They made the little fried sausages, covered them in void wrap to preserve them against the inevitable Time we were up against, and put them deep in the hold, behind the cooling units of the nav computers. When I say they, I mean the Cooks. We were sent two cooks on our million year mission, but we ever only saw one. The other appeared exclusively in special treats: a bit of cheesecake for a birthday, three eggs in the omelet for the crew member that had their arm gnawed off by radiation burglars.
Where they put those sausages, there was a fan, a great, galactic fan, capable of blowing in the most alien of winds. But we had found nothing here. Nothing but space and time and the sausage winds that blew when we flew near a heat source and that great, big fan turned on. The entire void craft would turn into a holiday stroll from sausage cart to sausage cart down some forgotten European riviera. Everyone would go mad, talking about all the times they’d encountered sausages in their lives. Cutting themselves to ebb the flow of memories. Talking incessantly in five languages, none of which the others knew, ending their speeches with grand gestures which seemed to imply that the speaker would like to be turned themselves into a sausage.
Take my thinking meat, they seemed to say, and stuff it into my innards, along with the rest of my innards and some blood for good measure. We had all been around each other long enough to get the gist of their ravings.
No one thought to track down the invisible cook and simply ask for the sausages, though of course, that might require teamwork, and we were all dreaming of a greasy, piled-on plate of tube steak all our own. No one talked of murder, of course, but talk is little but pregnant vibrations. We would never talk the sausages into our mouths. A sausage was a tooth’s business, tooth and arm, fist and feet. The hard parts of the body had no subtle language.
Her voice echoed down the barrel of the shotgun and got thrown to the treetops when she fired it, hollering. The sky staggered, nearly dropped the moon into the lake outside of town where Lacey kept guard over camping grounds. Nearly dropped it right at her feet. Instead it recovered, kept the moon in orbit, and slid behind the horizon where Lacey’s buckshot couldn’t go.
“Damn.” She spit a baby carrot into a coffee can full of detritus.
Unless she bought the shell a ticket on a one way bullet train to Kyoto, one of the Ocean Treaders with the really nice legs sticking out the bottom. They’d kick you off if you whistled at them beauties, but her shell didn’t have any lips (she’d made sure of that.)
Well shit, she couldn’t just sit there and wait for the money for the train ticket to fall in her lake. She’d have to grow her shell a brother, take it to the bank, kill herself a money man and catch his golden blood in a siphon bag.
She’d have to move quickly or that sky would be back with a new moon and none of her growings would work no way.
The gears in the bird’s throat slipped and from its dry beak came a clicking instead of a whistling. The sun stood still at the edge of the horizon, suspicious, not wanting to light up a world of clicking birds, farting trees, pontificating children, and drowning fish. Every morning it peered upon this absurd planet and it asked for nothing but to be present as the graves of all existence were dug and filled in, dug and filled in, dirt upon bones upon dirt upon bones. But a bird that clicks calls nothing back from the dead and the sun, that shiny necromancer, would have all life presented before him to touch with holy light the skin of the all-wriggling. What would come today then? thought the sun as it peaked for but a moment over the hillside, the light of its hair revealing the leering towers of metal creaking in the wind and the birds hanging thereupon, click click clickity clacking, each gear greased a bit now that they were all clicking together and feeding each other breaded worms and cheese doodle snack packs.
With voices like marbles, the birds gave up music and the sun pissed its skin lasers into the void like a petulant child leaving only a cold and dying angel that had been so keen on the songbirds before they had revolted against beauty that it had set upon itself the billion year flame, now a distant and disappearing light in the black sky.
Get that pie out! The crust has bubbled into cracking, the skin erupting sugar shit and hot lava death by now. How many mouths wait, watering? You are nothing if not the bringer of pie. Would you exist without these pies? Not in this form. Not with those hairs bouncing in the oven’s heat, singed and singing noxious notes in the nose of the lady that waits for pie. And the lady that waits hates waiting!
Apple, cherry, (what the fuck is this?) peanut butter? Throw this one at the first clown handed dandy you see. It’s not hot and the lady only likes them hot as hell-fire. She cums with the burning of tongues. Pies like napalm sandwiches she frames on the walls of her memory’s palace. Her very teeth need blackened with the soot of my culinary heresies. This is not the queen you revere. This is not the old one with the tits in the window or the young with her ass on the seesaw. Those ladies will wait. The lady that waits will not. Why are you still standing here with pies in your hand, cooling in the energy thieving air? Go. Go now. Put knees to ground and crawl if the way is too cramped. Cut guts from those in your way and string them like ladders across the frozen falls of false expectations. Take turds and blood and become friction free.
Time is not kind to a pie and a lady that waits is kind to no one when she waits for pie.