One day, a pair of warring merchants, proud yet demured by the overwhelming will of their respective wives - harridans, if one were to be so blunt - came to the mighty bastard in order to somehow discover a method to quell their sharp yet long-term dispute. The mighty flatulence awaited them seated upon the last of his victims, a deft punk sidecar of ill-gotten repute. He welcomed them with a short session, and some cards they played. The Maiden wailed from the stereo, and happiness and satisfaction was brought around as a warm dusky blanket, or even the oftquoted virgins. Mayhap is maybe.
Later, with the calmness still protecting them, the mellow bastard listened upon the quarrel.
It seemed that the fat one, for there was indeed also a thin one of whomsosuch we shall speak in a moment, was angered by the footstep of t'others business in his territory, an encroachment which would oft in such medieval Japanesey times lead to a war. This is all that scary Samurai shit and nasty knifey ninja(s), and so best avoided, what with its lopping of heads, harry-kerry, ronii and say pookoo.
The baldy bastard was silent for a moment, 'cept the creep of methane, and they too were silenced, forgetting the previous excitement. The massive intake of yeast beer also played its role, poking their love centres and making them want to hug in that sad and so pathetic brotherly fashion that drunk men have. Anyway, its always said the narrator shouldn't intrude so I'll shut up for a bit.
"Your probel mis complex to me," he said, the merriment of the eve having its effect for even the mighty bastard. "I learnt Zen from a teacup."
"But what should we do, all mighty bastardy one? Our only course is war, yet we see that it is not good business." Business or crime, where is the line?
"And there are families to consider..." a hint of a frown from the little fat one, maybe of fear of the firefly cooking his dinner?
"Look upon the can, gentlemens." The merry bastard held a crumpled beercan before them, his arm not yet trembling. "It is a ssimple thing, a thing of shape and clear function. It holds no mysstery for uss. Yet your problem is not a can."
They hid their confusion well. "It is not a can," they both chorused together in unison.
The bastard blinked, and answered them thuslyish: "Your problem is complex to me." Gathering momentum now, an avalanche of the flabby stuff that held him together? "It is the way of a sparrow to look upon the can as something complex. I tell thee gentlemens, become the sparrow."
"Fly, peck and steal babies?" the fat one grunted, perspiration on his flabby flops.
"Your problem is life, and unknowable to you. So my opinion is this, like life, we don't know what it is, but we can still enjoy it," the mighty bastard exhaled, farted.
They tried to shoot him in the end, but the bullets kept strangely, fortunately and/or luckily missing.
Then the smell drove them away.
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A shadowy flight into the dangerous world of a man who does not exist. Oomphumph Ridicalf, a young loner on a crusade to champion the cause of the innocent, the helpless, the powerless, in a world of criminals who operate above the law.