A small apple was blossomed into the world on a wire of light. Someone picked up the apple and examined it closely for imperfections. The heinous being began to rip the apple apart in it's war-mongering navel, but gave it a second thought, and wrote "BRICK" on it in black-tipped marker. The apple liked it's new identity, and decided to be known as brick. Meanwhile, a cherry fell down a thirty-foot well. The brick gurgled it's pleasure at such violence. Brick through some tulips down after the cherry, presumably so it would be hauled back up and thrown back down a different well. But, it remembered sadly it's days of the threatening navel of it's tormentor from years ago, and enveloped the cherry in a towel. The cherry cooed it's dismay and the brick flogged it into submission. A crowd of major appliances abducted the cherry and left the brick sobbing itself into chalk. After it's bout of conflicting emotions, the brick found it's way into a christian church. The pope was there.
Brick: Hi, pope.
Pope: Hi, you're here to embrace christianity?
Brick: Christiacccchhh?
Pope: Oh! You mean cholesteol.
Brick: No, christianity.
Pope: Oh.
Brick: So, what is it?
Pope: Christianity? It's the believe in God and his son, Jesus.
Brick: Goccchhh? Jesuccchh?
Pope: God and Jesus, yes. God being an omnipotent being, and
Jesus being his son.
Brick: I've never seen God, why should I believe in him?
Christianity sounds really stupid.
Pope: Join up or die! Get him everyone!
The choice: embrace these pseudopods or be imploded. The brick gulped it's displeasure at both unworthy fates. It quickly revealed it's true identity to the pope as a lowly apple, and the pope backed the fuck off. The brick left the church throbbing in puzzlement and anguish.
The brick suddenly found itself blind. It sought Yabba, the Guy Who Knows Alot for his wisdom in pudding and various sexual favors. The brick scrambled it's sightless way over the Mountains of Yale, under the Ivy of Eternal Promiscuity and straight through the Land of Glass. It found Yabba the Reverbed in a strand of fiber optic. Tricky.
Brick: You are Yabba the Obscure?
Yabba: Who am I to say?
Brick: Good. I'd like to know about christaccchhh...
Yabba: Oh, you mean christianity... Well, christian don't really
exist, they're just figments of your deranged imagination.
Brick: Thank you, you bird.
The brick was quite angery at this news, to to say the least. He got himself caught in the top of a door and waited for Yabba. Like a bloke, he chuckled. After many days, Yabba can waltzing down the aisle and opened both doors, leaving himself well open for attack. The brick struck, guiding itself right for Yabba's head like masking tape. Yabba shrinked away, yelling "But, I'm nice." Realization hit the brick like a brick. It turned and left Yabba for dead.
The brick, puzzled at where to go next, gazed northword and head east to the Province of Complexity. It blew his brickish mind like a shotgun in spring. There was a field of infernally hopping llamas which was scattered with ducks in severe pain. There was a glacier service every twenty minutes to and from the Land of Credence. There were Peavey amplifiers continually bringing each other to orgasm and arguing about the eating habits of wombats. It was, in short, like Las Vegas, without the marriage chapels. The brick met a female colored llama, and their faces fell in love. Then tradgedy struck. A small imp ran by and wiped the apples infamous 'brick' label, thus exposing him to his lover. She orgasmed loudly in disgust, spit, and strutted of, only to walk under a falling seahawk a minute later and die of shame.
The apple was sad. He fell down in a torrent of laughter and wept for life in general. Crowds came and went, and heard his story. He became a celebrity for a while, and went on talk shows with moronic hosts and swam for the masses. His career as an author was short, as he only had 3.14 stories to tell. He was soon reduced to luxary in the projects. After sereral days of wallowing in seaweed, he found the fruits of his labor reduced to one simple conclusion: He must kill himself, and he must do it in front of the pope.
Fruit: Hey, pope, come over.
Pope: OK.
The pope came, loudly. The apple whined like a whale as the pope convulsed his non-understanding. The apple offered the pope money and bleach. The pope accepted graciously, doing a backflip and saying "Hika" with more vigor then mustard. The apple stood in front of the pope. He withdrew the slab of whaleblubber like it was candy. The pope's face was reflected in the blubber like dire need. The moon shone in the window and draped the figures in bitter light. The blubber was offered, and pope brought his lips to the edge, which was heened to a fine, telephone like bluntness. He drew his mouth across the symbol of technology like a flame. Blood was drawn. The apple carved the letters in it's unprovoked flesh. B. For bitter, the color of the apples insides, like a newborn. R. For Rguitar, the instrument the blubber sounded like as it convulsed in disgust at conntact with the apples pathetic self. ICK. For lamp. The brick sank in agony and pleasure as the life flesh was drained. Soon it would be an empty shell of concrete, ready for sacrifice and feast. Dancing for the pleasure of the sultans as they jeered his falsehood. Ready for the degradation of millions as it stood on trial for the crime of possession of sexual rodents. It fell forwards and landed on the floor in front of the pope and gasped, all like the Yellow Pages being choked with piano wire. The pope leaned forward to catch the brick's parting words: "Dead."
The air around the two snapped like marines. The brick had spake the word of the locksmith. The would be no dancing, no feast, no sacrifice, and worse, no degradation. There would just be existentialism, sitting up all night trying to get his by a bus.