Can Tea Really Make You Invisible? Is a difficult book to describe, so to make it easier for you to decide if this is the sort of book you would like to read, here are some chunks of it for you to look at.
During his stay down the road, he had come to my home in search of eggs and to tell me a story about tea that he knew. I need to explain here and now that the Zeus that you all know and love and worship is very different in person. Profoundly different. For a start he is a lady-boy. And secondly, he is five feet of nothing. Don’t get me wrong, this son-of-a-bitch could maul my tits off and slap me with the wet ends before I even realized what had happened, but many of you would be pretty disappointed with his appearance.
“I would like some eggs,” said Zeus, resting his head against my door frame, a nugget of sex-perspiration crabbing down his forehead. “Don’t pretend you don’t have any, Zelda, I know that in your kitchen there are at least two dozen of them in the bread bin.”
He was right, but he would be, wouldn’t he?
“I do Zeus, but before I let you have any of them, can you explain what they are for?”
“No, just bring me the damn eggs!”
I could hear the sound of children laughing, and then an egg smashed a few inches away from the god’s head sending shell and yolkyness outwards like shit fireworks.
“Ah, someone got themselves into a little egg fight?” I said with a jovial smile.
Hitler looked so peaceful, as he lay on the top bunk of his bunk bed, Doritos all over his swastika pyjamas. On the bottom bunk was his younger brother, Andrew Hitler. I had punched him in the temple hard enough to put a dent in a castle. I knew he was going to wake up later and need a wheelchair for the rest of his life or he would wake up later and no longer be part of his own family tree.
“Wakey-Wakey, Adolf,” I said, giving the guy a little pat on the forehead.
“Ich liebe dich Esel Junge. Legen Sie Ihre Kastanien in meinem blauen Waffel,” he murmured.
“Wake up, little man, I want to ask you about tea.”
To speed up the waking process, I grabbed his nostrils and clamped his mouth shut.
“Argh! Was ist das?” he shouted.
“Hello Adolf, my name is Zelda Halopile and I am writing about tea. I am interested to hear how you became involved in this unpredictable material.”
At first, the little German looked like he was not going to be cooperative, but after a brief example of my powers, Hitler ushered me to a desk, positioned in front of a window, that faced a field, that met another field, that faced a window, positioned in front of a desk, that faced Hotler and Zolda, who were both looking at us. It was covered in various swastika designs and a few rebellious cocks. There was also a fucking massive stack of gay porn magazines, so many in fact, that the legs of the table were buckled under the weight. Hitler quickly grabbed them, put them in a backpack and threw this under the bunk bed.
The sofa shook a little and then stoped. I heard the sound of an English skull being smacked against my skirting board, followed by a profanity and then the sofa that I was still sitting on, arched across the living room. I jumped to my feet, span around, and there was Alan Rickman. He was clutching his forehead, blood surging out of it at an alarming rate. The aggression of the blood gush was comparable to that of water, departing an odious power hose.
“Fucking bitch!” shouted Alan through his bloody lips, and he kicked my coffee table, sending it scuttling across the living room floor, shattering against my ornate fireplace.
“Can it, Rickman,” I said. “You have nobody to blame but yourself. Now, you sit down, while I get some kitchen roll to put on that… fuck!” Alan had taken his hand away from the wound so that it was exposed for the world to see. His whole fucking left eye was gone, his jaw was snapped in three places, his nose was as flat as a crumpet and there were no ears to be seen. It was unusual to say the least. A normal head would not have bled as much, but this head was pissing blood out as if its life depended on killing the head it was squirting from.
“Too many moving parts!” yelled Arnold. He stuck his tongue out and slowly bit through it. The appendage licked its way down over the chin-moustache and melted into a mass of baseball fields. This was amazing.
He raised his hands and tugged the flesh off his own head, revealing a metal endoskeleton, not unlike the one from the Terminator movies. Had he always been a cyborg or was this another example of what tea was capable of? The cyborg stopped flailing around abruptly and sat up.
“There is one more chip,” he said and pointed at his knee. He began pulsating all over, his metallic bones begin to rapidly change to calcium.
“My face! What did you do?” he wailed, pointing towards the shadows behind me. I turned and saw nothing. I could feel that something was still there. Watching. Enjoying.
I grabbed the morphine drip and shoved it into his ear… Or, at least a hole where his ear should have been. Immediately, he settled. If he still had lips they would have certainly been in a smiling position.
“What happened, Arnold?” I asked, squeezing morphine into his muscular brain.