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No more. It is now a rotted shambles with ragged, gaping holes in it's walls that appear blown violently outwards from the interior. Windows are shattered, there are angry scorch marks marring entire sections of the roof and the porch is sagging inward, saturated and weighed down with some sort of heavy green mucus, still wet. To look at it is to be overwhelmed with a pitiful sadness and creeping uneasiness. It's enough to put you off your Slurpee.
A man stands in the driveway, surveying the scene. His stance is casual, his hat tilted back as he lazily lights a hand-rolled cigarette and squints through the smoke at the sort of heart rending carnage that would make any sane man claw his own eyes until they wept blood. But Steve Canyon, The Corduroy Cowboy, is not any man and he is not likely sane. He knows what has done this and he's come here to battle it. To fight back against the most insidious, evil infestation that suburban America has ever seen.
We all remember The Snorks. Or at least we think we do. We remember the cartoon version of them, lovable little sea creatures full of laughter and life. There was Dimmy and Junior and Tooter. Of course, Allstar Seaworthy and Casey and Dr. Galeo. Some considered them a transparent attempt by Hanna-Barbera to cash in on the overwhelming popularity of The Smurfs but the discerning cartoon connoisseur understood that they could stand on their own merits. Unfortunately, the general public never caught on and their broadcast existence was short-lived. That's the official version of their story that we all remember. The show was cancelled and the Snorks faded quietly away into eighties television obscurity.
Like hell they did.
There is a team of battle hardened modern warriors that will tell you a different, altogether more harrowing, tale. In their lead is Steve Canyon, is a man like no other, a renegade from another time. Dressed head to toe in dark beige corderoy and a wide brimmed western hat, he walks with the haughty swagger of a gunslinger, heedless of the ever present zip-zip sound the fabric of his suit makes. "The first thing you need to know about Snorks is that they're mindless, bloodthirsty killers," Canyon explains. "You turn your back on one for even a second and it'll rip a chunk outta yer ass size of Mom's Sunday meatloaf."
Team bio-animologist, Pizer Vertiklung, takes a more scientific approach to describing the modern Snork. "You have to understand, these are not the same Snorks we knew and loved and fantasized about those many years ago. They have mutated. Gone are the fun loving, happy creatures that were carnally lusted over by so many in the scientific community. They have been replaced over time by filthy, venal, uncontrollably destructive little mini-beasts of total horror."
It's obvious that this new breed of mutant Snork does not require a cheery, danceable theme song, but rather a soul chilling dirge of death to announce their arrival. Verklung explains the history behind the tragic transformation. "It all began when they were shunned by an apathetic viewing public who saw them as nothing more than underwater clones of those hideous, repulsive Smurfs. You know what that does to a cartoon character? To spend your time in the shadow of such vapidity and not receive your due credit as an original, worthy of respect and admiration, especially from the honeys? It's enough to make a junior biology intern murder his mentor....or, ahem, in this case to make an entire race of cute cartoon pseudo-amphibians turn rancid with hate and discover a taste for man-blood."
So what is the nature of a Snork infestation? What are the tell tale signs? Brute Sprigspleem is a Snork tracker. It's his job to understand his prey. "Well, first thing you'll notice is that your toilet doesn't flush properly. You know when it continues running after you flush and you have to jiggle the handle to get it to stop? Most people won't realize that that is, in fact, the first sign that you're right in line for a grisly, gut ripping death. You see, Snorks are water creatures so they are attracted to moisture. First place they show up in a house is the dumper."
At Snork Snuffers team headquarters in North Bergen, New jersey, there are volumes of case files that document the evidence of this awful reality. They do indeed need moisture to survive. Infestations, thus, begin in drain pipes, gutters, leaky basements and septic systems. Whole swarms will set up a teeming, slime-ridden colony in the tank behind your toilet. The team admits that few people understand the true dangers involved. "They're fuckin' filthy." says Lorna Deuscherer, office manager. "Just look at 'em, will ya? That fleshy tube on the top of their head is a fuckin' germ-incubator. The diseases they carry number in the thousands, most of 'em lethal to humans. You ain't seen shit to you've seen a bathroom covered in Snork Snot." Ms. Deuscherer, displaying multiple visible cold sores on her upper and lower lips, can obviously speak knowingly on this disturbing viral side effects of the epidemic.
So what possible remedy could there be for such an incomprehensible menace? What are the countermeasures? "Grizzlies." explains Canyon. "We head on up to the mountains and catch us a mess of big grizzlies and starve 'em for about four days or so. Then we pump 'em full of crystal meth and cut 'em loose in the infested location with a handful of coked-up badgers thrown in for good measure. Tears the mother-lovin' shit outta the house but by the time they're dead, over 40% of the Snorks will be gone for good. Thats when we move in with the flame throwers and nerve gas."
Steve Canyon grinds out the last spark of his cigarrette beneath the heel of his finely filagreed leather boots and spits down wind as he fixes the destroyed mansion with a smouldering stare. The screams inside the residence are dying down and a group of bulldozers are moving in to tear down the house's western wall. The animal carcasses have been moved to the gardens where they are being burned, filling the sky with a dark oily haze. The mood has turned somber. "It's hard to watch, isn't it?" Canyon muses. "Lives ruined, a landmark destroyed. Not to mention the emotional and physical toll on my men. Half my guys can't even get it up anymore. The other half masturbate uncontrollably in public. It's bad."
"Is it worth it?" we ask. Steve thinks so.
"Who else is going to stand up? We're it, brother. The last line of defense against a tidal wave of ever multiplying, vicious, murdering cartoon characters gone utterly fucking amok. If we don't do this, who will?"
Canyon adds that, along with Snork control, his company also has solutions for Mon Chi Chi removal, Care Bear assasination and the pacification of any renegade characters from Fraggle Rock. When asked about The Herculoids he hesitates.
"Man, I may be crazy, but I'm not suicidal. No one fucks with The Herculoids."
© Ken Socrates 2005. All rights reserved.
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