One morning, Kiyotaka Ishimaru was surprised when he woke up to discover two Mondos had appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, in their shared living space. He was most perplexed, beyond all reasoning.

"Brother, and also Brother," sang his dulcet and modest toned voice, "wherefore did this second Brother come from? Reveal to me your true nature, and inform me which of the two of you is the original Brother, and which is the well-formed, corn-cob-haired sham."

Mondo the First spoke (this being the Mondo on the left of Kiyotaka's viewpoint). His pale violet eyes were dewy with emotion. "Oh, Brother, hear a tale of such woe that the world, heretofore, has yet to comprehend its magnitude."

"Hark," bespoke Mondo the Second, "and listen to our doom."

"I am all ears," gushed Kiyotaka, the glistering drops of humanity already stealing down his cheek, from anticipated bromotions.

Mondo the First began. "We were once but one Mondo, full in the very prime of our life, wild and carefree, our well-coiffed hair cutting through the breeze as we rode upon our Motor'd Cycle, oh, it pains us to remember these, the halcyon days of our youth, unblemished and pure and whole."

"But the terrible ravages of time and chance wore on, and Fortuna's Wheel swung low for us, yea, even unto the dust of the earth. For it seems that, in our haste to preform some minor motor-cycling stunt, really but a trifle of our Abilities, we chanced to knock into a wizard made out of Eggplants," continued Mondo the Second.

"Eggplants! A wizard! O! My brother!" sobbed Kiyotaka, a very river of emotion wetting his bedclothes (that is, his uniform, as he could be seen wearing nothing less than this). He prudently removed it, as to not stain it, and allowed the two to continue. His many abdominal muscles heaved with every sob that wracked his youthful, yet manly frame.

Mondo the first continued. "Alas and Alakaday, we were cursed by this Eggplant Wizard. He enchanted us to split into two beings, and deprived us of all our motor-cycling skills," here, Mondo the First found that he could not continue on. He wiped the mascara that was running down his cheeks off of his sleeve and, then, realizing that he was smudging a favorite jacket, removed it. In companionship, Mondo the Second removed his own jacket, and continued the tale. Their respective tank tops strained with manly suffering and pectoral muscles.

"Bereft of our ability to motor-cycle, he informed us that the only anodyne to our doom was for both of us, at the same time, to find another person, male, whom would willingly accept our manly and, if we might be so bold as to remark, generous endowments, one at the fore, and the other, well, we shall not venture to state where but circumstances being what they are, such matters can be divined by those with the foresight to do so."

"Wherever," asked Mondo the First. "Wherever shall we find someone to do this for us? For we are not gay."

"No, not in the least," added Mondo the Second.

"Not even the smallest amount," Mondo the First continued.

"Brothers," said Kiyotaka, "the manly passion that I feel for you, burning in my youthful bosom enables me to do a great many things and, for you, even though I, too, am not the least bit gay, nor have I ever had any unmet homosexual desires, I would be willing to release you from this terrible curse, out of my generous and affirming love for you, as a man." The drops of humanity that stole down his cheeks, cascading down his naked chest, bespoke a deep and lasting bond; surely, this was the truest vision of companionship which could ever be imagined.

"Brother," said Mondos One and Two at the same time. To wipe the ever-running mascara from their eyes, they removed their tank tops, giving Kiyotaka a choice view of their manly torsos, ripped with muscles and covered, already, with a sheen of sweat.

As each man stripped off his clothing and prepared for the act which was to follow, they looked at each other, and nodded. What a sacrifice this would be. But, ultimately, worth it.

All three, at the same time, felt the same feeling, and spoke out, in one accord:

"No homo."

No, no homo. No homo whatsoever.

-fin-

The curiously proportioned Dr. Ivo Robotnik Eggman, owner of Millford's most well-established textile factory, Eggman Fabricery – For Softness of Touch and Ease of Wear, Think Eggman Fabrics; Real Animals Used in Manufacturing Means Real Quality for You – was calling, for the fourth time this month – and we have arrived at but the second week of April – upon the town's most eligible partner in marriage, Bowser Koopa. Mr. Koopa was fabulously, and most importantly, independently wealthy, but had sworn off any entanglements in marriage, so as to live a life dedicated to intellectual pursuits, without the recourse to the earthly concerns of conjugal entanglements.

Still, there were days when, upon reflecting, Mr. Koopa had grown weary of his life as a recluse. There was a glimmer of hope that, for some lucky suitor, he might open his heart; it was to this hope, dear reader, that Dr. Eggman attached his hopes; he among many others of Millford's highest society. Even those members of the city's local nobility, due to the immenseness of Mr. Bowser's fortune, had sought out an alliance, with the temptations of an earl's coronet placed in front of him.

Dr. Eggman, however, believed that personal favor lay in his direction, and that a continued avocation of Mr. Koopa's affections would bear fruit. And so, dear reader, on this fourth visit of the month, Dr. Eggman rang the doorbell, and waited for a servant to answer the door. He was waited upon by Mr. Bowser's aged manservant, Kamek. Staring into his rheumatic eyes, Dr. Eggman wondered what it was that kept this man alive.

"Is Mr. Bowser in?" he asked.

"No," replied Kamek, who then shut the door.

"I'll have you yet!" said Dr. Eggman, as he shook his gold-headed cane at a second story window, and then turned around and walked down the boulevard.

From his second-story sitting parlor, Mr. Bowser considered the dried flowers hanging above the mantelpiece; setting down his needlepoint, he found that, never before, had he so felt that the flowers were so faded, mere ghosts of an idea nearly forgotten. This impression would remain for him for the remainder of the day, an indescribable, personal memento mori.

He would go to the seaside. If he left the confines of this house, and of Millford, the oppressive air which hung about him as a miasma would dissipate. He would take up in a small volcano on the beach. In removing himself from Millford, he would remove himself from his troubles.