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Spew

Gus Savoie's picture

Herein lies the tale of a _______, which mired deep in the annals of infliction and desolation must again rise to the task of gargantuan sloth. Despite the tangles of street-worthy destitution the mammoth puts forth his tableau of fear and excitement in hopes of receiving tuition. Indeed, if he only realized the depths of his gratitude, he might withdraw his trembling hand, his frozen fingers, pinching the tiny plastic baggie from the punched out fist-hole in the sheet-rock wall. He might consider the gauntlet that his education will require him to ferry. But, such a fleeting ghost of mention is not traversed his conscious scrim. No shadow of self-doubt, now whisper of uncertainty visits his shallow pool of fortitude. His mind is too clouded. He sees only the target before him, shining in the shrouds of gray underbrush and mountains of crumbling garbage. All of his mental energies are focused on maintaining the view of this angel of salvation, this portal to a restful death, a commercially expletive and artificially consolidated repose. Nevertheless, it will do under the circumstances - besides, in a former life he discovered the truth of reality was mere projection. Artifice is reality - there is nothing more, right? His view remains fixed, this is what he clings to now. One foot follows the first.

A shambling mass appears on the glowing green radar scope to the left of the steaming mug of coffee.
"Tremors on the fourth line of egress." Stanfeld’s voice is thick and mossy, dripping with clouds of coffee and swampy indigestion. "Do you confirm?" His eyes remain steady behind reflective lenses.
"It's a humanoid form." Darkness, tapping keystrokes. "I'll check the surveillance cameras in Alley 5 for ID confirmation."
"Why do I have to use this ancient piece of shit while you surf Web pages?"
"Shut up and drink your coffee." Typing. "Start working on that concept. You have already wasted most of the day."
"I think I am just going to call it quits for now. I can't get anything else done. Nothing meaningful."
"Fine. You better be ready to work tomorrow."
"Sure. Whatever"

His arm is buried to the watch in the sheet-rock, glory hole. His fingertips are warmed for a moment as a soft hand closes over his, This hidden warmth draws down over his knuckles, fingers and grips the plastic, pulling the container from his grasp. Then, he is cold again. he withdraws his hand, staring at it dumbly. Stunned. Stroked out.

Gus Savoie's picture

the spew

I dunno. I don't really control what comes out - I just write it down. Your guess is as good as mine.

Glad you found it interesting. :-)

-G

kelson.philo's picture

Intriguing. Is there more

Intriguing. Is there more to spin or is this going towards a flash piece setup?