a "pointless" style shortstory, that started out as a character sketch, much inspired by Disch. as always, imput is vastly appreciated.

The Peculiar and Paradoxical Mr. Pwibble

Mr. Pwibble was a sweet, happy little man that lived in a sweet-looking, happy little house. He was, on the surface, what most people associate with a sweet, happy little man; he was short, with a smiling face and squinty eyes, and absolutely no hair on the top of his head but great mounds of frizzy, spirally hair on the sides of his head that looked grown out of control. Mr. Pwibble could have been anywhere from fourty-five to sixty, and of any north-European nationality. He loved to play Bingo.

But Mr. Pwibble was quite eccentric. He hated cats and dogs with a passion, yet adored Georgia, his pet Silkie hen, which lived in his house with him and had an entire room for herself, along with special diapers Mr. Pwibble had made for her. Georgia went almost everywhere with Mr. Pwibble, even to play Bingo, where she sat on his lap passively the whole time. Mr. Pwibble didn’t dislike music, in that he felt no ill-feeling towards it, but simply had no taste for any music; any music, that was, except one song, “Georgia on my Mind”, with which he was completely obsessed. He hummed it to himself constantly, named Georgia his pet hen after the song, and owned thirty-seven records, all of which had the song “Georgia on my Mind” on them somewhere. Mr. Pwibble, in the evening, invariably sat down with Georgia the hen sitting in his lap and Georgia the song playing on the record player. And Mr. Pwibble would sit and listen to every single one of the thirty-seven variations of the song, every single night.

Mr. Pwibble lived in a subdivision, and had a very small yard, but was obsessed with the leaves that fell from nearby trees onto it. He spent tremendous amounts of time raking and bagging the leaves. None of his neighbors were quite sure where all the bags of leaves went; they never saw him burning any, but they new that he had at least four garbage bags of leaves piled against the back of his house at all times. One of his neighbors suggested that he used the leaves to cover the floor of Georgia the hen’s room, but Mr. Pwibble’s beloved hen got nothing but the thickest, softest carpet.

Mr. Pwibble also had only one outfit; or, rather, several outfits, all of which were exactly the same. His wardrobe consisted of nothing but sleeveless brown sweaters with red and green crosshatch, white shirts, and slacks. He never wore anything but these, in addition to a pair of tasseled loafers, which he wore to bed.

Mr. Pwibble had several other eccentricities and obsessions, but he only had one really great secret: Mr. Pwibble was immortal. The sweet, happy little man was invincible. He had known this for a long time, but never had he told anybody.

So one day, he stood on the very edge of a very tall sky-scraper down town, felt the wind ruffling the crazy piles of hair on the sides of his head and making his eyes water so that he had to close them almost completely - - - and he felt great. He KNEW he was immortal. He could feel it. He could feel it. And slowly, ever so slowly, Mr. Pwibble lost his balance (or rather, let it go, for he didnt try to keep his balance), fell off the top of the sky scraper, and spattered his quite mortal brains over the sidewalk.