by Jim Meirose.
You’d think that great nations talking of killing and a-bombing and that wise-like shit would just be sets of scary mating dances to bind everything closer, but, no! Doctor Grundig, emboldened by the taste of victory, lashed harder at the now-dual student, but knowing that each remaining head had snatched away half the residual power of the removed Red-head yon Phyllis the younger’s grey oozing matterhorn force so; Grundig knew that to prevail he’d need to get cagey because the dual student’s rage would now be stronger and more tightly focused. Even a glancing blow from her might prove fatal—as proven by the fact that head under the wing or turn under the path indicates that the words immediately following these are to be read in any old order desired—but a whiz winged him bringing him back to front through and around all fearfully flaming and—followed by more after more tinier whizzes the number of which was bounded only by the rate of each one’s diminishment . These only served to embolden him to throathrust a fat self-defensive hot as a rocket fat banana the degree of softness naturally progressing as is to be expected post liberation from its market display case enough to past past suck away and yank the Sandra Pinkie Paul AKA Lucy Von Swatfly the Sonboy session specialist out of his lefthandy deep widestretched insuck of a hot pore; he popped loose from the centrally columnar Lucy all Carsoning her very reverend the Centerface which, even though now stripped of any cohorts—the Sandra Pinkie Paul AKA Lucy Von Swatfly the Sonboy session specialist being reduced to a single nameless freshman in the sloping rows leading up to nothing at all containing thousands over scoreboard tallied other single nameless freshman and Grundig faced chest to knobs the remaining head but, using the same caution which had brought him this far—knowing wisely that now he was facing an enemy armed with the power of three fullbore firehoses compressed into one of the same or possibly lesser diameter to wit; the substance fired could be simple plain water or simple plain water laced with microscopic ninja stars; or simple plain water laced with microscopic ninja stars fired at the usual working pressure of a firehose which can vary between eight and twenty Emil the generica Barista clones while per the NFPA nineteen sixty one fire hose standard whose bursting pressure is in excess of one hundred and ten bar—one bar equal to one hundred kilopascals which is approximately the atmospheric pressure on Earth at sea level—many thanks here to the late meteorologist Vilhelm Bjerknes—Father of modern weather forecasting—for providing the basis for this moment of revelatory illumination. Thusly, as Grundig continued vacillating his next defensive move Dwight the big LeClerc tugged the sleeve of Sonboy drawing him closer and saying fast faster here is the nut Sonboy. You sleep each night. You do not have insomnia—opera crime fling—your body sleeps but—carve elect—your souls are busy in regions below which actually are only separate and below from the point of view of you the dreamer but. Table. The souls are busy in the same region as you are when awake. Album power spare onion share. They are off working busily out in what we label the future but which is not really the future but in the same present—bread—as the one you and I are in right now. They toil without letup and reenter you before you wake. Their extreme fatigue from having just performed hours and hours of hard labor is assumed by you. Patch salad. As they slumber within you to prepare for the next night’s work their fatigue is felt by you, Sonboy. This is why you believe you can’t possibly have slept all night. Spend proud. This is why you’re convinced—aisle fibre—you have insomnia. And this fatigue accounts for your lack of being able to concentrate such that nothing your Mother says makes sense—equal leash space—and that you have no strength to speak back to her at all. Does this sound crazy—arrow—I bet it does Sonboy are you ready to bolt from me Sonboy—slave—are you ready to recuse yourself from judging me competent or its opposite do I sound so crazy as that you better bolt because the way my eye glint grows—brake—with each word that at the end of my final capper of a sentence the period full stop end statement will not quite be a harmless mark on a cold flat white paper but will be a sharp cold blade to your throat a sudden twelve gauge blast to your face from the double-barreled Browning I have had leveled at you through the while holy rollin’ superior brainwashin’ session or—do you—accept what I’ve said so far and accept what I intend to say which, will, for once and for all cement the true reality the lack of the sausage to try with those eggs your cruel feary Father long back took from you the strength you need to accept the heavy truth of what—shock—who—lodge—how—small—and what you must next be as the old you passes away to the same place as the hundred and ten forgotten dreams you’ve dreamed in the last hundred and ten nights which will be, once you know, no dreams no nights no nothing at all? Decay. Eh? Will you accept this gift of at last shedding your past your fear and all that jazz and go boldly forward, stride into reality, and at last claim the sausage bacon eggs and home fries breakfast your Mother believes she will never experience the joy of preparing—party—and serving to you? Or do you choose to take the low road and keep on with the false mating dance you have been performing—party tired—as though she’s some mock blowup enemy like the fake balloon tank battalions whose big lie can’t be a lie must be yes must be absolutely must be real so the ruse worked too well; worked on and over its fiery feathers all ruffling all circling all shouting kicking up dirt—super-agitating the parallel slightly identical souls of the listening Maybe and No on-anon, yessup; while all else cooled down slow slow slid down to off and there they were like the men that never were fat dumb happy at their high gloss top end magnificently appointed big hot treaty table eating caviar drinking flash-intoxicating liquid piss-colored calmatives and being all fat dumb and jolly relieved as shit that they nearly blew each other’s brains out but didn’t.
Came a pause. The surrounding spring day formed back up over Maybe who glanced at No mouth open to speak but immediately shot buried down underback into the very same state Joe Grundig sought to sustain as he faced the great faced slinglo-studette Centerfaced Lucy poised-to-strike. And he flipped through the charts bound up back of his face and—it flashed over flashed to his freshman back-college year when he was as was usual libraried up between two to five topplingdown bookstacks and the fact is he’d read though no way he remembered but scribing this out’s a must to get the gist of his painted-in cornerstate—the Lucy the very very super-reverend facing him may have even been as deadly as the German-built WaWe number ten zero, quite capable of hefting up skyward all of ten thousand liters of water and who, though quite capable of hosing down whatever loomed over from every one of three thirty five possible magnetic directions, Herr Hippo, but who is most likely to use the supplied separately star wars compatible jollystick ut, from within herself since she’s not only a freshman but a go-anywhere heavy terrain vehicle dedicated however to carry forward nothing by herself, uh—and at no less than a delivery rate of twenty liters per second , and, to boot, last time we looked she sported one rear cannon with a delivery rate of fifteen liters per second of whatever matter she gets front-loaded with prior to heading into her designated battlefield. Doctor Joe the mighty, much too young to die according to volume, sucked in three breaths pulled back his last big think and fired his final projectile which had no choice but to be fatal to the Lucy all Carsoning but there remained no better remedy but but but eh and; it; had fifty-five feet to cover at speed to save Grundig’s ass so Sonboy we got to go hep hep hep and right quick, and. Grundig believed her at last stunned into impotence; I was told by something you command your souls Sonboy command your souls had one and seventy-one hundredths feet to cover at speed your souls had eighty-five hundredths feet to cover at speed b-b-b-but—
No.
No: Lucy all Carsoning’s hand’s gone up in self-defense—you had forty-two hundredths of a foot to cover at speed way higher yet to clue you had twenty-one hundredths of a foot to cover yah wearing a medal saying the greatest plus behind that medal is a chest deserving of it being pinned onto your next order you had one hundred five thousandth of a foot to cover at speed and Lucy all Carsoning’s now yelling all yelling Doctor Grundig, you are in error to the dry Doctor hungry for the kill b-b-b-but, I will help you through and we had five hundred twenty-five ten-thousandths of a foot to cover at speed I will help you move move hey move get a grip eh but ain’t never gonna get there no no no ain’t never gonna get there no no ain’t never gonna get there no come on Sonboy, come on let’s go let’s get gone, and here’s why—Lucy poor Lucygirl’s winged and headin’ up—so while Grundig’s still stunned got on a move, so.
Pick out your buttgrab and let’s get the Frigg goan’.
Everything over everything gets punished somehow if too slow eh, so get a move.
Sonboy raise it up screw it down ‘cause he’s turning.
Memory how she destroyed the Mars temple in search of the very true cross of Christ or else—he’s turning to see so gut git up—there will be no future for no one if we don’t—he’s turned now his eyes settling down down get hey move no time no—no no, no—
No—no find no way back home.
Praise God!
Gone.
Eh, hey.
Ut. Okay. Grundig stretched tall holstering every single of his sidearms.
Hey, boots! he said after shaking down his head. She’s struck down now so, and all’s safe. Where are you Sonboy?
It is your turn.
So so quiet on quiet time quiet passed like this ‘til Doc Grundig firmly believed that somehow his Sonboy’d awakened awake and must have ran-rose landy-mcpattering off and away-from Sonboy-Momma’s uptop slickly shingle-tiled rest spot, which Grundig had thought would provide indefinitely foolproof entanglement, but. No need to know further. Quickly recovering he sucked back his face, centered himself before his big podium, and resumed back some time earlier, back beforehand.
Okay okay—so, class.
Now where the hell were we?