Zenger’s Bangers
By Zweibel Zenger
Book Preview: A Most Disgusting Origin Story About the Great Unwritten Orange Forest Novel
September 1, 2025 — All the gnarliness swirling around lately flicked on the spotlight in the Zweebster’s dank dark skull, illuminating a brilliant idea like none other: I had to write my story. Put ink to pen and pen to paper, and then crumple up a hundred pages and play wastebasketball until I perfect the Great Orange Forest Novel.
Sure, we’ve had a few O’ Fo’ word gurus. But the City hasn’t had a writer with a Wikipedia entry since that geezer Tramin Gumrath published Send in the Oughttas back in 2012. It’s way past time to carve THE ZWEEBSTER into the hallowed canonical corpus. Then I can mog on all the haters, particularly a certain ex-girlfriend, E— G—, a primohater who, get this, after I’d just broken up with her and left her place and was already two houses away, she ran outside to shout off her porch, “Your writing really sucks!” Well, E—- G—-, a lot can happen in 12 years. And, unfortunately, as we all found out on Bonus Day, a lot more can happen in 12 hours. Talking about the roughly twelve rough hours from noon to midnight on Bonus Day. More like Go Nuts Day.
But let me back it on up. Back it on up, back it on up, back it on up with your big ol’ butt. I’m putting the trailer before the tractor here.
There I was chilling at my crib, stoked about my boss idea to write a book. And then BOOM! I was like, why not shimmy down to the grand finale for the centennial-squeezed OF OJ at the Fresh-As-Fuck Carnival. If any scene could capture the opening set piece of my new novel, it’d be there. I was on a mad idea roll, so you know I had to keep grinding it.
From Spizzerinctum to Ska-nomatopoeia
Chucked on my Chucks and hoofed it across town to experience Bonus Day in the flesh. As soon as I arrived, I had to nosh on some grub. No way I was stepping foot in the free pizza line, mostly because I couldn’t even find where it began. But since it was only about 10:00am, the parade was just wrapping up, and the lines at the food truck pod weren’t too grody. Waited half an hour but snagged a super burrito con todo for a little over $45. I could barely finish it. Couldn’t even imagine a person capable of eating two super burritos con todo back-to-back in a single sitting. I also had to score some cotton candy, hot pink, of course. Gotta represent the Quippers! That was $25 and another half-hour wait. Glommed that sugar bush like a toothless space alien.
I still had about an hour to kill before Ska-nomatopoeia rocked the stage, so I figured I had time to crank out some bookwriting research work. If I wanted to truly capture the current Orange Forest zeitgeist, I needed to be the all-seeing eyeball that noticed every last detail, describing the unseen, transcribing the unwritten, and deep vibing with the unfelt. I also needed to find out what the hell I needed to write about in the first place.
There was that one word that’d been like a pop-up ad in my brain: Spizerinctum or Spizzerinctum or Spizarinctum or Spizzerinktum or Spizerinkum or however the hell you pronounced it or spelled it. I’m just gonna call it spizz. I got it from the fake Banger about the book, An Oral History of Orange Forest Written Down, Typed Out, and Printed for Readers by Professor Namuh Lamron, PhD, who used that word to describe the je ne sais quoi, y’know, the special sauce, that made us Orangeforesters Orangeforesters. After reading my fake review of the book, I had to get my hands on an actual copy to compare what I actually thought about it against what the bizarro Zweebster had to write about it.
I chuckled to myself, thinking about how Lamron never made the connection between spizz and the Orange Forest Goal, but I just made the connection. Then BOOM! my mad idea roll kept on rolling: I had to get the people’s perspective on this spizz shit. And what better place to get the people’s pulse than by the games and sideshows and oddities? So I strolled over to the Orforcorp Corridor to queue-n-aaay the crowd in the midway. Dudes, that mad idea roll was most epic. (Metaditorial note: Zweibel’s roll is nowhere near as epic as the epic legend of me my self’s carnival.)
The Orforcorp Corridor entrance featured a Grotesquerie of Humanities with a display of real human bodies donated by GAFFE. But check this, the oddest thing about these oddities was that none of the displays said who donated the actual bodies or how GAFFE got them. I always thought GAFFE was just old rich white fogeys who liked to party. Kinda weird.
Past the Grotesquerie, you’ve got every way possible at your disposal to break the bank or have the bank break you, but without any of the glitz or glamor you get from Vegas or Macau. Games of chance, Bonus Hole quarter pushers, money and dice wheels, video gaming machines, raffles, split-the-kettlepots, you name it. Hell, even my esteemed rad comrades were getting a piece of the pie. Trackpants had rows of branded TrakBets terminals, and Patty had a few Horoscopic Lottoology “future-showing” kiosks. Maybe instead of the novel, I should get on branding something. Oooh, like a line of sausages called Zenger’s Bangers! I had to jot down that one. But back to writing.
Taking a cue from my other rad comrades, Guido and Lisbeth, I started prepping queue-n-aaays for carnivalgoers. Really had to measure the pulse of the people about what they think about this spizz shit and how it relates to the Orange Forest Goal. Deep cut queues, like, “When a man named a price, he meant ‘Spizerinctums.’ What does that mean to you?”
Before I had a chance to practice my craft, an argument broke out between a carnivalgoer and the two amusers running the Love in a Tub booth. It was your typical game of chance that predetermined your romantic compatibility based on how much you wagered. The carnival-going couple screamed at the amusers, calling them every nasty name in the book — rubblebunkers and gremlins and other types of dumb slurs that the Zweebster does not say or condone.
The scene was big harshin’ on my vibes. Since it was getting close to noon, anyway, I said eff it, and made my way to enjoy some music.
You Don’t Resemble a Zemblan
The crowd was already packed at the Shade Stage (a total misnomer). I’d never heard of Nukkle Fukkit, the band that was closing out its set. I scooched and shimmied through the packed crowd, trying to make my way closer to the stage for Ska-nomatopoeia.
From the speakers, Nukkle Fukkit’s frontman mumbled into the mic, “This is a cover that’s very dear to our beliefs and values. And we hope it’s very dear to you too.” They broke into a fast-paced thrash metal heater, the lead singer’s voice clear through the speakers:
You don’t resemble a Zemblan
Cuz I can tell that you blend in
You ain’t wearing their emblems
You ain’t swearing for felons
You don’t resemble a Zemblan
Buuuut…
I think you look like a gremlin
The kind that messes with devils
I ain’t havin’ your meddlin’
You ain’t spreadin’ your bedlam
You kinda look like a gremlin
Yeeeeah…
You won’t foment your rebellion
Cuz I will just kick your head in
I ain’t being judgmental
I ain’t being ungentle
I don’t fuck with no gremlins AT ALL
The audience was going wild. A mosh pit swirled in swinging arms, roundhouse kicks, and bodies slamming against bodies.
And then the power went out. It was almost like it depowered the crowd, too, as everyone stopped in their tracks. Every passing minute of confusion and frustration pumped more and more bad juju into the air. As badly as I wanted to see Ska-nomatopoeia, I knew I had to scram and began weaving my way through the packed audience. Without the musical focus, the crowd’s zeal had no outlet. Without that outlet, the overheated and riled-up audience members, who were already as angry as summer leaves are orange, needed a way to channel their energy. Probably why, in a flash, the crowd morphed into a mob.
“Hey, it’s that gremlin journalist, Tweeballs Zenger!” someone in the mob shouted, but I couldn’t see who said it.
“What the hell?” I yelled to anyone who could hear. “I’m German, not Zemblan.”
“No one cares what you say, gremlin!”
“I don’t fuck with no gremlins!”
And just like that, the mobsters circled me. Dozens of hands ripped at my shirt, grabbed my arms and hair and legs, and yanked me forward. My struggling limb flailing did nothing. They chanted the lyrics to that damn song (and they didn’t even get them right). Red alarm sirens wailed in my head, firing off signals for my body to simultaneously fight, flee, and freeze.
Then I saw my final destination: a row of Mobile Commodes, one of the mobsters holding open a door with an overflowing hole.
I’m not a proud man, and I have no shame in telling you that the Zweebster yelled, pleaded, begged, bargained, cried, and tried whatever I could to avoid my fate.
The mobsters tossed me into the Mobile Commode and slammed the door. No matter how hard I pushed, there were just too many of them on the other side. In the heat of the moment, my mind rationalized that they couldn’t hold the door forever. Eventually, they’d move on to someone else to bully.
And that’s when my world flipped upside down. I slammed forward along with the rest of the stall, smacking my face against the door, which was now on the ground, as a wave of dumps dumped over me. My screams and cries seeped from the stall vents.
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The stench hit me like a freight train of pure sewage. Months of carnivalgoers slobbing up slopbuckets and galimafree bowls had been painting every surface of the blue plastic booth with their bodily horrors. I was soaked in the blue chemical sludge and its chunky cocktail of shit, piss, and vomit. I tried to wipe my face, but the acidic slurry burned my eyes. Wet toilet paper clumps stuck to arms and legs. I’ve had my share of swirlies and have been shoved inside lockers more than I care to remember. This was worse than a combo of those two. I pushed up off the ground, but those assholes, those literal assholes, put something heavy on the commode, and I couldn’t lift it. Whatever it was, it was bending in the plastic wall-turned-ceiling. I had to get a grip, but I couldn’t stop gagging. Something soft and horrifying squished under my hand.
My entire body burned. It felt like I was swimming in the Nouvelle.
I started hyperventilating. I had to find a way out of here. I pounded on the plastic wall and screamed louder.
But then I stopped. Outside, the carnival didn’t sound any better. Screams, shattered glass, metal screeching against metal. And the gunshots. Too many fucking gunshots. Sounded like a game of CoD out there.
Fuck fuck fuck. What the hell was happening? An hour ago, the world was just a fun, peaceful place, and then WOOOSH I’m suddenly trapped in a literal shitbox of death while the goddamn apocalypse happened outside.
Was I better off here inside the shitbox coffin or outside in the open-air slaughter?
Fuck no. I’m gonna get a case of that septic. The Zweebster ain’t going out in a Mobile Commode coffin. This was, without a doubt, the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Might be one of the worst things that ever happened to the city. I gotta survive and get out of this shitty mess because I have to get this down in my book. This was a once-in-a-lifetime experience. And experiences build character, and you need character to write. Right? Right?
Figuring it’ll be a lot less safe to stay here, I started shouting,”Yooooooo! Yooooooo! Is anybody out there?! Yo, time to go! Is anybody out there? Ah, is anybody out there?!”
I yelled and screamed and kicked and pounded until finally I heard something. A scraping sound got my attention, and the depression in the plastic wall popped out. Then, bestill my fricking shit-soaked britches, the Mobile Commode flipped on its side, leaving me lying on its open door and freed. I jumped to my feet faster than I’d ever moved in my life, not waiting a split second to let the commode fall down and trap me in there again.
Before me stood a gang of about twelve people, all of them wearing Atellan’s Slopbuckets with eyeholes. They saluted me and, before I could thank them, they raced off into the smoking madness.
From Mobile Commode to Commando Mode to a Big Ol’ Nope
Looking down at myself, I was dripping in brown-blue-green gloop, covered in turds and wet TP clumps. The back of my throat tightened, and then I bowled over and spewed a stream of hot pink-tinged burrito innards. Most of it ended up on my shirt, but I didn’t care. I yanked the shirt off and tried wiping myself down, but it was soaked, and I just ended up smearing the putrid shit-and-TP soup over me even more. Half the people here were shirtless and smelled like BO anyway, so it wasn’t like it even mattered. But my skin was burning as badly as this carnival. Blazing fires with billowing smoke columns were the only light, and maaaan, was the carnival lit up like a mofo.
Scanning the surreal scene before me, I saw two people in horsehead masks swinging wooden poles at a person curled up on the ground next to a concession trailer, pounding away like they were trying to bludgeon the poor person to death. Knowing it was a bad idea from the get-go, I bolted over to try and intervene. I ran past a naked dude spinning in circles, screaming in pain, and past an older man who looked like he was tying a tourniquet around a kid’s leg.
As I approached the horseheaded duo, I yelled, “Leave ‘em alone! Quit it! Stop!”
They turned to survey me with their dull plastic horse eyes, and I realized they were not beating up a person. They were just beating a bag of potatoes in a potato sack. I looked up and saw that the concession stand specialized in homemade french fries.
I scratched my stubbly chin. “Why you beating potatoes, yo?”
“Uuuggghh, what’s that awful stench?” It was a disgusted woman’s voice under the left horsehead. “Is that you?”
“You’re a sick bastard,” said the right horsehead, a low man’s voice, as he plugged the nostrils at the end of his snout. “You smell like a fucking septic tank.”
They galloped away with their poles between their legs.
Then, a regiment of GAFFErs with their gold shoulder tassel thingies marched into the area. One of them immediately took aim and unloaded three shots into the naked man. The man froze up mid-circle and then plopped over face-first, landing with a crunch that rippled through me as I recoiled in shock and horror.
“Holy shit, yo. What the fuck?!” I’d really really always thought GAFFE was just old rich white fogeys who liked to party. But nah, these fogeys had that dog in them.
The GAFFE regiment turned and zoned in on me, and before I could even swing up my hands and say don’t shoot, the cotton candy stand next to the GAFFErs exploded in front of my eyes, sending the regiment flying up into the night in a pink sugar flame poof.
A gang of people wearing big floppy rubber Bart Simpson masks strolled out of the smoldering mess, each of them dual-wielding baseball bats, metal pipes, crowbars, broken pool cues, and a bunch of other short blunt sticks and clubs.
“Whoo!” one of them yelled, looking at his phone. “Blowing up the cotton candy stand just won me a big ol’ chunk of OGEEcoin! Score!”
Another one checked their phone and tossed up their hand. “What the fuck? Stupid app hasn’t updated the stats on the GAFFE attack yet.”
That’s a big ol’ nope, I thought. I spun around and started running in what felt like a real-life Scooby Doo crew leg spin in the air before I zoomed out of the Orforcorp Corridor as fast and as far away as my shit-coated legs could carry me. Shot past the Grotesquerie, which made a helluva lot more sense now. Blasted past the carousel, its endless cycle stalled and dead bodies draped across its horses and unicorns and mermaids and dragons.
A shadowy group holding torches above their heads turned onto my path, so I ducked and rolled into the Glorbobingo tent.
“No, no no no no,” I murmured as my eyes adjusted to the scene I was seeing. There, suspended from the canopy’s beams, was a gallows of about a hundred people hanging by their necks. Some had their limbs stretched and torn from one extremity to the other, others had their limbs fully amputated and were just heads and torsos, some of them sliced open with their organs spilling out, while still others were pocked with a pox of bullet holes. The tent, probably one of the biggest at the carnival, had been turned into an open-air meat locker full of humans.
I couldn’t stop myself from crying. I let the tears pour as I crawled through the tent beneath the swaying and fly-ridden bodies. In a bit of silver lining, the tears left behind a trail of salty relief for my burning eyes. Meanwhile, I left behind a trail of sewage as I dragged myself across the bloody ground like a shit-sliming slug. And everywhere, the screams and crashes and gunshots and mindless savagery consumed us all at this fear-for-all carnival. I crawled my ass through that butcher-block Glorbobingo tent as fast as my knees and elbows would waddle.
The parking lot was relatively calm on the other side of the tent, only a handful of masked marauders wreaking havoc and a few people lying on the ground begging for help, and thankfully, no sign of any of the organized factions and gangs.
But there, right above a single row of busted-up booths and the broken-down Bumper Buggy Battle Brawl attraction, was the giant “100OF” logo sign and “Free-For-All Carnival” banner atop the entrance gate.
“Okay, Zweebster,” I mumbled, “We gotta get out of this place. If it’s the last thing we ever do.”
The only problem was a sky-scraping bonfire effigy burning right in front of the gates with masked figures dancing around it who fed the flames with carnival prizes and stuffed animals. The dancers writhed and jived in the smoke, weaving in and out of shadows, threading the line between seen and unseen, real and unreal, like hungry demons poking their heads into this dimension to have a look-see.
But leaving here was easier mumbled than stumbled. Blocking my escape was a sky-scraping bonfire effigy burning right in front of the gates. Masked figures danced around it, feeding the flames carnival prizes and jumbostuffed animals. The dancers writhed and jived in the smoke, weaving in and out of shadows, threading the line between seen and unseen, real and unreal, like hungry demons poking their heads into this dimension to have a look-see.
I didn’t know if they were peaceful hippies or devoted pyrophiles, or if they were making sacrifices to the fire, or what they were doing. I had no desire to find out, but I also had no other route to get out.
As I ransacked the currently empty cupboard of my brain, a glimmering light caught my eye, making me rubberneck and scope it out. Even seeing the sight with my own eyes didn’t convince me it was real.
There, right in front of me, a flurry of newspapers spun up into the air, like a tornado chained to a tie-out stake. The newspapers spun and swirled, leaving a bright greenish trail in their wake. The newsprint twister slowed down and, one by one, each page flew off and joined more pages to form into a two-story wall cordoning off the fire-worshippers and opening a passageway directly to the exit gates. The newspaper wall hummed silently and glowed darkly in a greenish hue.
“Bet you weren’t expecting to see me here, did you?” It was Lisbeth’s voice. I spun around and there she was, her hands in the air, orchestrating the newspapers’ movement like some kind of comic book telekinetic superhero.
At that point, my rad comrades, reality totally overwhelmed my brain, my body, and me, forcing an unanticipated break from banging as the Zweebster clonked tf out.