It was a mundane evening in Thunder Bay, Ontario. The birds were chirping vigorously and gross-out, boogery children played games of dirt and other obscurities. The sky was clear as ever, and species of all backgrounds roamed the sunny and very much playful streets. The roadsides were filled with peddlers, merchants, and deal makers of varying orders. There were both wretched and beautiful creatures juggling there diverse and colorful bodies down the busily consumed streets and alleyways. The day was beautiful, but the small town of Thunder Bay was as shit-filled and garbage-intensive as always. There was transvestites, gargoyles, half-trolls and pleasure-seekers. So much vomity slop filled the walkways and balconies of the busy Canadian town.
Bobert Shoebag lived with his retired uncle and aunt in a broken, ghastly, motel. It had been several years since the passing away of his best friend, Maxwell Whetkunsky, and the relocation of his retired and lower-class family. A depressed shroud covered Bobert ever since that loyal sidekick of his died of a goose related heart attack of some degree. He was always a statue of a child, but never before to such an extent as now.
Maxwell was always a trustworthy companion, although wicked and disgusting, he was the only one Bobert had told about his deep, dark, sinister secret. Bobert was a gay. He wasn't the type of gay that paraded his fruity love and passion around, or the type who constantly enjoyed showers of tailed microorganisms, but he was indeed a gay-lord of some end of the scale, unlike Maxwell, who was the secondly mentioned form of homosexual. Bobert understandably grew lonely knowing the one person that he had trusted with his precious secret had passed away only hours after the transfer of sacred knowledge. Still, he continued about his gloomy and sad life, unable to love again.
