Taren glanced down at the tips of his Oxfords as they were the only thing safe to stare at for the moment. Unfortunately for Taren, staring at ones feet while running away is not conducive to one’s safety. This, Taren was discovering very quickly as he ran skull on into a street lamp.

The damage to the street lamp was minimal, but there was a faint impression of Taren’s knotty head upon the smooth, metallic form of the street lamp. Had said lamp been sentient, it would not have hesitated in squashing Taren into a well-deserved lump. It wasn’t sentient, so the street lamp had to settle with flickering its pool of yellow light in distressed annoyance.

Taren knew he needed to get up and begin that activity he had been possessed of before flesh met metal met asphalt. Lying on his back, staring obliquely at the stars above (those in the sky, not the ones gadding about in multi-coloured splendor about his brow) and sighed deeply. Maybe this would be where he stops. Maybe this would be the place of his last stand (or lie down, if you’re being anal about it).

As for the stars (again, the ones in the sky? you ought to be paying attention by now!) they were drunk. They had been for millenia but those in scientific charge of public information on said phenomena was something those scientists kept to themselves. After all, how would you feel if your nest paper as a scientist was to disclose the fact that the only reason stars twinkle is because they are blindingly drunk? You’d be fired and working at 5am getting to know your new buddies, Ollie, Frank, and Pistol, as you collect curbside refuse and take it to the dump for the seagulls to feast upon. May I remind you that of the three, Frank was the one that went to prison for shooting his wife in the middle of La Traviata. He got out on good behavior, and fantastic chocolate chip cookies.

However, Taran mused, he wasn’t a scientist, he didn’t know the stars were drunk, and so he really didn’t realise that Frank would not be pounding his face into the pavement for that practical joke in prison, when they were bunkmates, the late night he’d painted Frank’s face to look like his ugly sister, Lewella Janus Hartgefelder.

Lewella Janus Hartgefelder had her own problems, too. If she’d known of the insult thrown her way via her brother by Taran, his face would be irrevocably re-arranged. However, Lewella Janus Hartgefelder, as I pointed out before, has her own problems. One that she is happily dealing with one street over from the street Taran is reclined, halfway, upon. A rather nasty troll who loves to wax poetically in Letters To the Editor, and on occasion, Dear Abby, is getting warmly toasted by Frank’s sister via the flamethrower she rented this afternoon ($29.95/day, you pay for fuel, $10/day fee penalty if said flamethrower is used beyond the contracted stipulation).

It was the smoke that finally roused Taran from his reclining discomfort partially on Mulberry Street. Taran, you see, hated smoke. It meant he wouldn’t be breathing ere long and when one’s breathing is suspended, whether voluntarily during a mad coitus affair, or from a simple burning troll, it just doesn’t make for a pleasant day.

Just as Taran was about to move, Ollie, Frank, and Pistol’s garbage truck was barging merrily down Mulberry Street. Pistol was driving, even though he was a bit of a maniac, but he’d won the coin toss that morning so it was his turn to drive the truck. It didn’t matter that Pistol’s coin was a double-sided header. Everyone knew he cheated at every possible activity he was capable of so it was no small matter to him when he felt something like a giant feather pillow impacting with the grill of the truck. Backing up, he gunned the engine, and forced the heavy vehicle in a violent rage over whatever he had struck.

Pistol wouldn’t get away with that move, even though Taran was hardly in a position to exact any sort of revenge upon anyone. As a mangled half heap of blood and bone (don’t forget, he was only halfway in the street, so his legs were perfectly fine) Taran was preparing to go all revenging ghost upon that crazy Pistol and he would have succeeded just fine, haunting the maniac Pistol for the rest of his unworthy life, but it appears that Taran had completed all his earthly business and so he was express elevator’d to his final destination.

Sometime later, it would be Ollie, trying to see over the heads of Mulberry Street neighborhood folk, cops, coroner, firemen, and one congressman, who would quip,

“It is ugly and must go.”

In Memoriam: Taran Aloysius Freemantle Flame.

Gormenghast Oleg Shakespeare: Taran’s obituary
World-renowned flower picker Taran Aloysius Freemantle Flame died today in a hospital in Bugtussle, OK. Doctors are still unsure of what exactly caused the death, but believe it was due to complications after Taran Aloysius Freemantle Flame ran too fast and suffered pains in his Leg. He was thirty years old.

Taran Aloysius Freemantle Flame was a grotesque person, who enjoyed everything about life. He was known for his passion for frankfurters and beans, which he often ate two times a day. He loved to share frankfurters and beans with everyone, and would even offer frankfurters and beans to strangers. Taran Aloysius Freemantle Flame also enjoyed traveling, especially to historical landmarks, and loved meeting people around the world. On his trip to Toad Suck, AK he even met the president (and yes, he offered him frankfurters and beans). After meeting him, Taran Aloysius Freemantle Flame said the President was blissful.

Taran Aloysius Freemantle Flame is survived by his partner Gabby Eleanor Spitmouth, their six children, and their pet jackalope named flay-craw.

Get yer own obit.