Rock-Eye Rodney
The next part:
My mind was once again left to drift as I lay in the roughly trimmed grass of the highway’s edges. Cue the Eurythmics. Here comes the rain again… synth solo, (synths must have been somehow related to my head trauma, as I keep mentioning them) pounding itself out to the Skateland lightshow. Mostly just colored flashing bulbs, with the occasional addition of some strobes. I remember it well, not because I won the top award as “Skating Jesus,” but because I was the DJ. With well over 400 cassette tapes to choose from, I was the DJ of choice for well over 60 kids in Vincentville. It was my personal collection, and it featured such favorites as Tiffany and Greg Kihn Band. I fucking ruled.
This thought made me warm with happiness, considering my deadly predicament and all. At the time I was involved in a DJ ring. We called ourselves the Box Cutters and we meant business on a day to basis. The Skateland administration was under our control, so much so that we were able to get new carpet on the rink walls and use a real piece of bamboo for the limbo. I once played Nugent’s Stranglehold three times in a row. A group of vandal teens violently attacked the open DJ booth with fists of fury and underdeveloped acne-ridden backs. They were furious that I could so easily ruin their adolescent libido and attempts at groping young Chrissy, the Skateland overdeveloped whore. They all swore they were about to get some real action. I had no pity for them and told them so. Miandro, another local DJ and my Box Cutter brother, was repairing some equipment related to Nugent at the time near my desk and flew into action. With a nod of the head and a throat grab the hoods were disposed of. They proceeded to lope away towards the arcade and were later seen trying to “beat” Pinbot, which is impossible, as we all know. And that my friends, is the psychological affect that I needed at this moment. “Miandro!” I yelled in pain as I continued to bleed and fade back to reality. You may be beginning to see now that these thoughts come from deep within the sewerages of my mind, the deep dark abscesses where black acrid smoke drifts about and evil lurks. Even memories that are bright and cheery, like the skating rink, come from this location, which is unfortunate. But my mind is mostly one giant sewer. I owe much of this to the fertilizer plant.
There was certainly no more time budgeted for lighthearted memories of the past, or for that matter, dark memories. I was still lying in the ditch, hoping that the storm had cleared at last. Gil and I still had some potential discussion regarding the obliteration of our pensions and lives at the plant. However, more importantly at the present, I had to find out if Gil was still alive, or had met the fate of many others before him. That is, the fate met at the hands of Melcko and his henchmen.
The usual mode was a badly twisted ankle and never healing rug burns. Molestation by the Virelic boys was also certainly possible. It’s too bad that the working poor like Gil and I must be distracted by such things as evil grand master plans and chemical induced seizures. Such has been the way of life since man learned how easy it is to make another man an idiot. Am I an idiot? I lifted my head cautiously out of the weeds. A cattail shard was lodged between my armpit and inner ear. No signs of my friends did I see. I looked at my watch to see that the time was 6:43 pm. Usually at this time during the day I am well on my way to the public pool for laps and taffy. Seeing nobody around, I decided to get up and walk down the road. Since I was in fair shape, I whistled a tune only to find my whistle trembled. I pondered the previous events and began to force the pieces together in much the same way I did with the kitty cat puzzle I had as a child. I was once told that the pieces should not be forced together (because no kitty will ever be rendered in proper form), but in any case, that was going to be the method for today.
As I strolled into the waning sunlight of the west, I began to realize that the events of the past were melding with the current events. I am envious of myself and my extraordinary investigative skills. Melcko’s prophecy of black magic and local demise was taking shape, and my uncle might have been onto something with his plan. If only I had listened to the intricate details of his master plan instead of the Master of Puppets tune in my head.
I drank the remaining drops of water in my canteen. My canteen- the one that I apparently been equipped with by good friends. I still had the important items my uncle had given me and they would be of use to me soon I believed. Before I had a chance to continue with the puzzle of my life, I came upon a form dressed in the same way as the dingy green of the nearby forest. As I worked my way in for a closer look, I realized that the green was that of special sushi seaweed. A strange trademark of some type I thought. Being very hungry, I glanced to the left and to the right as to make sure there was no monitoring going on. I proceeded to eat the seaweed. I proceeded to eat my way right to Gil’s left front forearm. His lobster in a net tattoo gave it all away. By the Devil himself, Gil had been thrashed and laid to rest by the road, by way of two hundred Dramamine. The empty bottles told the whole story; licked clean even. He would certainly experience no motion sickness for at least another 60 hours when he would awake with a slight beard.
With no form of transportation for Gil’s sleeping 300-pound plus body, I turned onto the nearest approach and entered the Thraxilon Forest towards Harnack March. I would catch up to him later. My head was still weeping blood loathingly near the lower back half. If only the robot I had planned to build years early had functioned properly, I would not be in this mess. For the robot would have quelled all threats successfully, rendering Uncle’s plan obsolete. A clothes hamper and some old wires, however, proved not to be a good starting point for such projects. Stephen Hawking would soon be contacted by letter for details.
I knew that the forest would serve as a way point, as local Black Metalers housed themselves in there. It may seem cliché to find the outcast crowd in the forest, but believe me, these dudes were much more than cliché. As it were, black metal and death metal had both been banned in the nearby communities on account of the growing popularity of Britney Spears and Jesus. She said on MTV once that she loved Jesus. The founding fathers figured that all metalers alike (in fact) disliked Jesus. I refer to this situation as the reversal of truths, as at one time in the early eighties dances such as the Maniac, Flash Dance, and Kevin Bacon’s footloose dance were banned upon request from the high Priest. Later in the late 80’s and early 90’s, only Motley Crue was allowed. It follows that in time homoerotic children’s songs will be banned. Anyway, the forest has been the haven for each and every outcast group, and I was headed to the shanty now.
My mind was once again left to drift as I lay in the roughly trimmed grass of the highway’s edges. Cue the Eurythmics. Here comes the rain again… synth solo, (synths must have been somehow related to my head trauma, as I keep mentioning them) pounding itself out to the Skateland lightshow. Mostly just colored flashing bulbs, with the occasional addition of some strobes. I remember it well, not because I won the top award as “Skating Jesus,” but because I was the DJ. With well over 400 cassette tapes to choose from, I was the DJ of choice for well over 60 kids in Vincentville. It was my personal collection, and it featured such favorites as Tiffany and Greg Kihn Band. I fucking ruled.
This thought made me warm with happiness, considering my deadly predicament and all. At the time I was involved in a DJ ring. We called ourselves the Box Cutters and we meant business on a day to basis. The Skateland administration was under our control, so much so that we were able to get new carpet on the rink walls and use a real piece of bamboo for the limbo. I once played Nugent’s Stranglehold three times in a row. A group of vandal teens violently attacked the open DJ booth with fists of fury and underdeveloped acne-ridden backs. They were furious that I could so easily ruin their adolescent libido and attempts at groping young Chrissy, the Skateland overdeveloped whore. They all swore they were about to get some real action. I had no pity for them and told them so. Miandro, another local DJ and my Box Cutter brother, was repairing some equipment related to Nugent at the time near my desk and flew into action. With a nod of the head and a throat grab the hoods were disposed of. They proceeded to lope away towards the arcade and were later seen trying to “beat” Pinbot, which is impossible, as we all know. And that my friends, is the psychological affect that I needed at this moment. “Miandro!” I yelled in pain as I continued to bleed and fade back to reality. You may be beginning to see now that these thoughts come from deep within the sewerages of my mind, the deep dark abscesses where black acrid smoke drifts about and evil lurks. Even memories that are bright and cheery, like the skating rink, come from this location, which is unfortunate. But my mind is mostly one giant sewer. I owe much of this to the fertilizer plant.
There was certainly no more time budgeted for lighthearted memories of the past, or for that matter, dark memories. I was still lying in the ditch, hoping that the storm had cleared at last. Gil and I still had some potential discussion regarding the obliteration of our pensions and lives at the plant. However, more importantly at the present, I had to find out if Gil was still alive, or had met the fate of many others before him. That is, the fate met at the hands of Melcko and his henchmen.
The usual mode was a badly twisted ankle and never healing rug burns. Molestation by the Virelic boys was also certainly possible. It’s too bad that the working poor like Gil and I must be distracted by such things as evil grand master plans and chemical induced seizures. Such has been the way of life since man learned how easy it is to make another man an idiot. Am I an idiot? I lifted my head cautiously out of the weeds. A cattail shard was lodged between my armpit and inner ear. No signs of my friends did I see. I looked at my watch to see that the time was 6:43 pm. Usually at this time during the day I am well on my way to the public pool for laps and taffy. Seeing nobody around, I decided to get up and walk down the road. Since I was in fair shape, I whistled a tune only to find my whistle trembled. I pondered the previous events and began to force the pieces together in much the same way I did with the kitty cat puzzle I had as a child. I was once told that the pieces should not be forced together (because no kitty will ever be rendered in proper form), but in any case, that was going to be the method for today.
As I strolled into the waning sunlight of the west, I began to realize that the events of the past were melding with the current events. I am envious of myself and my extraordinary investigative skills. Melcko’s prophecy of black magic and local demise was taking shape, and my uncle might have been onto something with his plan. If only I had listened to the intricate details of his master plan instead of the Master of Puppets tune in my head.
I drank the remaining drops of water in my canteen. My canteen- the one that I apparently been equipped with by good friends. I still had the important items my uncle had given me and they would be of use to me soon I believed. Before I had a chance to continue with the puzzle of my life, I came upon a form dressed in the same way as the dingy green of the nearby forest. As I worked my way in for a closer look, I realized that the green was that of special sushi seaweed. A strange trademark of some type I thought. Being very hungry, I glanced to the left and to the right as to make sure there was no monitoring going on. I proceeded to eat the seaweed. I proceeded to eat my way right to Gil’s left front forearm. His lobster in a net tattoo gave it all away. By the Devil himself, Gil had been thrashed and laid to rest by the road, by way of two hundred Dramamine. The empty bottles told the whole story; licked clean even. He would certainly experience no motion sickness for at least another 60 hours when he would awake with a slight beard.
With no form of transportation for Gil’s sleeping 300-pound plus body, I turned onto the nearest approach and entered the Thraxilon Forest towards Harnack March. I would catch up to him later. My head was still weeping blood loathingly near the lower back half. If only the robot I had planned to build years early had functioned properly, I would not be in this mess. For the robot would have quelled all threats successfully, rendering Uncle’s plan obsolete. A clothes hamper and some old wires, however, proved not to be a good starting point for such projects. Stephen Hawking would soon be contacted by letter for details.
I knew that the forest would serve as a way point, as local Black Metalers housed themselves in there. It may seem cliché to find the outcast crowd in the forest, but believe me, these dudes were much more than cliché. As it were, black metal and death metal had both been banned in the nearby communities on account of the growing popularity of Britney Spears and Jesus. She said on MTV once that she loved Jesus. The founding fathers figured that all metalers alike (in fact) disliked Jesus. I refer to this situation as the reversal of truths, as at one time in the early eighties dances such as the Maniac, Flash Dance, and Kevin Bacon’s footloose dance were banned upon request from the high Priest. Later in the late 80’s and early 90’s, only Motley Crue was allowed. It follows that in time homoerotic children’s songs will be banned. Anyway, the forest has been the haven for each and every outcast group, and I was headed to the shanty now.
4 Comments:
all right. i REALLY want to read this. BUT i will lose my place, and my mind (and not in the positive way).
i am begging you to edit this and add a few "carriage returns" where one might imagine paragraphs.
you know, i'll read it regardless, don't you? but still. help a brother out. my eyes!
but i won't read it tonight. no sir.
There's a few just to stop you from cyring your pathetic robot tears (dry ice producing magic smoke). It doesn't fool me. My thoughts aren't divided by your "paragraphs," nor do I really care to help people "read with good ease." Have fun Jenny, you little two-timing hillbilly skunk.
By the way, that writing is on page 18(35) of much of the same sort of format, but I've been including paragraphs nowadays as my thoughts are now subdivided. Eat your heart out Jarvin.
i like the "abscesses" imagery, of course. overall, grim but optimistic in tone, and exceedingly cryptic. the paragraphs helped A LOT though. guideposts, really. i still got lost, but it felt good.
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