourishment, however.  He thought of sleep not as little slices of
death, but brief periods of bliss interrupted by the depressing reality of
waking up to find your foot in a puddle of doggie business.  Each morning
was the same.  Each night, on the other hand, was delightfully different.
   You see, Jonah Biscuit is what sleep researchers call a "lucid dreamer". 
In other words, he is not a hapless pawn of his subconscious while in
Dreamland, like most are, but instead is able to control the course of
events to such an extent that he becomes, in effect, God.  
   Where to tonight, a bordello in New Orleans perhaps? Or something even
better, like a sheik's tent, where his harem is primed for action? Outer
space? Inner space? There was only one thing Jonah's  dreamworld couldn't
be.  Boring.
   Jonah decided tonight's feature in his own little subconscious theater
would take place on the moon.  Not our moon, for that's much too dull.  One
of Jupiter's moons.  Io, to be exact.
   Jonah flew through the earth's strata- and ionospheres, sailing through
the air with the effortless grace of a concert pianist performing a
magnificent sonata.  Past Mars, the Asteroid Belt, on to the massive
behemoth known as Jupiter -- the roman head deity, God among a kingdom of
gods.  Finally, he arrived.
   He decided not to spend time on the moon, after all.  Instead, Jupiter
itself ended up being the destination of Jonah's cosmic couch trip.  The
gravity had quite an effect on Jonah's descent, his speed increasing to such
an extent that the G-forces almost caused him to black out.  All he had to
do, however, was remind himself it was only a dream, and he made a quick
recovery.
   Jonah's downward plunge continued, and he began to worry.  What if he
couldn't stop? What if he crash-landed on the surface with his body
splattered over miles and miles of unyielding planet?
   Jonah was right on one account.  He couldn't stop.  On the other, he soon
realized, he was wrong.  Dead wrong.
   Closer.  The  heat  boiling his  blood.  Closer.  The  G-forces
contorting  his  face.  Closer.  The  noxious  odor  filling  his nostrils. 
Closer...
   Jonah  plunged straight into hell -- or at least a  reasonable facsimile. 
It wasn't nearly as unyielding as the planet's surface, it merely swallowed
him up, and peacefully went about his business.  It took about a nanosecond
for Jonah's body to liquefy, but to him, it felt like  an eternity.  Jupiter
made a burping (?) sound, and it's red spot bubbled happily.  It, like a boa
constrictor, ate its victims whole.

	Jonah woke up screaming, drowning in a pool of his own sweat.


	2.

   Doritos.  Twinkies.  Oreos.  Fudgeos.  Cheezeos.  Donuts.  Cake.  And, of
course, potato chips.  Truckloads of Hostess, Old Dutch, and O'Grady's
contributed to the sea of junkfood in which the couch was afloat.  
   Jonah reached for a pack, like a newborn yearning for its mother's
nipple.  He grabbed some O'Grady's Au Gratin, the taste of well-aged cheddar
would provide some comfort, at least.
   Munch.  Munch.  
   How come I couldn't control that dream? Munch.  Hmph! Munch.  Wonder
what's on now?
   With the taste of vintage cheese in his mouth, he soon forgot about last
night's little excursion and concentrated on this morning's viewing
enjoyment.  Let's see...  Should I watch "The Olde Time Faith Healing Hour"
or "The Jetsons"? Tough choice.
   George Jetson and the gang had lost their dog, and the next half-hour of
hilarity would be spent trying to find him.  Pretty exciting stuff for six
in the morning.
   "Now George, you'd better hurry or you'll be late for work!"
   "Mom, where's Orbity? Mom, where's my toothbrush? Mom, where's my
favorite towel? Mom, where's Astro? Mom?"
   "Why, I don't know.  George, how about you?"
   "Huh? Oh...  In the cupboard under the sink."
   This was greeted with about ten seconds of canned laughter.
   "No, no.  I mean Astro.  You know, our dog!"
   "Oh.  I really don't know, dear...  Well, I guess I'm off to work. 
See ya hon!"
    With that, George stepped in the elevator and was whisked away to
another day doing whatever it is he does at Spacely Sprockets.
    Six thirty.  Time to watch the young, lithe bodies on one of his
favorite shows, "Morning Stretch".
   And a one, and a two.  Reach for that donut.  Come on, you can do it. 
And a three, and a four.  Let's eat some more.  Remember, no pain, no gain.
   Check out those nips.  Mmmmm.  Finger-lickin' good.  
   Munch.  Munch.
   "We  interrupt  this  program  to  give  you  this  special bulletin... 
Walter Hudson, the twelve-hundred-pound New Yorker, who recently slimmed
down to a svelte eight-hundred, has died.  Doctors determine the cause of
death to be stress-related cardiac seizure.  In other words, an
exercise-induced heart attack.  We now return you to our
regularly-scheduled program..."
   "And forward, and back! And up, and down! Now doesn't that feel good?"  
   The young, lithe bodies lost some of their lustre as Jonah realized that
could just have easily been him.  If you consider reaching for another bag
of Doritos stress! Ha! Ha!
   Munch.  Munch.
   
   
   3.
   
   Jonah's wife, Bertha, stayed with him for one reason.  Certainly not
love, for she didn't have the slightest feeling at all for him.  After ten
years of marriage she didn't even know him.  She liked it that way, and,
curiously, so did he.
    Why, then? Why did she stay, a slave to his obsessive demands for food
and other "services"? The answer involved a little green monster, one that
devoured many a soul through the ages.  Its name was Greed.
   As a child, Jonah was a spoiled brat.  Every whim, every wish merely a
word away.  He enjoyed life deep in the lap of luxury, and had grown used to
doing nothing all day but loafing.  And, of course, eating.  No, eating
isn't the right word for what he did.  Gorging would be much more
appropriate.
   His father had invested in IBM way back in the forties, and, with the
coming Information Age, the profits had sailed through the roof.
   Jonah had more money than he could ever hope to spend, and his wife was
the only heir.  Sounds like an Agatha Christie novel, doesn't it?
   Every pound her husband gained was another nail in his coffin, and she
couldn't help but smile as she watched him gorge.  The couch, on which he
was a permanent fixture, had managed to sustain his immense weight for ten
years.
   Exactly how much did he weigh? Eight hundred? A thousand? Even more? She
knew one thing.  He made that Walter Hudson guy look like an anorexic stick
of a model.
   His face looked like a lump of dough, with two deeply-set raisins for
eyes.  Jowls that hung down to his shoulders, at least three or four
chins... and that turkey-neck.  It was enough to make you lose your lunch.
   Breasts that would turn Dolly Parton green with envy, thighs the diameter
of tree trunks, and Sasquatch-sized feet.  A little tiny mouth, looking like
a blue whale's blowhole, adorned his dough-face.  He chuckled heartily, and
the rolls of fat rippled through his body.
   He looked like one big water balloon.
   His  breath was like rotting flesh,  his scent  like  moldy vomit.  Waves
of odor wafted towards Bertha, and she plugged her nose in repugnance.  He
never brushed his teeth, and one glimpse of the blackened stumps that filled
his mouth made her flesh crawl.  Never showered, never changed his clothes...
   The full bedpan sitting on the floor next to him sent out a few waves of
odor of its own, and she knew the time had come.
   Pat  Sajak's shit-eating grin reflected off the silver  pan, encouraging
another contestant to go for "Big Money".  She shuddered, stooped, and
grasped the bedpan's gleaming edge, careful to avoid the big turd which sat
there.

	
	4.
	
   The fecal matter swirled down the toilet, and the horrendous smell began
to dissipate.  She gave the bowl one last spray of Lysol, and breathed a
deep sigh of relief.
   Somebody had left the comics section by the toilet, and Garfield was
warning Odie to "STAY OUTTA MY SANDBOX!".  She laughed, seeing her husband's
face on the fat feline's body.
   Bertha.  Now there's a name that conjures up a few nice images.  A crusty
old bag watching the "Young and the Breastless" while chowing down on a pack
of glazed Timbits.  An old maid sitting by the window, waiting patiently 
for her knight in shining armor.  Never  "Bertha  the Beautiful", right?
Wrong!
   This Bertha was indeed a sight for sore eyes.  Her sparkling topaz eyes
contrasted very nicely with her long, dark brown locks.  High cheekbones and
a finely-sculptured nose made her face look like it was chiseled in stone. 
Bertha's statuesque beauty made her a tempting target.  Yet, her blimp of a
husband cared little.  He would much rather watch "Sale of the Century" than
fuck.  Thank God.
	She admired her firm breasts -- "Crispy on the outside, tender and juicy
on the inside." Tonight, she would show them off to her most recent
undercover lover, Cain Candy.
   Plunging necklines, and tight leather skirts would be the order of
business tonight.  No bra, no panties.  Maybe even some kink, if Cain was up
for it.  She chuckled at her witticism, proud of her substantial intellect
as well as her heart-stopping good looks.
   She was high on love, high on money, but most of all, she was just plain
high.  A few toots of coke had cleared her head of all inhibition, and she
would submit to anything.  Mr.  Goodyear had no idea what was going on, and
it was very easy to keep it that way.
   She glanced down at her diamond-studded Rolex, seeing that the time for
her liaison was now.  She remembered that line from "Whole Lotta Love" by
Led Zep: "Shake for me, girl! I wanna be your backdoor man." Tonight, it had
a very special meaning.  She had a thing for rear entry.  Just thinking
about it made her nipples stand up in anticipation.
   Her backdoor man was waiting for her at the back door, smiling at her
attractive attire.  He whistled seductively, then in a low, husky voice
said:
   "Mmm.  Mmmm.  You look good enough to eat."
   She grinned from ear to ear, her pert nips poking through her revealing
blouse.


	5.
	
    Every decade has its drug, every era its elixir.  
    Cocaine,  LSD,  marijuana, heroin, PCP, opium, magic mushrooms,
alcohol...  some even got high by sniffing cat nip.  From the cro-mags
sniffing the pungent fumes of some burning herbs, to a teenager shooting up
because his girl won't heed his advances, our society has done it all.   
   Jonah's body quivered as he shot up with another healthy dose.  No needle
broke his skin, yet a hideously powerful opiate was surging through his
bloodstream -- headed straight for his brain.  There was no fine white powder
to snort, no dense smoke to inhale, no brightly-colored pill to ingest, not
even a strong shot of JD to down.  And yet, he was high.
   A common ploy used by adolescents to lure others into the narcotic
cesspool is: "Aww, come on...  everybody else does it." With this form of
chemical euphoria, that is indeed the case.  It is the most common drug in
the world -- harmless for most, but for an unfortunate few it can become a
deadly obsession.  Its name was television.
   Jonah's eyes glazed over, like a pothead frying his brains in the school
washroom, and he began to mumble.  His basset-hound-like jowls bounced
happily as he babbled on incoherently.  His voice was a cross between an
asthmatic wheeze and deep growl.  The rolls of fat surrounding his lips gave
him quite a lisp, and, had the situation been different, he would have
laughed aloud at himself.  He sounded just like a dentist's patient
(victim?) in a losing battle with Novocain for the control of his mouth.
   Jonah was chuckling at another of Dave Letterman's witty asides when he
felt a sharp jab between his shoulder blades.  Then another near his 
tailbone.  Then another...  and another.
   Jonah felt warm blood trickle slowly down his spine, and a scream began
to rise in his throat.  A spring popped out of one of the cushions --
sending stuffing and crumbs flying.  It began to bend and curl
ever-so-slowly around his left leg -- digging into the tender flesh with the
slow, steady precision of a clockwork toy.  Another appeared at his right
elbow, encircling the limb with effortless grace.  Another at his right leg,
his left arm...  his neck.
   Jonah was restrained as effectively as a patient in a psycho ward, and he
was struggling just as fruitlessly to break free.  His body thrashed, his
chest heaved...  but the bonds only tightened.  They formed deep grooves
where the constricted blood flow had turned his skin paper-white.
   Two coils impaled his kidneys, another two pierced each buttock, and
finally, one particularly sharp one plunged through the back of his skull. 
The couch began to bounce rhythmically, heaving up and down like a
newlywed's bed.  A coil sprang up and neatly impaled a bag of Old Dutch,
greedily dragging it down into a bottomless abyss.  A donut was next.  Then
a cupcake.  Finally, as if in a symbolic gesture, a bloodstained spring
coiled around a bottle of Coke and squeezed.  Shards of glass flew
everywhere... impregnating themselves in various parts of Jonah's anatomy...
his thighs, his chest... and, of course, his wide-open eyes.  One landed
smack-dab in the center of the TV screen, showering the room with sparks.
   Bertha ejaculated right at the moment Jonah was swallowed by the couch. 
Her nose bled as he was dragged down into the bottomless abyss, where
midnight is eternal and no one ever wakes from nightmares.  
   The taste of revenge is indeed sweet.


  
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