Status Updates From Voltaire's Adventures Befor...

Voltaire drew the notary stamp with lightning speed, dashing forth in a full-on sprint before launching himself into the air. The filthy, disgusting buffoon had been too busy laughing to even notice until it was too late, but his eyes grew wide with terror as Voltaire's shadow descended upon him, stamp hefted high like a cudgel.

Timeline - Key Events in the Voltaire Saga

1484: Voltaire does not have his cleaver

1679: Voltaire discovers alien infestation on Mars; saga begins

1694: Voltaire born in Paris

From the heap of shattered glass, blood, twisted metal, and sea creatures, a hulking mass of flesh emerged. An anglerfish exploded from the sudden loss of pressure as the obese man stepped forth, wiping the slime and ramen noodles from his coat. The overpowering stench of rotten pigeons was heavy in his dense effluvium, mixing with the half-gallon of Aramis he'd poured down his pants

The taste of the urinal was familiar. [...] For a moment the grip tightened around Taiwn's neck, nearly crushing his windpipe, but the brute thought better of it and stomped off across the filthy bathroom floor, swearing. "Stupid bastard! The man wants to know! If you are lying, I will sever your penis and make you eat it. I will cut off your fingers and jam them up--"

Voltaire shot wide awake, his face slick with sweat, the handle of his cleaver (which he did not have in 1484) wedged firmly between his skinny white thighs. For once the world of dreams had provided him with an answer! Rather, it was the lack of dreams -- he'd been in a deep, dreamless slumber when a simple number shot itself to the fore of his brain.
"That's it!" he screamed, fumbling for the oil lamp.

To a one, the Faro players were all now completely nude. [...] A fat man drained an entire toilet-sized bowl of Greek yogurt in one mighty gulp, blueberries and all. [...] they consumed fourteen pans of lasagna, then proceeded to gargle a heavy bechamel sauce for dessert. And at yet another Faro station, the dealer rubbed olive oil in his hair while popping whole, uncooked eggs in his trousers.

Ledeleo suddenly lurched from his seat, sending hotdogs and beaver penises flying everywhere. Perturbed, Voltaire brushed the shower of peanut shells, popcorn kernels, and deep-fried foreskins off his freshly ironed Calvin Klein dress pants. [..] Popcorn violently exploded from Voltaire's mouth as he choked upon his realization, showering the next seven rows in moist, half-chewed bits.

He sealed the letter with wax and a kiss. To be sure she understood his meaning, it was a French kiss, though he snagged his tongue on the flap of the envelope, cutting himself in the process. The blood he saved for later use.

The waitress shifted her hips slightly, and Voltaire felt a familiar twinge--memories of soft, sultry nights with Emilie at Cirey; sheets crumpled, hair askew. He could almost smell her perfume, taste the salt from the crook of her neck, the tang of her earlobes (real earlobes, not porcelain). He could almost hear her whisper the value of pi in his ear. Oh, how he ached!

After he's been thoroughly deloused, Voltaire put on his favorite hospital gown and grudgingly followed the orderly through the green and white halls, careful not to step on any of the blue tiles. These, he'd been told by a fellow inmate, were holes that lead straight down to Hell. Though in his skeptic's heart he rejected such irrationality outright, he thought it prudent not to take any chances.

The terrible landscape seemed to mock him in its unending mediocrity as he traversed the arid plains. On the other side of the planet, he thought glumly, heading in the opposite direction, there were women, parties, and beer. Little did he know that, but in addition to these basics, there were Hebrew hablibs, naked girls with four to six tails, and fresh-roasted Uumba plants as well.

Tossing the mangled bike aside, our philosopher-hero then dashed across the street and into a wormhole, plunging through the inexplicable portal like a man in desperate need...

...of advancing the plot!

With raging endorphins and adrenaline levels so high one would think they'd been spiked with espresso, an energy drink, and the heart of a rabid pit bull, Voltaire roared like a savage beast. Buildings buckled, semicolons vomited, and damns burst, setting loose a torrent of waves [...] He picked up his motorcycle and raised it high above his head, sidecar and all.

Voltaire lit Mr. Taiwn's cigarette with a flaming birch log from the fireplace, tossed it back onto the hearth, kicked the cat for good measure, and stormed out the door. The motorcycle leaned against a sturdy barberry bush, gleaming in the sunlight like a cheap hooker on three-dollar beer.

A blockbuster of a novel, with seven hundred torrid chapters, jammed to its edges with smoking hot Venetian badgers and chiseled Kyrgyz farmers. It is a towering giant of literary work, and should be required classroom reading in every high school in America. Honestly, though, we haven't read it, and probably never will. -- Roger's Review Service (Only $19.95 per star!)

"Did you REALLY believe, that even in my wildest dreams, I would accept those jellyfish LIES you fed me with my kippers? Did you think I could actually DRINK that chalk? Do you like me? Why is the room spinning...? Good... GOOD!!! Now I understand why this planet has wings... Ha! Ha! I LIKE this game, don't you? Don't you love to eat those little cream puffs, too? Why not? YOU BASTARD!!!

With a jerk, the tiny spacecraft went zipping through the galaxies at a speed approaching ten times ten times ten times some-really-big-ridiculous-number, times the speed of light. He promptly crashed into another asteroid.

Voltaire meandered along the Thames,firing randomly into pubs until the bobbies finally showed up to arrest him. Before they could do so, however, he stripped completely naked, leapt on top of the bar, and launched into a seductive one-man tango. The authorities decided to let him be, radioing the psychiatrists instead. Wrong move--Voltaire shot every last one of them dead, running off into the night unmolested.

"NOW we have you..." Voltaire could only scream in response. He spun around to face his assailant, leaving him only a fraction of a second to react to the knife that suddenly came thrusting at his defenseless scrotum.

As Voltaire raced toward Zendor, a creeping feeling filled him about halfway full. Something was wrong--very wrong. The stars whizzed past, spiraling nebulae gleamed in their ghostly splendor, and struggling galaxies succumbed to powerful black holes, and yet our hero could only squirm in discomfort. Eventually, though, he finally removed the wriggling garter snake from his pants.

The two brutes made hand signals at Voltaire, which he recognized to be gestures of ancient Egyptian onanism. He had no choice but to obey their commands.

Later that night, the author slipped out the back of a Martian pub in order to avoid paying his tab. In the alley, a bipedal lizard assaulted him with a long stick and two steel balls. This was very suggestive and not at all appropriate, Voltaire thought, as he ran the bully through with his cleaver (which he did not have in 1484).

So far, I really am enjoying this somewhat non-sensical yet very funny adventure of Voltaire.