Milton Flopski (aka) Fat Milton
The excellent exploits of a rather large, bulbous young lad...
Once upon a time, Milton Flopski of Decatur Georgia decided that it was high time he set out into the world in pursuit of fame and fortune as a UFO investigator, and documentor of para-normal activity amongst Albino refugees of the South Western Perimeter.
His stout 475 pound mass of flesh, proved quite cumbersome upon the corroding 1952 Shwinn, tricycle that he set out upon in pursuit of adventure. Rounding the first downhill curve on a rural mountain path, Milton veered recklessly beyond the edge of the craggy road, thus plummeting forward, head over heel into a rather thorny patch of wild brush. If not for his fortitude, Milton would have ended his quest that very moment, but he chose to ignore the first sign of impending disaster through sheer stupidity, masked as entrepreneurial spirit.
There did exist a moment when, Milton pondered the benefit and worth of his trivial venture, yet discarded all negative input from friends and family who had followed him to that point attempting to thwart his plans. They enticed him with fresh baked fruit pies and weiners, succulently tucked between soft, delicate folds of wheat, risen and baked to perfection. The sensuous aroma pulled sweetly at his olfactory receptors like an invisible hand, gently prodding...beckoning.
Righting his enormous mangled mass, Milton sped off with a wisk of dust and stone trailing behind. Friends and family stood helplessly silent as they watched their beloved blubber, flap exuberantly in a rush of wind as Milton sped away reciting the Gettysburg address above the blaring chords of Ride of the Valkyries, from his transistor radio, rubber-banded securely to the handlebars.
Shortly, after falling from sight of his native abode, Milton had the first manifestation of a seemingly alien craft, hovering in silent splendor above Old Man Beidermeyer's cornfield. Crow lay scattered and dead upon the rich fertile earth in every direction. Their wings appeared as bent antennas, being devoid of feathers and flesh...something of an abnormality, he concluded. The aberrant nature of this find, resulted in a flow of goose-bumps, followed by explosive bowel evacuations, as the Lad remounted his trusty tricycle and sped onward.
Though racked with fear and foul scent, Milton retained enough self-efficiency to snap a series of photos over his left clavicle in rapid succession. The evidence of encounter would prove vastly profitable and hint of magnificent courage and fortitude displayed. Who would rightfully question the tale of alien encounter and his steadfast obedience to his quest, with photographic evidence? "None"...he thought.
Approximately one hundred and fifty miles distance from the original sighting, Milton developed courage enough to stop and peer from whence he had come. His thighs ached from rapid, repetitious pedaling. Upon stepping from his mechanical mount, the lad tumbled forward, settling like a beached whale, once rolling to a halt. Unable to move beyond a twisting of massive flesh and flapping of limbs, his breath gave way to huge, thunderous utterances of pain and despondency. Milton would spend the next ten days in mandatory recuperation, unable to stand nor venture beyond his adopted patch of terra firma.
Upon the eleventh day of his forced idleness, Flopsky managed to raise himself by rolling two quarter turns, counter-clockwise from back to stomach. Tucking his knees beyond the folds of his waist, Milton thrust his arms forward enough, with ample momentum, managing to right his mangled, mop of hair skyward. As the laiden, pooled, blood drained in a rush from Milton's spongy cranium, he staggered to and fro appearing like that of a bobbing, wind blown weather balloon. A cascade of caucasian pigmentation soon became evident as the purplish flush receded from his wide-cheek face.
"It shall be a grand day indeed"...he announced boisterously, standing now full upright, yet squat. His five-foot-two frame shot a pair of extended limbs to it's sides, and Milton stood that way in sway, left to right as if addressing an adoring crowd of cheering, well-wishers...The only reply came not as an encouraging applause...no...the sole sound of a lunch-break whistle at a nearby Twinkie factory, served to remind Milton of the empty grumbling within his internals. As the sweet, freshly baked aroma of cream filled sponge-cake penetrated Milton’s nostrils, he felt afloat and light-headed. His eyes rolled under half closed lids, which fluttered as rapidly as bee wings above a pollen filled field of petunias.
His stout 475 pound mass of flesh, proved quite cumbersome upon the corroding 1952 Shwinn, tricycle that he set out upon in pursuit of adventure. Rounding the first downhill curve on a rural mountain path, Milton veered recklessly beyond the edge of the craggy road, thus plummeting forward, head over heel into a rather thorny patch of wild brush. If not for his fortitude, Milton would have ended his quest that very moment, but he chose to ignore the first sign of impending disaster through sheer stupidity, masked as entrepreneurial spirit.
There did exist a moment when, Milton pondered the benefit and worth of his trivial venture, yet discarded all negative input from friends and family who had followed him to that point attempting to thwart his plans. They enticed him with fresh baked fruit pies and weiners, succulently tucked between soft, delicate folds of wheat, risen and baked to perfection. The sensuous aroma pulled sweetly at his olfactory receptors like an invisible hand, gently prodding...beckoning.
Righting his enormous mangled mass, Milton sped off with a wisk of dust and stone trailing behind. Friends and family stood helplessly silent as they watched their beloved blubber, flap exuberantly in a rush of wind as Milton sped away reciting the Gettysburg address above the blaring chords of Ride of the Valkyries, from his transistor radio, rubber-banded securely to the handlebars.
Shortly, after falling from sight of his native abode, Milton had the first manifestation of a seemingly alien craft, hovering in silent splendor above Old Man Beidermeyer's cornfield. Crow lay scattered and dead upon the rich fertile earth in every direction. Their wings appeared as bent antennas, being devoid of feathers and flesh...something of an abnormality, he concluded. The aberrant nature of this find, resulted in a flow of goose-bumps, followed by explosive bowel evacuations, as the Lad remounted his trusty tricycle and sped onward.
Though racked with fear and foul scent, Milton retained enough self-efficiency to snap a series of photos over his left clavicle in rapid succession. The evidence of encounter would prove vastly profitable and hint of magnificent courage and fortitude displayed. Who would rightfully question the tale of alien encounter and his steadfast obedience to his quest, with photographic evidence? "None"...he thought.
Approximately one hundred and fifty miles distance from the original sighting, Milton developed courage enough to stop and peer from whence he had come. His thighs ached from rapid, repetitious pedaling. Upon stepping from his mechanical mount, the lad tumbled forward, settling like a beached whale, once rolling to a halt. Unable to move beyond a twisting of massive flesh and flapping of limbs, his breath gave way to huge, thunderous utterances of pain and despondency. Milton would spend the next ten days in mandatory recuperation, unable to stand nor venture beyond his adopted patch of terra firma.
Upon the eleventh day of his forced idleness, Flopsky managed to raise himself by rolling two quarter turns, counter-clockwise from back to stomach. Tucking his knees beyond the folds of his waist, Milton thrust his arms forward enough, with ample momentum, managing to right his mangled, mop of hair skyward. As the laiden, pooled, blood drained in a rush from Milton's spongy cranium, he staggered to and fro appearing like that of a bobbing, wind blown weather balloon. A cascade of caucasian pigmentation soon became evident as the purplish flush receded from his wide-cheek face.
"It shall be a grand day indeed"...he announced boisterously, standing now full upright, yet squat. His five-foot-two frame shot a pair of extended limbs to it's sides, and Milton stood that way in sway, left to right as if addressing an adoring crowd of cheering, well-wishers...The only reply came not as an encouraging applause...no...the sole sound of a lunch-break whistle at a nearby Twinkie factory, served to remind Milton of the empty grumbling within his internals. As the sweet, freshly baked aroma of cream filled sponge-cake penetrated Milton’s nostrils, he felt afloat and light-headed. His eyes rolled under half closed lids, which fluttered as rapidly as bee wings above a pollen filled field of petunias.
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