Eventually, they take your dendrites and pull them loose of the bulbous, salted and sparking meat-product of your brain and pull them even tighter now that they’ve got them and start to build upon them with blood and protein and microscopic steel particles until you’re walking around with exo-nerves waving in the air on a blustery late winter day like a tree caught in a gale, only the gale is derisive breath and laughter at the audacity of someone wearing their nervous system outside of their skull before Walpurgis Nacht.
And you hear them, feel them, and interpret them, wondering why they would take the time to transform you if all they were going to do was tell you how damn silly you are for their bad timing.
A long, dead river crumbles corpses into the sea, flows from my rat upholstered throne upon which I sit, masticating ancient Doublemint flavors, thinking on what was and what can no longer be.
The royal family, my family, all tugged out each others’ organs sometime ago during the War of I Want More Things, their eyes white with atomic fire. Silk and human skin fell in sheets upon the cold kitchen floor. Even the servants’ souls fell out and were left to rot in the halls. No reaper came. He had never been hired and angels don’t often come knocking unannounced. Especially not at this house.
Only I am left and my energy only flows because of a bad habit of mine of looking a bit sideways at life. Like this throne, for instance. Soon the cats will come and they will bring the dogs who will bring more humans to serve me. Until then, I will chew my gum and try to keep my hands out of the fire.