$34 approaches #34
Squat, hunched, whatever you call it, their he stood, lost in this place, with absolutely no place to call home. He switched back his pager to the on position and hoped that the call would come. He was trapped inside this stupid, fresh smelling prison, awaiting his eventual demise. His girlfiend, and for a short time wife, Amanda, lay a nail in his neck so to speak. In his naive and easily manipulated youth, he was challenged to make something for himself this was more than any God could have made for him.
He drew a picture and imagined himself in the position that his body had always felt most at home: in a helicopter flying solo missions into and out of an unknown land, and then sitting in cabana Martes with his wife Martiana who drove school bus for a tiny district with a one-room school. She cared little for the standard lusts of life. She knew all but twenty words but was supremely, psychically intellectual, and she made a wonderful Bixberry pie. She was honorably humble but could kill the most powerful of men if she was crossed or taken advantage of.
In his Martes, he would wrap his fingers up in plastic wrap and stay clear of all germs, which was of prime concern in such a volatile environment. He contracted several different type of parasitic worms, so the plastic was a necessity. But most days he would sit still in a dark, environmentally controlled room and get high on opium, which would inevitably make him forget. Then he would vomit and crawl into the corner. Repeat. Martiana would make him a nice dinner and slide a tray under the door. She would psychically communicate her love through the door. But indeed, her love was over-bearing and definitely dangerous at time. He feared for himself and stayed holed up between helicopter missions, which he knew would ultimately cause him fiery death.
See, even his fantasies were ugly failures! It was in his head, he knew that. He couldn't understand why the objects, the life, the cosmos, everything, why it existed. What was it for? Was there a purpose beyond monotonous business networking and masturbation in all its forms? Probably not. A cliche age-old question I guess, that he himself would obsess about.
He turned in his red jumpsuit, a velvety glory machine. His face developed a certain serious seriousness. Very deliberately, he began to run in place and close his eyes, counting slowly to thirty-five; the time he had set. He could feel it in the air tonight. Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight... the song "I'm a believer" played on in the background. He thought maybe Neil Diamond wrote that. He set up on thinking about that song but gave up half-way through and concentrated on the counting. He had not lost count. He was robotic in that sense. Ten, nine, eight... he itched his nose frantically and forgot about the cat stranded outside the front door. His running in place turned into a frantic sprint. Four, three, two... Patrick Swayze kicking the face of motherfuckers that fucked with his Roadhouse, Mr. Snodderfield shuffling across the garden bricks flipping him off.
... at 0.5 seconds he turns loose the speed energy and there he goes now, bursting through the plate glass window in his rear office onto the statuettes below. He despised the animal statuettes, but alas, they had the last impaling laugh. His wife found him the next day weeping in the rose bush, a bit beaten, but only really impaled through the soul. She beat him mercilessly and took his wallet. She spent $34 on an expensive hat and left with only bruises, physical in nature. They went on living for a few years as far the onlookers were concerned.
He drew a picture and imagined himself in the position that his body had always felt most at home: in a helicopter flying solo missions into and out of an unknown land, and then sitting in cabana Martes with his wife Martiana who drove school bus for a tiny district with a one-room school. She cared little for the standard lusts of life. She knew all but twenty words but was supremely, psychically intellectual, and she made a wonderful Bixberry pie. She was honorably humble but could kill the most powerful of men if she was crossed or taken advantage of.
In his Martes, he would wrap his fingers up in plastic wrap and stay clear of all germs, which was of prime concern in such a volatile environment. He contracted several different type of parasitic worms, so the plastic was a necessity. But most days he would sit still in a dark, environmentally controlled room and get high on opium, which would inevitably make him forget. Then he would vomit and crawl into the corner. Repeat. Martiana would make him a nice dinner and slide a tray under the door. She would psychically communicate her love through the door. But indeed, her love was over-bearing and definitely dangerous at time. He feared for himself and stayed holed up between helicopter missions, which he knew would ultimately cause him fiery death.
See, even his fantasies were ugly failures! It was in his head, he knew that. He couldn't understand why the objects, the life, the cosmos, everything, why it existed. What was it for? Was there a purpose beyond monotonous business networking and masturbation in all its forms? Probably not. A cliche age-old question I guess, that he himself would obsess about.
He turned in his red jumpsuit, a velvety glory machine. His face developed a certain serious seriousness. Very deliberately, he began to run in place and close his eyes, counting slowly to thirty-five; the time he had set. He could feel it in the air tonight. Thirty, twenty-nine, twenty-eight... the song "I'm a believer" played on in the background. He thought maybe Neil Diamond wrote that. He set up on thinking about that song but gave up half-way through and concentrated on the counting. He had not lost count. He was robotic in that sense. Ten, nine, eight... he itched his nose frantically and forgot about the cat stranded outside the front door. His running in place turned into a frantic sprint. Four, three, two... Patrick Swayze kicking the face of motherfuckers that fucked with his Roadhouse, Mr. Snodderfield shuffling across the garden bricks flipping him off.
... at 0.5 seconds he turns loose the speed energy and there he goes now, bursting through the plate glass window in his rear office onto the statuettes below. He despised the animal statuettes, but alas, they had the last impaling laugh. His wife found him the next day weeping in the rose bush, a bit beaten, but only really impaled through the soul. She beat him mercilessly and took his wallet. She spent $34 on an expensive hat and left with only bruises, physical in nature. They went on living for a few years as far the onlookers were concerned.
posted by fiestawizard at 8:58 PM
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