No Sleep for the Dickhead
Unsuccessful link to the underworld of breast implant homing devices. Tang rolled the sentence over in his mind playfully. Glowing, he prodded it a bit. Distasteful Mennonites clamber to attach nanotype influence transmitters to the biofeedback fluid within. No deal, squeals the life-boat department minister. This funbag is protected by hardwired bylaws.
A satisfied grin crackled between Tang’s lobes. Gosh this was fun. The rushing air pressed softly on his eardrums. This space between moments was weird. Not like any of the others he had found before. It was tight, barely large enough to admit him, but he was exceedingly comfortable to the point that he wondered if he might actually be dreaming. The rushing air, that was different too. He was used to the unbearable silence that always drove him back into the stream before he was ready. He could stay here for much longer.
Tang systematically began mentally scanning his form, finding and relaxing all points of stress and tension in sequence. He listened casually to the soft noise that surrounded and was emitted from all points. As he worked at releasing his anchors, he slowly became aware of a pattern emerging from the noise. It rose in his consciousness like the dawn broaching the night – the soft edge of the terminator gradually becoming blindingly obvious. There was a rhythm there, pulsing, rushing, pulsing. It was like a heartbeat… his heartbeat.
Mnnn Mnnn Mnnn Mnnn… Tang thrashed awake, slamming his fist down onto the cracked and duct-tape repaired cube alarm clock, silenced. He yelped as an electric pain shot from his fingers to his shoulder. The plastic faceplate popped off the clock and lost itself in the harvest orange shag and slurry of dirty underwear, socks and dust bunnies under the bed.
Rupert Tang sat up in his futon bed. Gray light illuminated the white walled, inverted cube of his room. All four of the dingy, cracked walls were bare except for a light switch, two outlets and a spider’s web tacked up in the corner over the door. The door was painted in the same cheap white latex, rippled with the multiple layers folded over the years of tenants. Same with the light switch and the grubby, finger greased doorknob.
Rooming house walls. The words sprang into his attention. He decided to see where they went. A painting by Paul Stemmer, local landlord and artiste. Mr. Stemmer describes this and it’s accompanying paintings (in adjoining rooms) as “meta-pieces” – organically evolving artwork that are in fact parts of a larger, long-term piece that falls somewhere between an installation, performance-art and guerilla theatre – the compounding daily life of a rooming house.
Tang yawned. Idly scratching his balls with one hand, he slowly traced an invisible figure8 in the air with his free index finger. A cup of coffee landed, wrong way up, on his head. He screamed as second degree burns killed what few hair follicles remained on his scalp.