[Pt. 3 of 3]
Then, after doomsday, I return home on Pegasus and feed my cows and get some shuteye and eventually wake up and bathe in my icy pond while fully clothed and finally head back to school on Pegasus and don my coveralls and begin to work again.
Today my job is to cleanse the glass doors of the public school’s trophy display case. So I use a spray bottle that is, according to its label, filled with ammonia (if this is true, however, then it’s unclear to the audience why I keep occasionally spritzing the bottle’s contents into my mouth and saying yum-yum). After cleaning the glass, I use a key to open the locked case-doors, and I attempt to buff the trophies with my feather duster, but I end up knocking every single one on the floor, and they all shatter because they were made of pure gold, which shatters easily. (If your own statuettes do not shatter when you drop them, then they are likely not genuine gold but just aluminum that is spray-painted orange. — You should probably test them, right now, by dropping them, to make sure. Go ahead, my story can wait: I won’t continue the narration until you return.) So I use my broom and dustpan to sweep up this mess. Now I’m left with an empty display case: all the trophies have been destroyed. I then unzip my coveralls and step out in style, wearing my fine Italian suit with snakeskin boots. Heading over to the time clock, I punch my card; then I light a cigar filled with cannabis and enter the principal’s office.
“Bryan? Is that you?” the principal looks up from the paperwork on the desk where he is sitting. “You look fantastic! Are you planning on attending the prom?”
“No, I’m the janitor, remember?” I answer. Then, after inhaling deeply on my cigar and holding my breath for longer than any U.S. Marine ever could, I add: “It would be a conflict of interest for me to take one of your teachers to the ball tonight. They might end up pregnant. So I’m heading back to my pond.”
“Ah, smart man,” sighs the principal; “I wish that I myself could avoid all the conflicts of interest that make this life worth living.”
“Then come join me,” I say, sucking deeply on my cigar. “I’d welcome the company.”
The principal shuts the manila folder that he was dealing with; then stands and takes the coat from the back of his swivel chair. “I accept your offer,” he announces.
“Good,” I say.
So we hold hands and walk in the moonlight until we reach Pegasus. I untie her and we mount up and fly home. (I call the area just outside of the cowshed my “home”, despite the fact that it’s unwalled and ceilingless.) It’s only three blocks away from the school, so the trip takes less than a quarter of an hour. Then we dismount near my bedroom (that’s what I call the zone surrounding the hay bale that I sleep on), and Pegasus flies off, leaving me and my guest alone in the romantic summer air.
The night is silent. The principal and I stand staring at each other for what seems like eons. Then he unzips his fat-suit, and I discover to my infinite delight that this public-school principal is not really an obese old man but actually a handsome and distinguished fifty-seven year old retired female librarian. She explains that she began wearing the Big Male Boss Costume because the school has a rule against hiring unwed seductresses. So she and I procreate three children together by the pond; but they all end up drowning. Two drown in childhood, and the last drowns after becoming an international tax lawyer.
Now, you may be wondering what happens to all the cattle that I am keeping in my cowshed, during this time when I am dating our public school’s principal. Well, I’ll tell you: Those cows produce very many gallons of milk, each year of our fling. And our fling lasts five years.
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