They summoned a spirit. As a gag. At a party.
From the chip strewn, beer misted floor of the living room rose first a hand, clenched in defiance, and then, slowly, a shifting, vaporous shade of a man whose shorn head throbbed with veins of unearthly light. He wore an abused leather jacket and a wispy t-shirt advertising an entity called the Scum Truckers, whose logo appeared to be a demonic skull pouring rivers of toxic waste into his eyes and mouth holes and all that sat below.
They called him up, but could not put him down, this visitor from the Beyond. First, he found a flaw in the magic circle that was meant to contain him: potato chips were only half salt and potatoes lost all magical significance when fried. So he stepped through, struggled for a moment to turn spirit into flesh, but succeeded, and set about drinking the dregs of a thousand beers, smoking strange drugs with weird people, and demanding loud thrash metal to be blasting at all times. He claimed he knew a ritual dance and set about smashing into every one and thing within smashing distance.
Even fleshy spirits must eventually become drunk and asleep on the floor. The party ended and the erstwhile conjurers decided to simply burn down the house and hope for the best.
I’d like to thank Betty Rocksteady for hosting and including my ramblings in such a fun contest over at the New Bizarro Author Series blog: Spider Romance Microfiction.
Like to fuck spiders? Or at least write about doing such a wonderful thing? Or at least read about the eight legged dirty dirty? Get in on it.
Heaven ain’t full, but there’s too many heads for the bodies and (fuck me) they left the gate open one night with a big pile of swords and chainsaws and machetes and cleavers and laser sabers and fire axes just sitting there with a note by the bell, proclaiming:
Heads for Hell. Take ’em as you find ’em.
But you couldn’t tell (not even Johnny the CIA man couldn’t) whether it was St. Peter or damned, dirty Judas what wrote the words and there’s no one around with a head anymore to let us know how many they meant for us to take.
Well, no one came out to stop us so we just kept chucking ’em down the shoot and now we got blessed, grinning skulls to wear as shoes when the ground gets too hot and face skin to cover the oozing sores that cover many a wall down there. It ain’t pretty, no, but its a nice change I suppose.
Get the words in your brain. Understanding is an illusion of reason. Pull out metaphors with a backhoe, relate this to that to that to this: no matter. No bother. Get the words in your brain. Allow them access to your neural biology. Listen to them grow. For what, why? No reason, no bother.
Get the words in your brain and you might just stop worrying about whether or not you grok the text. It is unimportant. We don’t read the Great Old Weirdos to be treated like soap opera victims. Finnegans Wake is only propaganda for your own nervous flag. Get the words in your head and let them ramble about, setting up temples and tents where they will. Let their children fuck on beaches of brain blood and squish out mutations. No matter. No bother.
Just get the words in your brain and they will take care of the meat ship from here on out.