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Still a tad hyped up from those jelly beans, you decide to persuade Spruceteen to renounce love via song. You pick up Rolling Head & lift up a corner of his bandage so as to permit air to be sucked in via the black hole inside his head, resulting a sound not dissimilar from a didgeridoo. By positioning your fingers at the opening, you are able to manipulate the airflow resulting in various tones, like a Rolling-Head-didgeridoo-bagpipe-with-a-black-hole-inside-of-it (which, more or less, is exactly what you have). Surprisingly cool with being used as an instrument, Rolling Head starts whistling a little ditty while crinkling his forehead, which produces a marvelous tremolo. You begin to sing:

    Hey, hey Spruceteen!
    You came into this scene
    Do you know what I mean?
    Lady Tendersocks 'n' this milkweed...
    That's got you mad uh...really supreme.

    Hey, hey Spruceteen!
    You know, that dud of a feelin'

    Like you just ate some chips
    & some ribs
    & some sauerkraut
    & some chili
    & some ribs
    & some taco meat that was grey
    ('cos it's been sittin' out all day),
    & some egg nog

    Hey, hey Spruceteen
    Do ya' know what I mean?
    That nice warm feelin'
    It ain't so nice
    When it's risin' up
    & you got the puke burps, no no no!

    'Cos you ate some ribs
    & some old piza
    & some weird milk
    & some cottage cheese
    & some ribs
    & a moon pie, aye aye aye!

    Ain't that somethin?
    So come on & rise up
    Against the puke burps risin' up

    I'm talkin' 'bout love, man
    Ya, love, you know what I mean
    Today's the day
    You're gonna stand up & say,

    I ain't got them puke burps no more... (repeat 5x)

Just then the ship lurched from a wave (presumably) & everyone went scrambling. A weird stranger rolls in the doorway clutching a bottle of antacids. In the hubbub you drop Rolling Head (who just keeps right on whistling). Without your hand to cover the black hole to produce righteous tones, small objects in the room succumb to the suction and hurl into the cranial void. Before you can stop up the hole, the weird stranger's antacids are sucked into the oblivion.

"MY INFINITY ANTACIDS!!!" cries the weird stranger. But it seems Rolling Head is in the zone. He keeps right on whistling his catchy tune.

Across the room, Spruceteen is transfixed on Rolling Head's whistling, which takes on a monotonous quality.

"Aw, fiddle sticks," cries the weird stranger, "Somehow the magic inside my infinity antacids has done gone been transposed into audible vibrations. Only a black hole inside a whistling head coulda done that." He looks at Spruceteen. "Looks like that feller over there's gettin' all the magic, poor guy. He'll never be able to love again. At least that's what Infinity Dude said would happen. He invented it, along with some other neat stuff that you wouldn't be interested in. Here's his business card."

He hands you a card reading:

     Expert on infinity stuff. Handy with heartburn & repairing inexplicable
     amoeba-like transformations in persons named Spruceteen.

Right on cue, Spruceteen begins shaking violently & splits down the middle. Rolling Head stops whistling to marvel at the fact there are TWO Spruceteens standing in the room, each looking as confused as the other.

And they both have an air of casual indifference, like they are incapable of love. You know what must be done. You tell the Spruceteens...
  1. Okay Spruceteens, now that you've given up on love, it's time to break into that safe. But first, I need you to spend 10 minutes clucking like chickens. Trust me.
  2. Okay Spruceteens, now that you are both impervious to heartburn, let's go eat a bunch of junk food. Trust me.
  3. Okay Spruceteens, now that you're impervious to both love and heartburn, let's go start a Chicago cover band. Trust me.
by Steve Kemple