Help, Mykle Hansen is Eating Me!

November 29, 2009 at 10:32 am (Bizarro, Personal, Writing)

I am sure that many of you think you know fame. You do not.

No matter what you have done, no matter how far-reaching your accomplishments, how many books you’ve sold or how many lovers you have taken to your bed, you do not know fame.

You wouldn’t know fame if it bit you.

I say this, because it did bite me.

At Bizarro-con 2009, I was bitten by famous author, Mykle Hansen.

I shouldn’t have been wearing a bathrobe – that was probably mistake number one. That’s practically an advertisement, really. “Hey famous author Mykle Hansen, look at my soft, pink, exposed forearms; my lean but hearty man-calves…” If I had known then what I know now, I would have worn pants that night; perhaps a parka. Maybe I could have borrowed a furry hat from Bradley Sands to complete the illusion that I wouldn’t make a delicious mouthful for famous author Mykle Hansen.

The signs were all there. We all know about famous author Mykle Hansen’s famous book “Help, a Bear is Eating Me.” Does he write in a vacuum? No, the book rings true with the voice of an experienced carnivore. His authorial voice certainly plays the part of the victim, yes, but the bear’s motivation and single-minded focus could only have been written by a man-biter.

Famous man-biter, Mykle Hansen.

But surely, the suits must belie his voracious nature! The perfectly fit suits? A clever ruse. Ed Gein wore suits too – suits made from human ears. Famous man-biter Mykle Hansen keeps his own ear suits underneath the outerwear, the feeling of severed human flesh against his famous skin giving him sick authorial thrills as he goes about his business.

How else do you imagine the tears in that bathrobe I wore at the convention were opened? An accident? There are no accidents. There is only famous robe-tearer, Mykle Hansen, flashing incisors that could cut through a can of tomatoes (or several layers of terry-cloth) in one vicious bite, swooping in savagely to grab a mouthful of bathrobe and pulling, endlessly pulling!

Famous deranged cannibal, Mykle Hansen, what with his dashing good looks and stories of elderly crack whores and giant rampaging penises!

You might say that I contributed to my own mauling, but what was I doing on that fateful night? There I stood, happily sipping my drink on the porch of the old administrative house on the grounds of Edgefield Manor. The sun had long since set, and the scent of beer and saltwater floated through on the night breeze. My robe flapped lightly in the night air as I held aloft a basket of orphaned kittens that I had recently rescued from a flaming charity hospital. Humbly, gently, I told my fellow bizarros the story of how, on my way to the saltwater hot tub, I had felt in my bones a tingling sense that I was needed, and how my heroics had saved the day. “Three cheers for Michael Rose, the bathrobe enthusiast/heroic savior of everything!” someone cried, as I blushed demurely. I regaled my new friends (humbly regaled) with tales of my selfless courage and heroic efforts, and everyone seemed to be in good spirits.

What I did not know – could not know – was that famous Satan worshipper Mykle Hansen listened from the darkness, his talons quivering in anticipation of his next meal.

Without warning, he struck, as horrified literati looked on, their mouths agape in shock and horror. Famous panda molester, Mykle Hansen, was upon me, his hideous antennae and oozing sores gleaming in the moonlight as his mouth loomed larger and more savage by the second, growing and pulsating with the rhythm of the ancient elder gods which cannot be named.
Unhinging his jaw like a serpent, famous snake-impersonator Mykle Hansen swallowed me up into what can only be described as a void. “I can not allow such an unabashed force for goodness and joy to exist in the world,” he exclaimed, as I felt holes in my flesh tear into the indescribably chaotic shape of witty satire.

And then, almost as quickly as it began, it was over. I awoke staring up into the moonlight, bizarro authors and fans all around, talking amongst themselves about walruses and buffet breakfasts, Cameron’s proclivity for hurling meat and the disturbingly familiar taste of Jordan Krall’s ass juice. Mykle stood nearby, his trademark smile gleaming under the moth-killing light of the outdoor incandescents by the ad-house.

Had I dreamed the whole episode? Had I imbibed too much ass juice? I went on with my business and tried to forget about it for the rest of the weekend, despite people asking how my bathrobe had been torn. I must have tripped and fallen into some shrubbery, or perhaps the disposable razors that bizarro fan Zoe was handing out had taken on a life of their own and juggled themselves around my tender torso. I tried to forget… to heal…

But now, friends, now the hideous truth has revealed itself. Even now, I feel the pulsing of the moon. Its waxing and waning have a bitterly poignant effect on me… I have been cursed.

Let this tale serve as a warning, dear reader. Beware. The actions of famous maniac baby-eater Mykle Hansen must be brought to light, lest future bizarro authors suffer the same fate. Heed this incredibly well-written story, unless you are willing to disregard the horror – the indescribable terror – of a complete lack of vowel control.

As time creeps toward the full moon, I become:

Mychael A Rose.

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