two: rugburn
I was having my morningly organic raspberry tofushake at my very favorite '30s themed diner yesterday morning, but I wasn't in my usual seat, the one I pay the owners to keep free so that I may come around whenever I please to have a tofushake at two-o'clock in the morning or three in the afternoon and look out on the skyline at my beautiful city. No, I was forced to take a seat around the retro-curving imitation-woodgrain bar, but not before I demanded to know why there was an obese biker's cottage cheese-dimpled fucking ass obstructing Vincent Vito Gallo's usual place.
"Don't I know you from someplace?" the commie hag sneered at me over the counter when I politely asked. When I asked again, she told me the restaurant had been sold to the same goddamn greedhead swine who owns the Los Angeles McDonald's franchise chain, and that I was sipping on the last organic raspberry tofushake that would ever be sold there again.
What the fuck is that? WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!
"Sir," she whined, the vowels in her voice coming out nasal and scratching. "Please get back in your seat before I call the management. You're causing a scene." In Nazi prison camps, the water given to Jewish prisoners had fluoride added, to keep them in a subdued, complacent state. Her acrylic fingernails split and cracked on my giant bronze belt buckle as she tried to pull me back up. I knew I was dying that day.
The clouds opened up today like her thighs did the exact same way during the spring, when her fingers tangled in the grass and in my hair. It was humid and heavy, like most of the days that dawn and dissipate here. Humid, heavy and rough. Lips like a vacuum, controlling the tides and the rainfall and the pace. The torrent echoed behind me. My back was to the patio rail, I faced inside and the sliding door was open. You could bounce sounds off the sky, it was hard and it pulsed. She opened her mouth and took it all. It's like dropping acid. Acid Rain.
"Don't I know you from someplace?" the commie hag sneered at me over the counter when I politely asked. When I asked again, she told me the restaurant had been sold to the same goddamn greedhead swine who owns the Los Angeles McDonald's franchise chain, and that I was sipping on the last organic raspberry tofushake that would ever be sold there again.
What the fuck is that? WHAT THE FUCK IS THAT?!
"Sir," she whined, the vowels in her voice coming out nasal and scratching. "Please get back in your seat before I call the management. You're causing a scene." In Nazi prison camps, the water given to Jewish prisoners had fluoride added, to keep them in a subdued, complacent state. Her acrylic fingernails split and cracked on my giant bronze belt buckle as she tried to pull me back up. I knew I was dying that day.
The clouds opened up today like her thighs did the exact same way during the spring, when her fingers tangled in the grass and in my hair. It was humid and heavy, like most of the days that dawn and dissipate here. Humid, heavy and rough. Lips like a vacuum, controlling the tides and the rainfall and the pace. The torrent echoed behind me. My back was to the patio rail, I faced inside and the sliding door was open. You could bounce sounds off the sky, it was hard and it pulsed. She opened her mouth and took it all. It's like dropping acid. Acid Rain.