Prismatic Rendered Fat Tube

Every human can smoke a cop’s drugs and see gods and yet they had them lined up to meet him like Santa on a Monday at the mall when the workers are working and the students are working and the mothers are working and the only one not doing shit is Liza, the girl behind the make-up counter in the department store 40 feet behind Santa, 567 feet behind God, and not very happy for either of those two.

I mean, one is a drunken phony and the other gets pissed on.

She’d much rather do nothing. And no one needed make up now that camera’s self-edited blemishes and it became illegal to transmit a real human face across the internet. But sometimes the mortician would place an order, so she still had a job. She’d last longer than God, that was for sure. Santa seemed to be a fighter, however.



Kaleidoscopic Brain Vomit

“Welcome to the future.”

He held up what appeared to be a bullet.

“Don’t look too quickly, now. What you see may appear to be a number of things, but what this is…is a spaceship. And a timeship. And a voidship.”

I squinted, trying not to see a bullet.

“You see, how this work, now, is that this little miracle is sped up a thousand times the speed of man and shoved into the part of your brain that does your astral traveling. This is not a physical part of your brain, of course, and this ship is barely physical itself. You may see a variety of things when I hold this up, but know, now, that what you see is but a small aspect of the true nature of my invention. Let me demonstrate.”

He took the supposed ship and place it in a very real, very definite pistol.

“This is the accelerator tube.”

I cringed when he put the gun to his head, and shit in my shorts when he laughed and, instead, pointed the gun at me and fired. But he was right. I had not seen all of the aspects of his invention, only the little metal bit that destroyed my brain. The larger enigma remained, such as where did I go? And how am I still typing?


We Line Up

I could barely hear for the sound of hooves screaming against glass, an entire herd of sheep put into a transparent wrecking ball and slammed against the side of the building in which I spent my time tapping plastic. Over the crumbling, over the slaughter, I could barely make out my manager, standing on his over-desk in full military dress, face fitted with a air filter and blood purifier, talking into the back of a robot’s head. The robot, in turn, shot flames into the air to get our attention and shrieked:

“This is not the end. Please go back to your desks. This is simply part of the job. You do not get breaks simply because one of the Land Lords decided to amuse himself with carnage. Please, turn on Relaxation Hood 1, wait 10 seconds, and place your head underneath said Hood. And continue to type. This is not a drill. Nor is this an excuse for idleness.”

I enjoyed the Relaxation Hood and how it made me feel, like nothing around me was going to shit. Just a nice, dark place to tap on my plastic and think of other things, quiet and small things. They say you could die under the Hood through a series of images that brought on both nirvana and death. This didn’t sound so bad. I hoped the Land Lord stole enough money to buy a new glass wrecking ball and a new herd of sheep. I hope I can go under the Hood every time the absurd turns to horror.

One day, however,

Jimmy sold salted worms at a day camp for children whose parents were too religious to put up with their shit all summer long. They stood there in knee-length, anti-sexual blue shorts (knees sweating and tempting the breeze to tickle them and confuse their loins) waiting for Jimmy to dig around in his dirty, plastic bag for his latest catch.

Every other time, he had taken a dozen or so night crawlers (big fuckers fit for a back road bait shop) and covered them in salt in order form a paste before molding them into some edifying shape. He brought out crosses and moons, pentacles and unicorns, holy virgins and sacrificial doves.

The adults knew. He knew they new. It didn’t stop him. And they never interrupted. There was an angel smiling through Jimmy’s eyes, they would say to each other, the kind of angel that knows things and takes blood for milk. So they let him play at his morbid sculpting, knowing that most of the children would be taken for imaginative liars when they returned from camp and told their parents.

One day, however, Jimmy dragged three bags from this cabin and set them on the big rock by the sewer.

“Hey, what are the other bags for?” asked Michael, a braggart and bully.

“Well, my brothers and sisters,” began Jimmy, “there is a poison in this land. It takes God’s creatures, great and small, and turns them against one another, tooth against flesh. And I deem to purge it. I have been foraging all summer for the ingredients to this sacred balm.”

“How ya gonna do that, weirdo? You can’t even kick a ball!” asked Sally, a complainer and snitch.

Jimmy held his hands in front of him, “It is not I that will anything.”

“Get on with it! Lunch is almost ready,” said Tom, a glutton and sadist.

Jimmy took two of the bags and up ended them. From out fell stones of various size and shapes. A few quart crystals blinked in the sun. Jimmy began to hum as he took the third bag in his hands. The piles of rocks at his side began to give off a heat so great that the front row of spectators were forced back by it. Jimmy continued to hum as he pulled from the final bag a worm the size of a tree branch, which wrapped around his arm with a sucking slurp. His humming turned to chanting, words none of the children knew, and the worm unfurled until it stood straight and towered over the screaming crowd. From its belly, a crevice began to unzip and out stepped Jimmy, now with blue skin and yellow eyes, with six arms all clutching knives, skulls, and satanic wands.

He stood for a moment, breathing in the humid summer air. And when he spoke, he said:

“See? Don’t you feel better now?”

Indeed they did not.