GLASS SOUP by Jonathan Carroll (funny books to read .txt) 📕

Bending forward and stretching his neck, Broximon looked over her stomach at the ground. “Don’t worry—as soon as you’d like to move again you can. All you’ve got to do is pump your arms like you were doing before.”

“You know who I am?”

“Of course, Isabelle. We all know who you are.”

“You all? What does that mean, all?”

Broximon swept an arm out in a long slow 180-degree arc. “Everyone here.”

Before she had a chance to ask where here was, he saw something off to the left and called out, “Jelden! Jelden, over here.” He looked at her. “You’ve got to meet this guy. He’s a real character.”

This was nonsense. All of these things were coming at her at the same moment, but they were only more questions. She needed answers. Lifting Broximon off her stomach, she put him down on the ground and stood up. Only when she was fully erect did she look toward where he had pointed. Five feet away was a man made entirely of butter.

“Isabelle, I’d like you to meet Jelden Butter.”

He was bright yellow. He wore matching blue jeans and a denim shirt. He wore a corny-looking straw hat with a hole in the brim and a dandelion slipped under the red bandanna sweatband. A long stalk of hay hung out of the left corner of his mouth.

“Howdy, Isabelle.” He stuck out a hand for her to shake. But just as she reached for it, he jerked his away, thumb up, over his shoulder. Then he cackled. “Sucker! They fall for it every time.”

Broximon rolled his eyes and patted Isabelle reassuringly on the shoe. “Don’t mind him. He lives in a 1950s time warp. That’s where all his jokes, no—that’s where all his life comes from. Right, Jelden?”

Butter looked at the two of them and smirked.

“Did you eat Jelden butter when you were growing up, Isabelle?”

She was staring so intently at the yellow man that she didn’t really hear the question. It was true—the closer she looked, the more obvious it was that he was made entirely of butter.

“What?”

“I asked if you ate Jelden butter when you were growing up.”

“What’s Jelden butter?”

Jelden Butter put a hand over his heart and said in a hurt tone of voice, “I am. Weren’t we just introduced?”

Isabelle looked from Butter to Broximon and then back at Butter.

Broximon saw her look of growing dismay and explained. “Jelden was a famous brand sold in California in the 1960s and seventies. They ran a bunch of television advertisements starring him.” He pointed to the yellow man.

Jelden put his thumbs up into his armpits and sang very loudly,

“Jelden butter on your plate,

Helps to make the morning great!”

Broximon slapped his hands quickly over his ears. “No, Jelden! I swear to God, if you start singing those damned jingles again—”

Too late—the Butter Man was already singing his third jingle by the time Broximon dug in his pocket, withdrew a disposable lighter and flicked it into life. He stuck his arm out and walked toward the singer. Seeing that little flame, the fire that could melt him, Jelden shut up immediately.

All Isabelle could think was Why doesn’t he just blow it out? But then she remembered where she was. Things were different here. Maybe in this world, people made of butter weren’t able to blow out flames.

Taking a few quick steps back, Jelden said to Broximon, “All right, all right, I’ll stop. Put that away. I only came to tell you your friend is looking for you.”

Isabelle didn’t know what he was talking about. What friend? She looked down at Broximon, assuming he understood the statement.

Broximon asked, “How do you know that? When did you see him?”

Jelden said petulantly, “A few hours ago.” He looked at Isabelle. “You don’t know who I’m talking about, do you?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“Simon? Simon Haden? You know him, right? You know that name.”

“Simon is here?”

“This is his world. Welcome to Simon Haden land.”

When he was alive, if you had asked Haden how many times he’d dreamed about Isabelle Neukor since they first met, he would have been embarrassed to admit at least once a week. Women generally said yes to him because he was so handsome. If they said no he either dismissed them, or else became interested in finding a way into their hearts for the little while he needed to conquer them.

Isabelle said no to him often but so sweetly or wittily or sexily that his interest in her grew into a kind of low-grade obsession. And Haden had never been the obsessive type. Until a couple of years before he died, things had come easily to him. He’d had no need to obsess about anything because life was pretty much his for the asking. Not only that, but a great deal of what he wanted was offered to him.

Not Isabelle. After a while he didn’t even know if she mattered to him—getting her mattered, fucking her mattered. Having her underneath him with her clothes off and his cock deep inside her mattered.

Haden ruined any chance he had when he brought her to a party where she met Vincent Ettrich. He had originally met Vincent in Los Angeles while there on business and liked him very much. Particularly because both men were unrepentant womanizers and had common ground on which to walk. Ettrich knew LA well and introduced Haden around to interesting people. The men had a good time together. A couple of years later when they bumped into each other at the Loos Bar in Vienna, Haden repaid the favor. When he heard that Vincent knew Flora Vaughn, he took him to a party where he knew Flora and Isabelle would be—and ended up regretting that invitation for the short rest of his life.

Within a week Ettrich had won Isabelle’s heart, body, mind, and soul. Haden was appalled but what could he do? Worse, Ettrich was so grateful for the introduction to this phenomenal woman and the big