May 12, 2008 23:02
inside imagination's bastard
chapter four: tangerine love
Fucking transfer fluid has shifted my perceptions- I have to concentrate and go back to...
Wiping the last of the transfer fluid from my eyes and face, I blink and stare anew at the city that never changes. Nostalgia bumps cause my cock to shift uneasily from it's semi-robotic trance. I shift and feel the silk fabric rustle like an early warning system as the reality web shivers, loosens a tentacle and tries to lure me in with a burst of Pearl Jam from somewhere halfway through 'ten'. I laugh.
'Gotta go better than that, ma'am'. ...where I was in the narrative. Jebus creeps and his seventeen clone disciples. That was far too close. John was right, I'm either too old, too fragmented or simply out of style. Unbidden, my hand strokes my calf-skin wallet which contains a signed picture of Michael Moorcock in there somewhere. I chant the possible names of my next five books in a desperate attempt to regain cohesion and get back to where I needed to be in this hellish cave-like gateway to the first city.
Unfortunately I'd landed at an awkward angel and he was clumsily stringing a terrible song out of his broken harp. His lacklustre hair hung almost ashamed as his unwashes wings sported massive clumps of mottled and discolored feathers. Fuck knows why he was here in the gateway, blocking my access to the city I needed to be in.
Inspiration struck me as I pulled the cliche gun out of my crocodile skin pants, a present from the last monkey alive in the 'Planet of the Apes' clone theme park on Regulus fourteen. This was the finest weapon ever developed by the breakaway arms-smiths who refused to create anything less than a work of supreme living art. The weapon which resembled a chrome banana with a tiny transparent plastic piece in the handle grip would only fire when fuelled by appropriate cliches.
I coughed some three times to make the poor looking angel turn around. His gnashed teeth reared up as his lips spread a particularly vile piece of spittle between them, revealing a vicious split and razor sharp tongue.
I levelled the banana at him and smiled.
'They say every time an angel is shot in the face that a child gets a pair of wings' , I over-pronounced in my best Charlton Heston put his vest on sneer. The gun shone, spat a massive wad of something evil at his head and the angel thrashed backwards as physical memories spilled out of his head.
I moved swiftly, like a miner caught with a minor, stumbling, blinking and nodding as I crawl-rushed out of the tunnel and emerged in the dusty ancient streets.
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