JOAQUIN BURROUGHS INVITES YOU TO FRIENDSHIP

The story tells us that Jerry Cheese was an actual round of cheese. As to what type and age is

uncertain, a matter to digest at another more convenient time. But, enough of these jests, the

story awaits. On a prevailing wind, east or west no one knows, as has been lost with the

trudging of time, there sailed a valiant sailor by the name of Lawrence Unicorn.

"Why do you always get to be the main character, Lawrence? Hmmm?" Jerry Cheese tapped a string

cheese foot upon the deck, his string cheese arms crossed together. Lawrence wasted no time in

answering his companion.

"Maybe it's because I'm popular?"

"Popular?! I released a freaking cd for crying out loud! How much more popular can I get?! As

for you, what have you done?"

Lawrence considered a moment, giving another brief answer. "I'm captain of this ship."

With that, Lawrence's hoof meets Jerry's rump, sending Jerry flying forward deck. Lawrence

kicked him so hard that Jerry flew completely off the deck. So hard his mercheese kids will

probably feel it, Lawrence mused. Ugh. Mercheese. That sounds terrible. "Quick, somebody

throw Jerry a life preserver before he reproduces!" Lawrence barks to the nearest soul nearest a

soul-saving life preserver. A one-eyed, one-armed, one-legged hume-sailor flung over the life

preserver listlessly. The sailor changed out his peg arm to a hook and hauled up a shivering

Jerry Cheese. Lawrence met the duo, handing Jerry a towel, he taking it in a huff.

"I'm filing a complaint. I could have died!" Jerry yelped. He yelped again in the process of

drying himself off. "What is this?" he asked.

The sailor looked it over briefly. "why, that's a mussel, sir."

"A mussel, you say?" Jerry said, giving it a keener, closer eye.

"Yes, sir."

"A MUSSEL KA-POW!!" A smack down if there ever was one!

"Christ! That mussel just knocked out that round of cheese!" the sailor himself yelped,

galloping behind Lawrence for safety. Lawrence gave him a hard look. "I'm sorry, sir. It's

just that you're bigger than me."

"You're bigger than the mussel!" Lawrence snorted, looking intently at the tiny beast. It

hopped on, over and around Jerry howling a terrible war screech that wouldn't scare even the

lowliest amoeba. Somewhere distant, in a dream perhaps, Jerry thought he could hear the voice

of an angel singing to him as he tramped his way through a field of tulips. It's better that

Jerry doesn't hear this, Lawrence thinks, trying hard to maintain his composure in sight of such

a ferocious beast, Jerry, he scares easily.

"WHO DA MAN! WHO DA MAN!" the mussel screamed out.

"Technically, that would be me, sir," the sailor said, ker-thudding his way from behind

Lawrence.

"BOOSH!! HOW YA LIKE IT NOW, TOUGH GUY?" the mussel said, putting the sailor in a wrist lock.

Lawrence could have sworn the sailor cried for his mommy; while the mussel could have sworn it

was something racist against mussels. It was this fact that led him on. "YOU GOT SOMETHING

AGAINST ME? I'M STONGER THAN YOU, YET I'M SMALLER THAN YOU. HOW CAN THAT BE YOU SAY?

TARD-HUMES LIKE YOU ARE THE DOMINANT SPECIES YOU SAY? WELL MISTER, I DON'T LIKE THAT ATTITUDE!"

There was a sudden eruption of gunfire behind the mussel and the hume. It was Jerry Cheese to

the rescue! Unfortunately, he'd never fired a gun in his life. The recoil against his string

cheese arms was intense, sending arms and weapon flailing upward. The weapon and string cheese

fistules were too much for the poor round of cheese; Jerry was knocked out for the second time

in a scant few minutes. The weapon though, still fired against the pressure of Jerry's string

cheese fingers. With the remaining ammunition in the clip, the weapon sliced through the mast

of the ship, sending it toppling rear deck. It landed with a mighty crash, sending splinters

high into the air. The crew was instantly stranded in the ocean; with no sail, there was only

certain death. Or at least, very grave injury. Like the mussel that had accosted the hume. He

lie underneath the huge beam, heaving and ho-ing out huge pants of breath.

"This-this could be my last one!" he let out a great sigh, then gasping at another breath of

air. The sailor met him, taking one of the mussel's muscular hands into his own. "Who are you?

Do I know you?" he asked the hume shakily, and this more with reverence, "Are you God?"

"No!, no!, sir! I can't claim such a lofty title, nor could I claim its lowest. I'm a hardened

sailor, you understand. But, I know his book, know his followers, know that his words have

worked wonders. It could do well for me; it can still do well for you. You believe that much

right?"

The mussel nodded. The sailor then urged the mussel to repeat after him, with little response.

He looked on the crowd gathering around. "I think he's going," he told them in brief words; for

a brief life, thought the sailor, if we are not coming, then we are going. "The sunset is

waiting for you," cried the sailor.

Slowly, the mussel turned its head and saw that it was mid-morning. Another twelve hours,

contemplated the mussel, this guy's asking for it! "Wait," croaked the mussel, "I could be

getting better already-" the mussel hacked and hacked some more until the sailor drew in closer,

"closer-" the sailor moving ever closer. "If I could have a last meal, with my friends," he

pointed out Lawrence-- he helping a wobbly Jerry to his feet-- and the sailor.

"Me?" the sailors voice crackled. He's a hardened sailor, you understand, they aren't allowed

to have many friends, as decreed by sea law. "I would be honored. Tonight, we dine on a roast

with friends!"

"Mmm, roast," the mussel smiled, he not knowing what a roast is. He rubbed at his gurgling

belly, which drew an eye from Lawrence.

"There's something fishy going on here."

"Was it something I ate?" Jerry asked weakly, spewing across the deck. Jerry nodded profusely.

"Smells like fish."

*****

The hume's name is Joaquin. Joaquin Burroughs to be more precise. He invites you to

friendship. That's what the printed business cards he ordered online read. JOAQUIN BURROUGHS

INVITES YOU TO FRIENDSHIP, plain as day on the five-hundred cards. He didn't even know that

many people, he reckoned; and he was only giving away three cards. One to his captain, to his

captain's first mate and one to the mussel, Eustace was his name. He knew a Eustace once, who

used to pick on him incessantly in grade school. That man was eaten by a gerbil, Joaquin

thought terribly. Still, there was vague sign of smile at lips edge. He put those terrible

thoughts to rest, covering them with thick blankets of tears and repression. Tonight, they

would get no kiss on the cheek.

He was below deck, whistling a happy tune, one of several which were decreed by sea law. Still,

he tried in vain to put forth his own rhyme to the jingle. There was something about the sea

and friendship-- that much should be obvious-- professional wrestlers, Lawrence Welk-- whoever

the heck that is, thought a beguiled Joaquin-- lovely geishas, ugly ducklings and Jerry

Springer-- whoever the heck he is! Gosh! Trifling thoughts begone!-- as standing near the

hatchway to the lower decks are the Captain and his first mate.

"Joaquin, it's good to see you again!" Lawrence took Joaquin's hand, giving him a bear hug.

Never since the war, Joaquin shivered, had he been given a bear hug.

"It's _gouda_ to see you," Jerry winked, twice for effect. His eyes, his gouda eyes. Eustace

must have put a big hurt on Jerry's former eyes. "Doctor Cutter said there was mold in my old

eyes. Mold! It could have spread to my brain, and poof! I'd be a dead man!"

"Cheese can't die from mold, I'm pretty sure-"

"You're a round of cheese," from Joaquin, perhaps not with love, but with a basic knowledge of

cheeses. He gave a brief glance towards his captain, then back to Jerry. He grunted.

"First, not all cheeses take gains from molds. Second, I freaking know that. If I didn't know

that, I'd probably have eaten myself alive ages ago!" He stopped, but whimpering, added: "Why

do you think my girlfriend calls me Flipper?"

There was a moment of confusion from Lawrence and Joaquin, but then a dawn of horrifying

knowing. "It happens to the best of men, Jerry," Lawrence said, trying to give some support.

It would be tough for him, as he didn't have Jerry's problems, he's a unicorn, after all.

"Look at me, Jerry," Joaquin spoke up, "I was born a hume, but became a half-tree. I-I don't

talk about it much, it's a terrible story-"

"what is this? The Man's Support Circle?" Jerry interrupted.

"Let him speak, Jerry." Jerry grumbled, motioning Joaquin to continue his story.

"One day, a year ago-- or three, or five; the sea is a heinous and lawless place against time,

so it is-- we had made our way from a deep, deep sea voyage to our home port. The crew

disembarked, and back then, I was young; I wanted to captain my own ship. I asked the captain,

and maybe he will remember this, if he would take me under his wing-"

"Yes!" excaimed Lawrence, "I remember it well indeed! I said 'I'm no Pegasus! Pegasuses are

sissies when it comes to the sea!'"

Joaquin smiled, "Surely! Then you popped me one in the gut, telling me to get to port. I did,

painfully-"

*****

He looked back to the ship, longing for his wife's companionship. Rhoda had been laid up on the

ship, sick with blistering hot fever. He told her that he would stay with her, take care of her

through her illness.

"But the captain told you to go. He's right, since when will we make port again?"

She was so truthful, so honest. It had been one or three or five years since they had last made

port. But that brang rise to a question. How long could Rhoda take living life on the seas?

He tried to rember the times they'd ported, able to bring back a few out of the many; and try as

hard as he might, he could not think of a time when his dear Rhoda wasn't ill for the occasion.

He wept, flinging his head to her bosom.

"My dearest! It's the sea that makes you so sick! Come with me, I beg you! We'll leave the

sea to our backs forever! If only you will come with me!"

Rhoda gently stroked the crown of her husbands head, running her fingers to his newly-grown

sailor's beard. Her delicate fingers lifted his chin to meet her beautiful face. "Joaquin, my

dearest, if you truly love me, you will go to port. "My dearest," she said, bursting into

tears, "my dearest, go to port and find a cure for my affliction, I beg of you!"

"So be it," he whispered, kissing her hand and forehead.

Joaquin let out a long, pained sigh as he trudged his way through the port. There was raucous

action in the port city, he sighing at its pleasures. Without that rock by his side, he was

silly putty in this mistress' arms. A tickle and wink here!; a loving hand and kiss there!

Zounds!, he was to the point of overflowing; giving what little soul he had left to this, his

home! Home!, with his Rhoda! If only he could turn back around. It was the strange and

alluring call of the city that drew him forward, not the cure for his Rhoda's illness that

started his quest. Terrible, terrible! Yet still he moved forward.

"Joaquin! Come, join us!" It was a shipmate, Raul Llama, who had come aboard shortly after he.

Raul motioned Joaquin into the building. Joaquin looked to the sign above the doorway. A

picture of Millard Fillmore, the hume's name below the prominent painting, or so one assumes.

Scoundrels! Debauched and depraved! Yet his countenance is thrown such as at that moment, one

of the women flanking Raul slinked through the crowds. She crept to Joaquin, grabbing him

furiously.

"Join us, Joaquin!" she says, cozying up to the sailor.

Joaquin drew back, aghast at this first temptation. Poor Raul! The spirit of this city has

corrupted him, as Joaquin says in a not so discreet manner. Raul laughs, gladly accepting the

women back to his free arm with a smile. He nodded to Joaquin, then spoke.

"See that hume on the sign? That's Millard Fillmore. The most hardcore pimp west of the

Mississippi-"

Miss Isipi, Joaquin thought oddly, was the name of the silly sock puppet that entertained him as

a child. That was also the name of the carved mermaid queen riding ahead of the ship; the same

one some of the bachelors of the ship, himself at one time, had- rogue thoughts, begone!

"I served with him in Vietnam."

"Raul," one of his companions perks up, putting on her serious face, "I never knew you were in

Vietnam!"

"I don't even know what that is," Joaquin snaps in, "I doubt that I even want to know."

Raul grunts, giving Joaquin a tough eye, "Before Millard died from the fairy dust attacks, he

left me his empire of brothels. We just opened one up in Las Vegas, seventy-six now."

Raul says this with an air of great accomplishment. He was an heir of great accomplishment,

stealing Millard Fillmore's business, down right shady to say the least, right out from under

him. "Raul, is there any hope for you? Why, on the ship-"

"There's hardly any women on the ship! Most of them are taken, the one's that aren't are hands

off, else its your hands. Seriously," he rises from his place, huffing and puffing and blowing

his companions wills down, "It's a sausage fest on that ship. I know you're a married hume,

Joaquin, but be honest. This place right where we're standing, this will get you."

"Never," Joaquin replied coldly. He stormed off down the street, drawing fire from Raul.

"You'll be back, Joaquin," he turned, smiling to the ladies. Several more were walking down the

street, they turning at the sight of Raul. "You're no farmers daughters, I'd reckon. Come

inside, and I'll show you the life of Farmer Brown's Daughters." They, not being farmer's

daughters, but billionaire elderly playboys' daughters, quickly followed behind, for the

briefest look into the lives of the peasants.