Grow up? Growing up is for pansies that want to fall and remain fallen, unable to rise, and then bitch about it until someone helps them off their lazy good for nothing depends. Does anyone remember the movie Logan's Run? I hand out life alerts at my corner to old bags who measure their lives with kitty litter spoons, and when they give it the touch or two to in the hopes of prolonging their uselessness, a claymore mine discharges into their umpteengenerian chest. Epic messages my pointy hat, those were the minutes from the Jester club meeting. People stopped coming on their own, and I had to recruit 1700's british navy style, only they didn't cause another war of 1812. But what they did cause were a lot of jawless freaks gurgling about the conditions and their respective limbs. If their eyes hadn't been covered in wasp-filled goggles they might have found them and complained a bit less. Or more. I wasn't inclined to think much about it, there was too much mirth in the room.
I'd write another one, but we've become a secret society. I'm not the Jester I used to be. Reversing a chap's major joints and injecting oxygen into his vein used to be the thing, but I've moved on. Taking the splintered remains of a fellow's rib and stabbing him through the small of the back until penetrating his kidney was all the rage, but the pain proved too excruciating for desired screams (or any sound at all). Force feeding Mike his face was all fun and games, and Tony's pelvis looked funny as a helmet, and making the two joust with torches while each were soaked in lighter fluid was certainly a spectacle, but times have simply changed...
So let's turn back the clock a bit. And then inject Guatemalan spider eggs at quarter inch intervals along its body. We'll also let a Japanese snow crab go to work on his head, which we'll secure to a plethera of amateur rockets, and when all is said and done, well... Jester throws a bloody skull to Sean.