Borknumpelstein

There was an ice-man who lived in an igloo. The ice-people, as you're surely aware, absolutely love the heat. They’re obsessed with it, always decorating their igloos with umbrellas, pretending they live on beaches. Truthfully, they don’t actually wear all those furry clothes because they are cold—they’ve accumulated so much brown-fat by now, they can practically swim naked in the ice water without concern—In fact, here is a secret you ought to know: these ice-people only wear those furry clothes because they want to bask in thoughts of heat. They dream of deserts, and sweat, and exploding thermometers. Theirs is, sadly, an ironic existence. The Ice-peoples’ only great pastime, besides, of course, swimming naked in the icy water, or sometimes fucking up a seal when really bored, is to go to the local trading post. 

They would prepare a sled, then the dogs, grab a gun, and sleigh towards the trading post for some nick-nacks. And so it was now, that our ice-man, the one who lived in the igloo, departed for the trading post, together with his son. They experienced pure joy as they glided across the snow and ice, pretending they were surfing a beautiful wave on the sunny shores of Mexico, or Bali, or wherever else they’d seen in the magazines. 

They arrived at the trading station, which I’m sorry to tell you is just a shack in the middle of nowhere with one dude working inside. Our ice-man, son at his side, exchanged the usuals with the manager of the trading post. You know the banter—“Pretty warm day isn’t it, Chicknawsorbitally?” or, “It’s almost time to pull out the tanning-oil!”

“Yes, yes it is!” responded Chicknawsorbitally (the trading post manager), while wiping an icicle-booger from his beard. “Shit, I could go for an ice-cold cervesa and my bikini about now! … Anyways, so, what’s the latest Borknumpelstein? You and your son are looking well.” 

“Meh, we’re fine. Let’s get to business. Do you have anymore of those A-grade boot-spikes? I completely fell on my ass with those last ones you sold me."

“Sorry,” responded Chicknawsorbitally. “We’re all out of the grade As, but there are some Grade Cs, which have really surprised me. They are practically B-grade for half the walrus tusks. I strongly recommend them.” Nudge, nudge. 

“Fuck your grade Cs, what else do you have?”

“Ohhh, well, I wasn’t going to tell you this,” he whispered, abandoning the boot-spike sale. “It’s probably going to be reserved for someone else, ehh, of higher class than you. You understand how it is? Remember old man Soricknudderbunk? Well, he’s just raking in the tusks. His icicle-art has really taken off! I imagine he'll be purchasing this special item next time he comes in. A wealthy ice-man like him can afford it, unlike you.”

“Oh christ! Soricknudderbunk can suck a whale! Show me this prize you’re hiding.”

Chicknawsorbitally reached under the counter, which was merely a board atop a few sticks weaved together, and pulled out something never before seen to the frosted eyes of Borknumpelstein. It was a black rectangular box with a long floppy nipple coming out the top. It had several rubber nobbies on one side of the box, and a few dials. Chicknawsorbitally, after seeing the unimpressed look of his customer, decided that a demonstration was in order. He rotated a nobbie at the top, and bam! A green light manifested. 

Borknumpelstein almost fell over; "what sorcery!” he thought, astounded. “How can it summon its own light?" After recovering himself, he proceeded to clap wildly while jumping up and down, screaming giddily like a girl. “Wee, wee, look at that fucking light,” he shouted, slapping his son, Bob, on the back. “Can you see it Bob? I’ve never seen anything like that, ‘cept for the God-lights that keep greening and purpling the sky. Wow, I never!”

Chicknawsorbitally explained that it was called a Ray—deedeyo—kerklonkerbleet. “The Downlanders call it a radio," he explained. “But who can pronounce that?” 

“Hmm, yeah, that is a mouthful,” Chicknawsorbitally agreed. “So, what does it do?” he excitedly questioned.

“Look here. You just move this little nobby, right here … see, this one.” And, as he turned it, as if magic, noise started coming from it. 

Borknumpelstein couldn’t resist; it was just too much for him. He had to own this Raydeedeyokerklonkerbleet! He thus parted with all of his tusks, and his last shark tooth (his only shark tooth, if we’re being honest).

Chicknawsorbitally was kind enough to throw in a magazine to sweeten the sale. The magazine was shielded behind a black cover, so as not to excite the patrons or be seen by children. He surreptitiously waited until Bob was distracted in the bead isle. He slid the magazine towards Borknumpelstein with a wink (It should be clarified here, for the sake of scientific integrity, that there was obviously not a bead isle. Who would believe that? The beads were just lying on the floor in a pile of snow and no isles, of any sort, existed). 

Borknumpelstein quickly glanced at the magazine—Sunny Escapes Monthly, the hottest destinations for your next trip. He hid the edition inside his coat. It was going to get plenty of attention when the missus was outside, engaged in the morning shoveling… he could almost feel the heat coming from the pages.

“Let’s go Bob,” Borknumpelstein called to his son. Another successful mission to the trading post, completed. After bidding thanks to Chicknawsorbitally, they went to their dogs, mounted the sled, and headed back to their town. It was only an eighteen-hour sled to get home; they'd always been grateful for such sought-after proximity to the trading post. It was nearly three days of travel for Soricknudderbunk, that prick.

During the journey, our ice-man decided to play with his new treasure (the radio, not the other). Bob was driving—he was six already—while Borknumpelstein experimented with a nobby, finessing the dial until the box sputtered out some noise. The sound was broken with lots of static. After diligently fine-tuning the nobby, the black box began broadcasting a voice, loud and clear. 

A commanding news-voice delivered a lengthy soliloquy, sounding worried. The newsman alerted his listeners of some impending danger—“Good afternoon citizens, we have an important announcement. The entire region is expecting record-breaking temperatures. The National Weather Service has declared a statewide heatwave warning. We’re expecting to exceed 110 degrees Fahrenheit. It is going to be H-O-T. Please take appropriate precautions and keep well hydrated." 

Bob looked up with curious eyes. A guilty grin formed slowly across his face. His cheeks turned red and he asked his father—“Borknumpelstein, what does ‘HOT’ mean?”

“Later son, later.”