Whadda fuck you assholes want with me? Yous want a piece or what? The half-visioned fiends said nothing but clicks and whirrs and reporting live this is, and then the man came around the corner and went right up to the biggest half-head. He did nothing but grin, showing the big canines and even some molar. The man looked around. He let a weird call escape his rigid features, and his team chased the sound around the market corner.
Gotta watch those ones. Otherwise they'll just watch you. Jim the hand and Marty de Groot stood in awe, wondering just what they had done to merit words from the 50 million dollar man. Both attempted, and failed, to remember the august advice. When the man and his crew started running across the field behind the market they just tried to keep up.
Sidestepping through barbed wire towards the baseball diamond and the pointy knots caught and let go hurting. All tried to climb the bleachers and they too were wired go away. They went over anyway blood dripping. The backstop posed a new challenge as they realized it might not support their combined weight. Jim, the quick one, saw a new way and took it. The rest followed around the side, making for the centre. If they made it to the centre they would be free from the buzz of the half-haves. The wire still resisted them but they had gotten used to it in the evil that is the foreign war and were soon breathing heavy at the door to the centre.
Who has the key? The door is locked. An envelope slid out from under the door and blew down the lot.
Catch the fucking thing! Bred ran after and rolled onto the offending paper.
Whew. Close thing there. He handed the envelope to Marty and backed away, afraid of the information. Marty steadied his hands by contemplating breakfast. Two eggs, sunny, soggy toast and pack of jam, hash browned potatoes, juice, and bad old coffee. He ripped open the package and threw it away in one uncertain motion.
Ya ox! Marty got a whack in the arm. Jim the hand threw himself at the package and grabbed the paper that rose out of it trembling.
Good. Now bring it here. Hmm. You, stay. Jim and Marty looked at each end of the mostly empty parking lot, estimating spaces between minivans. No good. They were forced by the moment to stay attached to the man. Glories voiced on trumpets accompanied the truculent pair as they awaited further explanation.
The First Part of a Serialized Adventure, Entitled Jim the hand and the 50 million dollar man
Jim the hand and Marty de Groot watched as the 50 million dollar man left it running, got out, and slammed the door. Marty had never noticed before, but now that Jim and the man were both in front of him reflecting the light of a dying star at his rods and cones, there appeared some striking similarities. Mostly in the grin, thought Marty. The movement of thought to speech being a somewhat ponderous affair for the muscle half of their one - two, the man was inside the market by the time he said anything.
Ya know, he lowed, ya kinda look like dat...rich guy. Jim the hand snorted back a loogie and arced it out onto the street.
Hah, let's take 'is fawncee caw. Here Jim affected an upper class drawl, not entirely accurately. The two felons made for the shiny black surface reflecting the drabness of their lives in full colour. Jim hopped behind the wheel and waited for Marty de Groot to wedge himself into the passenger seat.
Now we'll show 'em. Marty reached towards the stereo, hoping to find some prize in wait. Instead he got the slap on the wrist from the hand.
Here, stop fucking wi' dat. I like this song. This from Jim, an aficionado of the more slutty of the new breed of pop star. Dija know she's talkin' about? Marty was forced to admit that he did not, in fact, know what she was talking about.
Well, ya ignaraymus, she's talkin' about da goods. Marty nodded sagely while wondering if that meant sex, or drugs, or what. Let's go. The car flowed away into a full out turn. They hit the corner of the market and were all set to make a speedy away when Jim pulled the car to a halt.
Looka them bastids. Waiting there for the man. Don' tey 'ave a code, or what? Jim threw the question at the windshield where it changed into a hunting call for waiting paparazzi. He got out of the car, and Marty followed suit.
Ya know, he lowed, ya kinda look like dat...rich guy. Jim the hand snorted back a loogie and arced it out onto the street.
Hah, let's take 'is fawncee caw. Here Jim affected an upper class drawl, not entirely accurately. The two felons made for the shiny black surface reflecting the drabness of their lives in full colour. Jim hopped behind the wheel and waited for Marty de Groot to wedge himself into the passenger seat.
Now we'll show 'em. Marty reached towards the stereo, hoping to find some prize in wait. Instead he got the slap on the wrist from the hand.
Here, stop fucking wi' dat. I like this song. This from Jim, an aficionado of the more slutty of the new breed of pop star. Dija know she's talkin' about? Marty was forced to admit that he did not, in fact, know what she was talking about.
Well, ya ignaraymus, she's talkin' about da goods. Marty nodded sagely while wondering if that meant sex, or drugs, or what. Let's go. The car flowed away into a full out turn. They hit the corner of the market and were all set to make a speedy away when Jim pulled the car to a halt.
Looka them bastids. Waiting there for the man. Don' tey 'ave a code, or what? Jim threw the question at the windshield where it changed into a hunting call for waiting paparazzi. He got out of the car, and Marty followed suit.
Open War
The path to stillness surrounds us, at all times, in all places. We clutter ourselves with the mundane while we ignore the supernal. The fey have been all but choked out of existence, suffocated by pollution of the mind and body. They have been forced to make new homes, retreating ever further into the wilderness, and living in slums when they must.
A sensation of unbalanced form, cold and tired looms over a coal or ember. Mouths blow heat over the coal, and still the darkness.
A sensation of unbalanced form, cold and tired looms over a coal or ember. Mouths blow heat over the coal, and still the darkness.
Solipsism
I reach across the table to touch me on the arm, and pretend not to notice as my fingers come to rest. Float my gaze out at me walking by the window. I ask myself how I end up in these places, I mean I don't even like me or really all that much about me for that matter, and yet here I am having coffee with me again in the usual place. I look over and make eye contact briefly with me, but my eyes flick away quickly, pretending interest in the menu. I'm left looking at the top of my head wondering when I got so damn bald.
I've just decided to take my hand back when my hand covers it gently. I tell me that I'm really a good person, I have some great flaws, and maybe I'll find me in another place or another time. I sit back and think I'm probably trying to say something but can't. I've always been like this, using careful language to soften a let-down. Why can't I just tell me what I'm thinking? Instead of pretending to still want me sometimes and other times shying away from my touch, hiding from my phone calls, not answering the door when I drop by because I know it's me.
I'm silent now, if I say something I might leave. I want to prolong this moment for fear that I might not see me again for a long time, or maybe never you never know with me. I order another refill, looking gratefully at me for coming by to check how I'm doing. It breaks the silence and I get a refill too. I talk a bit about my new job, but I can tell I'm not really listening. I yammer on, hoping to stave off my departure. Then the moment comes and I look at me in the eyes for extra sincerity and say those words I've been waiting for.
I think I should start seeing other people.
I've just decided to take my hand back when my hand covers it gently. I tell me that I'm really a good person, I have some great flaws, and maybe I'll find me in another place or another time. I sit back and think I'm probably trying to say something but can't. I've always been like this, using careful language to soften a let-down. Why can't I just tell me what I'm thinking? Instead of pretending to still want me sometimes and other times shying away from my touch, hiding from my phone calls, not answering the door when I drop by because I know it's me.
I'm silent now, if I say something I might leave. I want to prolong this moment for fear that I might not see me again for a long time, or maybe never you never know with me. I order another refill, looking gratefully at me for coming by to check how I'm doing. It breaks the silence and I get a refill too. I talk a bit about my new job, but I can tell I'm not really listening. I yammer on, hoping to stave off my departure. Then the moment comes and I look at me in the eyes for extra sincerity and say those words I've been waiting for.
I think I should start seeing other people.
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