‘How do you like your noodles mate?’ I hear a voice asking. ‘How do you like your freaking noodles?’ It’s all go here you know – the euphoria is pumping, the euphoria is pumping like nobody’s business! It’s pumping away in my blood stream and I’m taking a ride on it – riding high on that wave of euphoria and I know it’s going to bring me somewhere good. I expect you know that feeling as well as I do – it’s like being strapped to the nosecone of a Saturn-5 rocket in the first few minutes after it takes off. ‘You crazy bastard,’ people are shouting at me, ‘get off that frickin nosecone whilst you still have a chance…’
That’s life in the noodle house for you. You’ve got to love it, right? Either you love it or you hate it but it’ll blow you away both ways. That’s how it goes when you’re living in the old Noodle House! Fuck yeah – that’s how it goes. Don’t you just love that feeling? You’re riding the crazy train and you know it’s not going to end well. You know that it’s not going to end well but you don’t care. Is too late to care – not when you’ve got on board that old crazy train. It’s too late for anything else now, your noodle’s already baked and there’s nothing you can do about it.
That’s life in the Noodle House, isn’t it? I reflect sadly to myself. A new day has dawned, bringing with it the things that it brings. ‘Why does the day always bring with it the things that it brings?’ I ask myself dolefully. Why does it always do that? My limbs are heavy and full of pain and my head feels as if it’s stuffed with radioactive dust. When I breathe out a bad smell fills the air and when I breathe in it’s as if thousands of tiny knives are cutting my lungs to pieces. Outside I can hear the unmistakable sound of the Doom Machine cranking up – slowly and uneasily at first but then gradually picking up speed until it becomes a full-throated roar. I’ve set it in motion. I always set it in motion. ‘Why do I always set the Doom Machine in motion?’ I cry out in anguish, ‘somebody tell me why?’ ‘How do you like those noodles?’ the voice whispers softly to me. ‘How do you like those noodles?’
They call me Bringer of Evil on account of how, on account of how. Many are the names by which men speak of me. Many are the names, but none of them are my true name. I comfort myself with this. ‘They cannot know my true name!’ I tell myself. I don’t know it either and that’s why my destiny is so dark. That is why I’m compelled to speak as I do speak and act as I do act. Great indeed is the terror which overshadows my cringing, cowering consciousness. ‘What have I done to deserve this fate?’ I wail, ‘what have I done?’ I yearn to see the sun once more; I yearn to feel the autumn breeze upon my cheek. All the good things of this world have now departed however. They are soon to be replaced by something else, something else of which I will not speak.