CARVER Stories: The Garbage King, Part 1


By Andrew Kane

John-Ron Blobmon Junior was a squat lad with fussy orange hair and a moon-faced smirk that made the girls giggle with embarrassment, and the old ladies old-lady-fart in anticipation of giving those chunky cheeks a squeeze. Yes, he was a portly little turd, and sole heir to the Blobmon Crust-and-Cuts Victual Scuttle and Fancy Food Cannery. You know, the same Blobmon Crust-and-Cuts Victual Scuttle and Fancy Food Cannery that drearily dominates the skyline of Grubgate? The one that employs the impossibly poor garbage people in the backbreaking labor of its operation while simultaneously ensnaring them further into debt by forcing the purchase of inferior and un-nourishing foodstuffs and food-like by-products. Yeah. That’s the one.

John-Ron Junior enjoyed running through the Victual Scuttle and Fancy Food Cannery while his daddy John-Ron Senior puffed on a big wooden pipe from his office that overlooked the factory floor. JR Senior would peer through the ornately-glassed window and sneer while JR Junior ran amok terrorizing the workers, whipping about his gigantic licorice rope or striking them haughtily with his great shining lollipop scepter.

“I am the Candy King!” he would shriek like a fat little jackass. The garbage people just kept their heads down. They knew better than to back-talk the son of the boss, especially while said boss was making poopy-diaper faces through his big boss mustache in the heaven-like glow of smoke and glass that hovered high above their heads.

One day John-Ron Junior was putting chocolates in his mouth, letting them melt, and dribbling the brown spit onto the heads of the garbage people below as he sang,

“Rain of poo, rain of poo, poo is gonna rain on you!

Rain of poo, rain poo, the Candy King has pooed on you!”

“I can’t take it anymore,” said a garbage person who was called Pepper. He had a big black garbage beard and angry blue eyes. “If that little knob doesn’t quit it, I’ll cut his greasy neck. Dim? Dim what are you doing?”

But Dim couldn’t hear because he was running back and forth in an effort to catch that gross melted chocolate in his hand.

“It’s not poo at all, Pepper. It’s choco!” said Dim, tasting his disgusting fingers delicately. “We could let it harden and sell it as sweets,” Dim smiled through his horrible garbagey teeth. He was tall and thin and his blonde hair was in a style we would call “page boy” but the garbage people called “the Saucy Wax Donald.”

“Would you quit running around and get back to your machine? The foreman will be on us like swift death in a minute!” hissed Pepper.

“Choco’s rarer than rare amongst us garbage people,” Dim said expositionally.

“Now now. What do we have here, fancy Dim with the Saucy Wax Donald thinks he’s too fancy to run his machine?” said the foreman. He had a gray mustache that looked like a caterpillar nest and terrible yellowy eyes.

“Well it is the Fancy Food Cannery after all!” Dim chuckled good-heartedly (like a person that poor and malnourished could possibly have a heart not addled with palpitations and infested with worms).

“Right you’re out of here, you,” growled the foreman.

“See here Mr. Foreman, he was just having a laugh. Doing a bit of ‘turn the old phrase,’” Pepper interjected.

“And you as well with him, you,” added the foreman.

“See here Dim, you’ve had us both sacked!” Pepper lamented. “And all because of that evil little sack of pudge!”

“The Candy King has no more poo. But now come the showers of his goldenrod to wash his subjects clean!” John-Ron Junior then started whizzing on all the workers. And I don’t mean he was making a silly pun for some kind of old-fashioned yellow liquid candy, he actually whipped out his little ladykiller and started shooting human pee all over those sad sad garbage people. The doubly sad thing was that some of the workers were actually cleaner afterwards because of it.

“I’m the King! I’m the King!” JR Junior squealed. “See how they’re all bowing before the King?!”

“Awww. It’s washing off my choco!” Dim bemoaned.

“Don’t worry, Dim my boy, I’ve got an idea that’ll have us full of choco for the rest of our natural lives.”

“Gosh, really?” asked Dim. “I’m already 27. You mean I’ll be eating choco until next April?”

The next day, John-Ron Blobmon Junior skipped gaily to the local sweet shop. He saw the bright clean windows and the beautiful display of sugar and color glowing just beyond. He was about to reach for the door handle when his vision went black and a terrible sharp pain reverberated from the back of his skull.

When he opened his eyes again he was in a dark and smelly place. The only light spilled orange and dim from a smoky lantern strung on a nail protruding from a splintering wooden pillar. The walls were hung with various devices and bits of broken machines.

“Here he is,” one voice said.

“Let’s have a look,” answered another. “Welcome, welcome, Candy King!”

Two figures hobbled over. The tall one was wearing a hood that concealed his face and a necklace full of tinkling keys. The shorter one had a dark beard, and a greasy gear sat upon his head like a crown. He wore old gloves with rivets fitted through the knuckles that made him look like a monster with claws.

“Candy King, how do, sire?” asked the cog-crowned one.

“Who are you?” the boy squeaked.

“I am the Garbage King, and this is my Garbage Kingdom.”

Meanwhile at the Blobmon Crust-and-Cuts Victual Scuttle and Fancy Food Cannery office, John-Ron senior opened a soiled piece of paper that read:

“We have your son. If you want him living, come to the hollow below Grubgate Bridge at midnight.”

“Good Holy Sweet God Damn,” John-Ron Senior muttered through his regal mustache. “It’s finally happened.”