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And all Nigel got was a winner medal. It was made of the finest Taiwanese plastics, lovingly coloured with gold flaky stuff, and a ribbon that didn't quite fit properly over his head. Not that any presents, any material objects that could conceivably have been presented to Nigel, would have made much of an impact - not a child anymore, if he desired any cheap purchase he would have just bought it himself. |
Socially unacceptable stuff was often perfectly acceptable to Nigel. But he couldn't imagine one of the boxes under the tree containing a subscription to www.peeingteens.com.
That winner medal was not utilitarian, nor decorative. Not giveable, not presentable, wankable, almost not even wearable.
But he quite liked it. It was cause for much hilarity on Christmas morning. He had worn it to the supermarket on several occasions to see if anyone would notice, but if anyone had, they hadn't shown it.
Because he was one super winner medal deserving son of a gun.
The winner medal came with a urine test for performance-enhancing drugs. It consisted of a device slipped over the penis, which filtered the urine before entering a long tube which entered a little plastic hand-held bag. The bag contained crystals which glowed yellow for various substances banned by the IWS (Int. winners society).
Nigel tested positive which destroyed any slightly good, simple feelings that had crept in beneath the detached ironic manner he normally posessed. He sent the results off to IWS and awaited the response in a fit of gloom.
Over six weeks later the results came back, yes the test
had picked up some drugs, fortunately they were of
the performance-diminishing variety, stuff like dandelion
and candied parsnip. So he had in fact
become a winner despite the deprivation and sufferings
and misery caused by his childhood and rock'n'roll and
substance abuse.
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In an interview of the time, Nigel had talked at the length about the frustrating creative processes that had led to an ultimately self-destructive cycle of explosives and weapons. Even though he had experienced ego and physical death, some glimmer of individuality was able to transcend the mutilated corpse and inspire his relatives to honour him with the winner medal. It was all revealed to be a bit suspect however when his corpse was discovered to be that of an extremely hairy pig, and Nigel's voice to be a wailing sound. |
With his new-found spirit, Nigel decided to set a goal of representing his country at the performance-impaired olympics of 2002. He didn't train and didn't plan. He didn't win but claimed that the other athletes had taken more performance diminishing drugs than he had. The investigators rubbished his claims, but Nigel could not let the matter lie.
While the court battles took their toll on his vitality, he began training for the winter performance-impaired olympics. Specifically the luge. Nigel did not spare the drugs this time, he openly consumed huge amounts of muscle-shrinking hormones as well as plenty of fat and carcinogens.
Unfortunately he was soon to be surrounded in yet more legal controversy with his use of lipo-inflation, injecting fatty deposits into strategic areas to improve aero-laminar flow. It was felt this went against the spirit of impairment, however he was allowed to compete. Other competitors, lacking Nigel's steadfast dedication, were able to compensate somewhat by strapping large blocks of margarine to their thighs & stomach. The margarine retained its shape in all but the hottest weather, and it had the advantage of not flapping in the wind.
This, indeed, was Nigels downfall. On the day of the competition a strong headwind was blowing. The aerodynamics of the injected fat were not considered for such windspeeds, and his body began to flap wildly in the vortexes.
Confident of victory with his new lard implants.
Nigel becomes perturbed as the vortexes build.
Internal bonds started to break down. Connecting tissues disconnected. Lardy farty lumps shifted. By the time Nigel reached the bottom he was a changed man. No longer the sleek teardrop shaped man of before, he was now a lumpy mishapen pustule. (He became a poster boy for the ugly boy posters.)
Lardy farty lumps shift shudder and smoke.
But what of his placing? Did this sacrifical hog render his offering valid by a medal placing? In a word, no. He came fourth, in a disputed photo finish. The third place getter's margarine block had fallen off and raced ahead for a proxy finish.
Nigel narrowly pipped at the post by a rogue mound of margarine.
Nigel examined his options. As a mishapen middle-aged former impaired luge racer, with mounting legal bills and one winner medal, what did the future hold?
A life on the benefit, downloading porn on a cheap obsolete computer for thrills, waiting to die.
