Arthur Graham’s Reviews > Voltaire's Adventures Before Candide: And Other Improbable Tales > Status Update

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.

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.