Thursday, June 25, 2009

How To Tell Her.

There's a freak show in the alley, and everybody's watching. Wild catherswaite meons are smacking the poor kid in the face, it's all over but the thumping and the whining. Primate crowds shuffle, vying for the view, what they doin' now.

Is that green? Is they hackin' him with an axe? Wild rumors circulate. That one kid, he joins the ranks of the Truly Gruesome Enders, where they get to sit anywhere they fucking like at the Long Table, and Life Is Good. Would that it were. Probably just ejected biowaves into the space, and no one ever sees because THERE IS NO ONE.

Want it, think it, live it. No meaning. Or --

Six blocks down, the woman crossing the street looks at the distant crowd, then up at the green and black Clouds. A bad time, she thinks, as she preps for the cross to the courtyard, in and CLANG the old iron gate, no meons in the shade, good god things thinking on me, and she knows it.

Baking prairie biscuits. Porcelain in the big white tub's a hundred years old, same company that did the first class on the Gigantic. The ghost of J. Pierpont Morgan will freak you out with those eyes, like a wounded and guilty mass-murderer acting out the Captain Of Industry.

Smack smack smack. Meons on the kid. And now -- he goes.

Pierponty wants to know if is wrong. Is wrong?

WTF. Let's do this.

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