Terminal destructive meany-meany behavior. We track backwards suddenly as all the characters look into the camera questioningly on the immediate fade to black. (Leonardo was not in the mood for any of Giuluy's shit so it was difficult to see what she could think otherwise. There was something definitely peculiar with the present venue. This venue? There was little which could be said for this mode thinking how it wanted to so enabled. Down the ziggurat losing your guts. Watching night. Windows falling into space. Unpeopled.








Dead metaphor heart.









Pauses between valves.












Poor civic design.







Before now cities of uneventful glacial linen. Self-defense the ice to now and again deep color. Nothing to say nothing to feel. Ice on top of tomorrow’s ice. Passionate ice ebb dissatisfaction of concrete. Greed.
Drifting under a refrigerator’s runoff. Refrigerator cold and jittery. Plugged totally in now. Electrocuted in back trying to pull dead dust feathers from the crooked coils.
Nothing to say’s civic expanse is static, square and forboding.
Lost’s getting.
A cacophony of glacial platelets in the ratmaze icecreamcone basement.
(Ice Armor Narrative: Apology in ice armor and sub-zero sovereignty I pledge sincerely to every last fucking minused-out numeral notch to grace the gauge.)
This is where you need to relate this to a body something that eats shits fucks.


Giant pink room in a redwooded house of books. Capitalism murdered here maybe. Just cracks in my tombstones. Jethro and Zeppelin work next to a huge and exhausted purple and bronze school, the continuous bathroom labyrinth that formed the pacific bowels of the school next to the bookstore refusal to work this is unable to record I'm ruined. Jethro and Zeppelin skinny and fresh. Something fake is written on the application of the last four books you sat down and seriously called by the binding little light next to the eyes politically asleep. Can I tell you something dear spider-girl? Yes abjectzero. Well, spider-girl I can say that I'm totally feeling your lowrider ring braclet rise haircomb giggle font handle. Well, abjectzero I'm digging your browse cog sci numinous math cracks slacks stuffed shirt lip balm. So it was counter time again. Sharks eat themselves in the womb. It's so hard to get in that store. I can't believe they.
"Strong silent: type seeks blinking chuckle in a broken conversation walks silent alone to his raping while leaving me to be raped."
"This is how the bookstore coworker walks away into the campus to rape write die."
"Life sucks.""Colon." Last six books. I remember when I ate this good and it was nearly nine books ago. Homoeroticism. Attention appetite hole. A videogame involving putting books in a barrel and confusing the cameras. Bike locked to the display case by their dreadlocks shaven clean daily here on the basketball court blink shaky screen book opens and sings penises for chawnkazzias jkwaews waazmass chunk channa krassmiz liezssamu shagalia ellis. Attention I need. Die. The attention I need to die something did behind the aisle. Wrong aisles. Homoeroticism. Glue smell of cocks.
No books on hold for you, boi with an i.
Jethro's straight.
It was a different time then in the republic. The government had outlawed the usages of certain vitamin supplements. The air was thick with the possible of change confused. Jethro would see them come to his counter and took their barcodes bagged and handed it gracefully isbn leatherbound soft wallet-size coffeetable heavy around the robotic scuzzified sensors with his skinny bookstore employee limbs. Then gets ready to rape. Zeppelin's at lunch. What?
Spontaneous pipe maze. Seasonal holiday wrappers and managing paperback section to the right of his. I have the big one.
Poured himself wholeheartedly into a model mold novel that had nothing to do with his eyes being sore. Leashed animal sliding into lastplace breaking his biscuit open in the closed canvass circuit sucking on television tubes speakers on a canvass that would have to bigger than the whole store easily using your fucked up idea of geometry. Taking on music and Jethro suddenly walking past him. It wasn't the wall which fell on purpose.
Customers walls full of books in the service trap and suddenly you're talking to somebody who opened his whole family to everyone in the little city across from the bigger city that. She's definitely very cute. The store's pretty much open and you need to be to and then completely ready to swab down the whole counter with your drum circle's spit. I think it's in the P.A. = public announcement and typing noises from houses at night. The rest of the building rendered in black paint late for work flower shop adjacent counter polaroid of the weight I've put on to somewhere in Alabama or maybe upstate New York.
One day you're working in a book store and the next you're loading a gun and aiming through two-way glass. Shut up Jethro.
The mortal metal comic book fans said that'll be the best way to get back at the gods by building this open to the public pink room right here and look who's falling for it when the movie we were supposed to come back here and watch gets borrowed and forgets to ask the person borrowing it brings property home for computer-god sake typing noise black paint. Loner manifesto.
"We're having an instore."
"Oh."
This ain’t an angry anti-caucasoid disaster: in fact the cracker started in the hearth oven lovin’ heart of Africa, Kathy Blacker anticlimactically gasped after sarcastic laughter. If I sound somewhat bitter it’s ‘cause essentially what I’m sayin’ is fuck the stratification of privilege through ethnic discrimination. Through backpacker back-routes where we have no absolutes is where in truth the modern-day cracker tracks it’s roots. In these regions we speak of a freakishly bleached and enriched egyptian flour in the form of a petite powder mixed around, rolled then absorbed into a walloping one or more of the following colon impartially hydrogenous angola oil and slash or farcically miscegenated libya bean oil roiled with moroccan cottonseed oil soon bon voyaged carried upon sturdy sea-faring pontoons through cumbrian waters by abubakari deposited upon the bahia and in the process lost parts in the hard crossing but then that’s how the sirens feed their seahorse irony’s corpse with no sign of remorse. This source established these elaborate plastic slapping contraptions. Oh. Yeah. I’m stackin’ in the black in this cracker factory, flattening baked wheat into affluent cracker-shaped sheets: planetary manufacturer of the dryest crackers under the sky. I was taught this by my father who managed to transcribe the whole legacy of recipes off his cerebral matter before he died. Our crackers are dryer than woodchips in a ghost-town. Our crackers are dryer than tan pantyhose found on the roof gravel when you have to get a boost up to grab your koosh down. Our crackers are dryer than the adhesive residue of old decals peeled off your mirror’s rearview. Our crackers are dryer than the blast-flaps of ballistic missiles in flight. Our crackers are dryer than the lint clusters stuck to fluorescent lights. Yet no matter if you play chess in different languages or are just dumb the outcome is always an empty box and mouthful of crumbs. Oh yes, we bought out Table Water. We brought on this joker that nearly next to snapped his neck and snagged his choker in the cracker-hole-poker that broke a puncture through the tumbler to the rocksalt-blower and blew a snowstorm through the storeroom and the factory floor. We don’t have him here no more. Pristinely crowned supreme by her royal majesty the queen herself the first shelf honor hallowed privileged a ledge above the rest that fall short so nobly redeemed official cracker of the court; and then afterwards added that our crackers had zip that lifted her out of her all- eclipsing sadness. Arid wafer-thin colorless construction paper. Our crackers don’t like you. Our crackers is your savior that plus accentuate domestic. Suck the red out of ketchup. No sound travels between the cracker’s molecules. No sailor nor shipmate ever thought it cruel and so ship biscuits were a nifty christmas gift sans champagne and escargot for the deranged strange human cargo in the hold, cold during the middle passage; as I was trying to emphatically spill to my comrade when a temporary simpleton with pimples in a temporary badge tapdanced a powdered finger on my twitching shoulderpad: I done had it. I snapped backwards. And yet I tragically regretted afterward, godawful, gripping a third of my taco, chompin’ an absurd mouthful, drooling sauce down my soft pruned follicles on my thin grinning furry chin-bottom. Can’t take it: so bad: I can’t chill even on break. Purring for Ral to pardon my shotgun delivery among all its contingent misery. Make the way for mob labor. Nathan respect my lunch, an’ all expect me to jump. Scrape them off. Just talk. So I casually laid off the factory shop talk. Um, I was askin’ where’d you get the bracelet? A lady friend of mine made it. It looks Native American. She put especial care in it. Don’t let your obsessive-compulsive disorder destroy your whole outward perception of sexual preference. What’s a selenophobe doin’ with a wolfcut? What’s a chickenshit get out of bein’ cooped up? With each minute in the way the labiadentifrice sits profile longing to lay a gentle length of lanolin along the linear to ear smile adhering to the rigors of what’s considered queer style living in a leaping year of lushly deepening denial. The antihero’s cock stiffening from mere proximity. Do you like Guns and Roses? He mumbled I supposes. I found an album filed around where I’m couching out at. Actually, Kathy, I hadn’t heard the words to the song for so long. Room at his parent’s house had assumed the appearance how the production design had been structured on the inside sleeve insert. I didn’t believe him at first. Lace, roses and firearms. My pace slowed being tired from confrontation mode earlier during whatever you could say had just occurred in there. That’s not a generalization, you nerd. I was merely stating something observed. Crucial verb phrase: ‘seems to’ not ‘blah-blah “is a” blah-blah- blah.’ Resolve last year to keep nasal passages clear of all that ca-ca. He spared the microscope and chose to share the anecdote regarding the so-called Homo Dodecadus in all his loathsome nakedness: he’d had access to these stories while he dwelt in the veldt near the oral belt, all shot in a vacant lot. It was too hot! My titty-nipples was drippin’ an’ shit. He made frantic battle incantations in the japanese language. Grimacing menace in numb undying sorrow. Voiced exhale vented boysenberry scent an intolerable american accent when he meant it to. Purring purlieu of payphonics. Problem of sonic conquest. Get away with riddles trap in my rhymes because my middle name is mine. Ral thought he was losing his mind; he’d said what his name was: two times! I’ll tell you again happily. Beatty, you can call me Kathy. Unkind condescending faggot in the shiny denim jacket named Ral Mineowe now making a movie in Emeryville and parts of Mauritania on the comprador commoner’s story of the gay green monkeys that made AIDS. And here it’s as if the pages of the script were mocking intentionally smeared by the croc tears of the author or unintentionally blotted with condensation from the saucer. We resumed steerage from the assumed privilege of this clear soul and cheerfully bumped aluminum beercans without fear in sincere skoal. Queer as volkswagen strike matchin’ on your vogue if you yokels can imagine civil rights sans negroes to’e back in groundwork as germans used the hebrews during the holocaust to test their flesh products for brakeshoes, or some shit, I don’t remember. All I know is I’ll be for real blistered and barefoot before their dealership sees my tender, Kathy dropped the frontin’ gruntin’ with gumption in one sentence showing reticence to put my sam hill clamshells to bunsen. Once I got mad when my assistant forgot to take my bath. Don’t see you brushin’ teeth so what is you laughin’ at, gee? Wait I said somebody in this bitch smell like a dead tobacco tree with its legs open. They was smokin’ hash and talkin’ trash. Time to throw this one away because the bristles are all splayed. I, the big movie star, had no friends. Memorizing all my lines on every solitary weekend. It’s simply apt and all that I should primp my natural. All through the grueling shoot I disputed with self-doubt all refuting mostly how I’m a drama school flunkey that pulled out his monkey and sailed a boat back to his country to begin invidious production of a suckerism virus of reversed coerced mimesis: primates see this, need to be this with no vaccine to dispatch the discriminatory exploits of this forced object-choice checklist. I don’t care how many classes on blackness you claimed I missed. Pandering game-examiners will hammer the screenplay but believe me they need to blame the last known ohlone who unfurled the lore and claimed the world bank cloned and stored and chained his ancient monkey bones into stankonia loan words loosely, I’d love to say. Profusely amortize testosterone for honorary timeless patriarchal canon priority seating while leaving coyote beaten ugly. Would I be more certified were I to sigh, ‘choppin this endgame pretending to be sorry ain’t an option miss benjamin. Never meant to make your nephew ball.’ Staged these spatial effexoral bottlecap peeled back and snatched stillborn by the neck and collar popped tossed a trillion dollars per hour against the wall of the holodek unapologetic as if a doll for balance at all cost. The epicenter of the sickness everybody wants for christmas just snoozing in the uncool lube of unused ideas on his grass mat with his grass hat lying impatiently zeroized for five years to be exact. Unquarantined Alejandre the Grande liberated lost mama cities of sea-tossed ghetto bitties like timbuktwo times a pantomimed ‘fuck you’ sans the lambskins, unwashed. Chemically lynching mentacide sentiments reside no more prison writing in cement upset pinched with a dot net. So, tell us? Not yet. Bastard telecasted coup de taught that storebought vision without respect for reciprocal qualities of power and opposition transmitted by enhanced dishes by the verdant bicurious George ferverently vicarious forging jour du belle lustful marital status quo-killa extrapyramidal plans to transplant america everywhere inside his visor. Huffing puffing stories you’re fucking boring and got nothing for me. Object-chosen ronin selected the serotonin and lo the same orap song put on some phat your metabolics can’t dissolve whatever diet. Padlock Codey honeycut butt given the temperament of my rectum at this juncture I don’t want to try it. The most violent thing you ever seen me do was untie my shoe. Guide in our crew would croon, see how them two coons there hold hands. What’s classified as offensive here is apparently commonplace in foreign lands. He expounded in depth upon the concept of doin’ a true portrayal of superhuman and blending contrasts that vastly represent it through acts and behavior during situations made as to be sight-unseen to all save their creator. Making humanity invisible. Made to resemble the indefatigably mental. Such as, he used, not shivering in the snow. Giving to the portrayal in the way I’ll lay all still and know I feel ice, definitely, but, with the cues from ownership of rules, it won’t upset me. Not shivering while naked in the snow, although composed of vanity, is an irrefutable show or portrayal of superhumanity. Shivering does not impede narrative. That fact that a human is in the snow, naked: there it is! And goes wholly un-noticed and only narrative is observed as the desired bearer carrying focus. If I seem out of it it’s because somebody closed the loop shut. Encrouching in proud increments exploring strange new words. I found his anecdote wonderful so I nervously impressed him with a number of colorful serving suggestions, when son of a bitch guess who walked in: The Green Monkey! so we continued in code, I said, “Thanks for sharing that: I’m glad to hear that they found a / rational explanation for how the grouch jacked kwanzaa.”
Somebody in a grey windbreaker must've turned the novel off when Stylos wandered into the store. I don't think Jethro works for the rest of the week. Do you think this is good? Zeppelin shared and energy bar and Stylos sat behind where the staff only is supposed to sit and discussed energy bars, oxygen bars and monkey fluorescent tubing bar painted over last town tumbleweeds battle remote control in an arena against an actual gathering of panthers trying to rebuild language.
Jethro hadn't gone to see the ultrarealistic oversized mural of his father being painted on the side of a skyscraper in downtown LA as part of a project that was to display a portrait of every member of the LAPD which had been killed in the line of duty since the founding of the city, but you had to forgive him because of the scale of the exhibition the mural would change daily and at the time son of interupted paternity was being tortured in an inactive volcano in the steaming jungles by Dexter Sinisi.
Back from the past to tell you about Jethro's dad. It's kind of sad.
Mistakes in language the uncontrollable body's name.

Lint major wheeling and dealing the tricks. Sprinting my lint and snowflake decals over the ice.

I love the snowblankets over my skin and bones. I’d kill for the chance to overwhelmingly snuggle up
inside of your snowblanket city stranger love generational appeal channel.


I’ve slept in the finest ice down bedware woven in nothing to say glimpses of a presumed guilty other-face.


It’s the taste of my disappearing tomorrow childhood and the ocean I don’t need crawled out of the name
to. I’d kill for California sometimes and it’s not right and I know it I know it and.

Razorkeen final finishing blowout. Look at you know! Once, he had seen Xico with a jheri curl under that cap. Shivergood. Scour the planet. Xico (looking strapping in his cap like an Afrikan diktator all though whiping off epic statics) cleaned the citrus of his lips with a copious candor from the glass of creepy fluorescent lemonade. HALLAH who unseizingly OVAsees all, croside. I'll guarantease ye one thing, gaijinx, you'll never communicate with so many solecism, zenwhore. Defender, fleshrender, strongsender, worldmender, fearender in the strictest sense. Twas as sou merky that bloc reign shturm in the great sea of night with sparkly starshadow waves as of natalacro on the rheol' hatchbinge Straighter(hatchet handed of stride width of step magnified)'s mechtaught plot on goahead raidily stratajizzed with daring velocity to avantiurnyingly krakh through and cause the svoboding of the spazes out who, sitting in a jail for smiling, they dwell in a little chamber of defeat, they these hemphazeus stonedmen needing plennikal help badly when he, looking pretty shaggy having ass in soar reavariied in so farroaching yet so nyriattacking glide to GE oh from GM apove geia to turn ye avant the guard, looking double dapper in the outlandish gerb of basically a tugoi worn triko dorned thewy of a pimpmauve silksweat parachute suit (key points of sleek beauty of the young frame revealed when the jersey moves: a meter across the chest easy), past the high ray use of oxyorronic beac 'n' search (konects to the following part electrical discharge in intrigate patterns) and robot spiders with mercenary spirit and plasma hasher, long stepping just a little krazhaoly, just a little nastilie, por beda or perfarce, Straighter Halo, ambushi shag rugged son most sabliarmed with requisite heaven of trembling beneath the grip of his hilt post-adrenal jitters, jumping wildly while swinging with the strength of an eindorfinight reserve of energy oxiphokist, this caplaignering of a high porogative in his specs, ever so eager to flurry the hashet into the neber skrabing testomint to their vliianie (five pointed star missing its right leg their symbol (most commonly recognized as adapted into the octomegasegagen) representing the five continents of the earth which have been wiped out by mneio below his bodeetbs and vapid trelun geostation), widereaching, to leave the veter running in the volkshagenaerial as he shags, considerably balshy, the palatial piles short before long of the dough govoryment, in mir seconds stricken in years, because through the strength of their iron spirit the Russians had won the war, and whose highflying mysl's proved to be the light of the world, but up to recently the socialist efficency of the Kremlin hashbeen trashportit rewerst in dulcadence zoe rezhumed by the empusing purersatzic figraoch seeking to konvert artor to phft their Post-Age, Straddler Highrope himself a sickler for scraperlurk (for as much as he could be said to be thoreaucraftic), harkheighttekazu ura-man when at most feral gone as they go, Straighter (termite eating shockhead shocktrooping straddler hero of the Stricturity of the Fast World (SFW) borrowing gaily from the more gimnastic fighting styles emphysicing a combat perception of the heaviness of bodymass and ignorying the steaks keeping himself nuts in pokoits of what gnaws) had been there (moreorless) did Kazikhestam, shpilling off the top from a lookofthevista, striding on the verkh of two protuberances said to resemble the elephant in the crosscrested goldcrusted gornyi oniondomes to the birdwing slopes of glass and floating galvanized tin on the classical rooftop, rolling up the red kirpich, the roughshod shagga muffling carrying the torshch as he rags, then haula carting his castleroll dropping down to a eve's potolock, then lazorsharp with raven adroitness (soarkold overhead) burning the hatchit pure zen to you by leading confluence while bombing landmarks, imprecating with supernatural potency, hemphagardly hungover in sudorific slowmotion through the voxdukt with extremities in the star, sitting apove them as they, shouting printemptiously, opined seizjin, their enmity edva dent, afterwards they were then trying to toptat in a toropit (and don't you repet it he reveted can't regret slicing his shaygonefr just to see if he could kachit fast enough). The stage was natriielly lit throughwhich he shuggled his tobi feet. Pull release flail to inverse full recoil back in as he freed them, presenting pezkey (fruwnashed goodreapedup by bushcaped Elabgelo, Jethro's truechi, data Oh ganhksta, who gave a big grin before leaving: cool death with the left leg overpegged overly bundlefolded to reveal the downsweep's furthermost healthy cline of the calf, unlike his other, either way uneven, motive unlikely), rock from the lock, jampacked, it was four s-passes (espier/assassin), scattered shoepattered but hard, olymping (as Morales in her stab), when, alto she's crewzy creepin soprano bust her Stride, enter winter thus passin she bye, initiating the fun with a soulless 'Hit me,' Jethro, jesting, smekhed her in the face with a strong openfist and a stretchedout bicep, trying to be smert, because she innois, shot the stealy deviat a shatkii to her shakti system unnicely capped (the CO?), mincemaid, uncooperative (that is, unwilling to take them ashide and give them a diern walking to), into a gushing nozhole during their rescue out of nekudos on the forced bash out of Bashnia, execution of the dive blown to smithereenies destroied behind them, there then emerge integer vidal (this life without crash att erring into a hundred abstract kanji halfmoons, man) through the debri, go as they gone. Three s-passes thatnataltao hoofed a quint thou with an oddly bent bow and adeiu.

Get on the bus plus signs and black stars for the lost tomorrow brigades on lostishness talks of compass drawings and tracing stalagtite shadows in black chalk in a darkened forgotten cave that wasn’t even part of the argument. Breathing really stupid even in Boyz where Tre starts swinging hurricane dehydratred my history of violence plastic and ice blanket landscape which makes me debilitated chest sternum plated dinosaur bluespill space implosions hold still vicarious rage videogame plugged into places I can’t go anymore. The clench. Bring your eyes to this. Loveliest jettisoned gangrenous plankton of sea sumptuous roar and color of delicate flamelicks packaged on the shore in an offering to the atmosphere with dustmotes floating from sunshine tensile imprisoned in dense iceflows. Debilitated not-right, not-proud reparations slot ushering forth coagulated and immovable ooze. In this huge industrial space, forgotten and darkened, I need to remember to gauge blue steel painted to resemble a summery glade, I think in packaging, burn oxidation over the implacable surface a rich orange rind cast, covered with insects, let’s say they’re metal, the surface ticking with their scurrying, well, packaging evacuated, and there’s this gauge, probably a dumbwaiter what with this time well and echo, its secrets, its drops. The sticker’s been stolen. The sticker said: ‘Insert Reparations Here’. Function incomplete. With what my inferior imagination is the middle point of a shaft leading with gravity’s direction toward something which can’t really be estimated and against this impulse into a warm view and perhaps even sounds to which might be ascribed a notion of beauty, but doubtful.

I could live within the violet lilt of your intent and sincerity over the phone for a great deal of time fulfilled. Nothing's summery stardust-locked footfalls over my shoulder's promise's vanishing point promise. I'm familiar kinos through fog at worm's eye and too many regional phone listings below the box to the boardwalk. Fuck. Beautiful like when you pull the covers over your head and inhale the dust bunnies and crumbled cookie crumbs. Zeppelin's looking down at you. Security industry sleepy. Underwater ripple evil science lab alarm sounds always. Sweaty. Nights in. Zeppelin. Aw. Ricocheting bullets through pipes so exciting when the night turns on bubbles head swoon full false electric shadows shock of being lost elevator in a pipe matrix.

I want to sit in the middle of nothing and then count and try to keep track of how many unbefriendable bends in the smoke won’t happen twice. It’s not so much that the world is uninviting to nakedness and surprise as that seems to be how Zeppelin takes it in. Watching it move on the surveillance. Scanning camera’s radius of surveillance similar to quiet suicide using simple machine grease. Many wageslaves have been lost in the favorite store behind expendable microwaves. Freezer bricked in. Watching her curves play the body language of why’re you talking to me grow completely complacent as the temperature drops as culture loves it a lot. She’s talking. This conversation was officially killed by an idea behind a wall behind buzzing vibrating math annoyance. Riding past this same story and making assumptions. A methodology. However over-rated. Pepper shakers. Damp feet shoes. Concrete. Math wants to kill Zeppelin possibly but miserable he he he that’s a joke. Nothing cold lives alone a million martial arts fantasies at once I want to count please let me alone to count. Zeppelin. The sound of a falling videotape when she turned too quickly in the airy summer home splashing tide waiting reminded her of being small seagull in a molecule diagram next to a glass of water sat too close to electronics not thirsty. Open city. Maze of steel. Why die now? Civic planned out. Videotaped sound of itself falling from a flimsy shelf calls into question flesh steel dying and count. Flesh counts. Math wants to kill me. Zeppelin. Living under you. Coming from behind, she was on her left and said Watch it on your right her but bumped grabbing hands and that was it. Under you. It’s so there sunshine road up catch a color dyed drifting rainbow roads shoulder wire racks wiggle sweater hiding puppies remote control vista hiss of summer home. Can’t talk to her because of you. I swear you’re fucked. Zeppelin between this problem with you and Zeppelin here’s your tape. Falling cassette off shelves. Mistakes. Paolos. This is Los Angeles County. It’s all your fucking fault and Paolos offered beans and rice and carpet.
”You eat carpet?”
”No stupid.”
Something’s wrong when you let someone call Zeppelin stupid in closed cold steel maze summer fakeness. Sitting in darkness watching the day burn the evil math figmented lines gridwork segment stretch off the table unthirsty water glass flesh steel. Paolos looking down at Zeppelin through J to the E he’s not in mixed company or anywhere else in this Los Angeles County mixed grid degraded blip silence blip buzzing. Where’s the buzzing coming from. Imagination. Oh. Drink? No. I’m putting a microphone next to the gears of the radial surveillance operation and what we get will be unplugged and still warm breathing flesh shiver lips he he he joke of let’s lie or die. Do you ever force yourself to drink?
”Look at that.”
Water molecule dead point grid my first name basis. I’m dedicating the next nine bends in the smoke nothing retrograde up to all those tired masking tape noises I could should have said Look just because you can put your hand on my behind – you fucked it up. I can’t believe you. Paolos is. Zeppelin. There’s a story of why one can she to she sea buzzing saying a joke lost agent itself in smoke bend road rainbow decal expression of death in the eighties you know before when younger licking decals on steel and glass and thirstiness – I unacceptable acceptable electrical defective machinery videotape being picked up watching it’s not to be made public ever ever and not the point even relating like normal human beings this wide awake at night death in the eighties bothering me bed blanket buzzing videotaped class thing.
”Ever think of moving back to Connecticut?” Bitch. Zeppelin drank all of her water and asked for more. See the joke there? No more he he he’s. Zeppelin is from Syracuse. The class infraction summer home is brick by microwave by brick lifted cold off the floor of New Haven’s pilgrim morgue to the grid Los Angeles County by way of nothing to watch the sky burn pink in your rainbow face off. I don’t care how many decals you lick. It’s not your fault. It was the class’ fault. Simple phrasing of subordinate. Wouldn’t be that big of a deal if there was no hierarchy in place in the first waitaminute who do you think you’re talking to in the first waitaminute yes I drank it. First name basis subordination. Sweeping trend. Zeppelin. Looking like she could kill you. Paolos popped the faucet on her laptop wallet wires a drip enough moleculed ocean myths to rainbows transmitting live from New Haven bitch name you’re the cause of all this guilt not mentioned here Zeppelin okay. Cylinder. Jiggles. The screen fixes itself. Promise. Give me more water. A steel stress vibratory stretched flesh in just a small dosage at a time didn’t even talk to me until I started killing people for her ass a bookstore a grid a rainbow.
”Help me kill this giant spider.”
”No. Why the fuck should I?”
In the future. Paolos belongs to you rainbow wires roads you get the road ticking from the center of her ballhead to shoulder stone splash like intertwined snakes her familie’s calling carpenter wires rainbow blink. Videotape’s blink noise. Falls. People still use videotape on the future. Next week on Stuntmen.

Unproven. Cold. Is it open?
Object death.











Emotionless expanse.
In- vis- i- ble dead purposeless unimportant.
Self-erasing ringtones huddled in the C-O-L-D.
Monster emotionless mass ugly rectangular edges of tables against corners to a room inside somebody’s

abdomen for rent sitting completely still.

Taking photos of stale food in an airless shaft of light fog on the memorial site of a black bank that mysteriously sinks into the pacific.

Clip- ping the
bluespill with nailclip-

pers out
of the sidewalk hachemarks. Check-
ing off hache-
marks on a longish and folded phone card receipt re-used as a tally sheet.
Completely meaningless blood beats without a context in a plastic packet suspected to be filled with ketch-
up.
Grave- holes

fi
lled
wi
th ket
ch- up. Ketch -up moon. (Moon Narrative: Mural’s ramshackle kidnapped gift of green eyes goes shopping for more letters to put in its alphabet but bends thumbing homework the breadth of purchased stamp booklet stamina.) Games involving dead bodies that don’t know they’re on camera and being judged on their individual
completeness.


Bluespilled compact discs for teeth.

Stolen sock ancestor to decelerated demagnetized descendent funk.
These announcements from under the table.
Waiting for my cold idealist abdomen to open it’s room to a bear ass economy and knowing that owning the chicken raw off the bone is a moment inside the middle passage gallows for all my baby block circuits
screeching the property of a bloodless military sug-
ar
re-
fi-

ner-
y.
Ketch-
up
moon




over


a
sug-
ar
re-

fi-
ner-
y just outside of Lisbon opens with the same gels on the lens as the last closed off and when the static
clears we see a vehicle with two vehicles inside, actually re
presentatives of the opposite hemispheres of one
p
ersona, not pictured here.
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na of the drab dogged teenage dust dragon dragging those there tennis dogs through the dust. Smiling voice full of teeth “Consumption occurs just as it always has and shall continue while I am in this light of day wearing headphones.” Teeth dust. In conceptual maps or the map that has not been committed to be on its paper for the time being there is the preparedness of thought inscribed via fingertip photolithography upon either let’s give you napkin, pink plastic bag or (hopefully) stone. I’m gonna steal you a kickstand baby with the magazine name sanded off. This dragon of dust stands at about vermin to scale eating cobwebs and whistling six sides to shipping and handling full or half charge comp. A pornographic imagination in which buildings topple inward under the weight of their own dust and cobwebs intermingled in interminable intimacy and darkness.

































Attempts at getting lost in the middle of a sawed-off convo piece put forward in a saucer let it just.












It seems the reason thingness is compatible with consumption is in the empty status.
My ringtone fuckin’ forgot to play half-plugged videogames with my father’s foreshadowed steps.
Unfulfillment of self results in self becoming vessel beyond fulfillment.
Recyclable cylinder with the nine-digit social embossed on the circumference.
The digitized lint between my lips and the tricks.



















“They are the very best I have to offer.” “So let’s see them then.” A very broad sophisticated grin had widened over Leonardo’s face but in this case it did not trace (not one iota) of the devious designs behind his binding profit motive there so then on purpose not disturbing but enduring so endearing ear to ear so curving not converting the environment implicitly suggesting toward the simple easy pleasures of a purchase on the Client in the blue fluted leather zoot suit, therefore fertile toward the lucrative negotiation seeds though Leonardo was not knowing how his cheesing did proceed in nearly perilously repositioning $600 ----- shoes and him on borderline continuum where the phenomenon of Client getting up and walking out of office now forever final straw was something truly well within its physical laws. All on these bitches who better believe there be dollars outside of the squalid appearance. Leonardo retained his ostensible stolid forbearance. He straightened the black tie of his black Armani formal leisureware. It was hot in here; but not as hot as it get. The back of his neck was wet. Hot air pumped in through flapping drapes drawn shut and hanging in the front of the window-wall from the ceiling so they went down feigning to touch the floor off by two inches looking like beige alligator scales armor defenses vertically partitioned by the faint crease of a stitched border and would disrupt with outside noise if they were just an inch shorter. The fans hanging decussate on short bars above spun lazily. The chairs slightly vibrate so I can’t tell if someone’s paging me while I work. Stylish murk. Murky the dreamlike manner of the humid meeting room airstream strong candor consciously conceived a pineskeletoned chrysalis. Meeting to trade lucre like we used to in this business for surgical high-tech sub-thanato tactics for lazy men. Leonardo the Machiavellian Judas ducat whore who got more actual failings then assets and that’s it. The light that came in from outside was yellow and made incandescent shapes upon the ebony so eloquent arranged in tessellated marble plates but only when the drapes had moved enough for it to come through. This Client didn’t seem to care but it’s a fact that some do. Factor prime proactive predatory working towards up Leonardo’s adamantine advantage unanswerably founded on his avaricial instincts halfway gently whispering seemed to be the heat operating sort of like a cop who’s aiming bright white light on a suspect and so we might cite right on the subject Leonardo as inspecting detective wielding a book on ‘how-to’ will no other value than ‘sale’ to assign itself onto and register pronto from the Client, ‘cause nothing garnered higher meaning on our suffering lower beings on earth than paper chasin’. Is this worth an explanation? Something was seriously wrong with Leonardo. Angels are high-avoidance right where it’s fools like him are first to charge to. Leonardo right here starts to think about his money again. Same exact grin pinned from nostril to chin for ten minutes unbroken provokin’ endorphins like smokin’ hooks through your neck in trainwrecks. Out of all the people on the planet Leonardo still believes that money really is worth damage to your self when you receive the interest that accrues: not that any of this is news. Money is time hence the longer he binds his grill to cheese we’ll still find an increase. Leonardo sat in the leather throne of the meeting room in his leisureware with a lascivious lust for lucre at some point in the future and the Client to his left comes to solicit services in the burgeoning niche that in this part of the world flourishes. They all come here. When they want the best. School of the Americas grads with weapons surplus war chest. Leonardo was concerned whether blue fluted leather zoot suit would ever get a clue to these halfwit sweat tactics as sure as sure could be that the Client could easily read the motivation rollin’ off the face of Leo like a limo or a lemon telepathically subliminal not hidden well at all (“fool, what you tryin do this time?”) for the Client knew the time, notwithstanding he got commanding Igo to adjust the Client’s temperature with an abrupt and silent hand gesture. Igo went into the hallway then like spent nearly all day then came back fanning the Client holding a very expensive golden Egyptian flabellum. Too late to curtail him. Leonardo had no part of the decisions Igo made wishin’ his designs obeyed some degree of reason, also the request was not aloud so it’d be difficult to please him, but at least he wasn’t breaking the flabellum presently. Were Leo to father a son he’d maybe tell him definitely this lesson hard-won to his spawn that it was important to subdue your target before bending it to your will. Applicable to the market or in games of varying skill.
Leonardo pulled the mic out from the headrest in it’s hideout beneath the leather flap, whispered into it, then intuitively fed it back not letting go of the retractable cord so it won’t snap. Everybody in the room is greatly indifferent to the display of automation about to start commencing. With die-hard business savvy quick and beguiling Leonardo got a little happy because he started smiling. The large square pane of frosted glass parked opaque and opposite the table’s head went able quick alive with static and the image sharp out electron emitters housed inside black cylinders shining the luminous diffusion of primary colors a little while for pause to wonder before cylinders begin really spinning similar to a generator or more fittingly a Gatling drum as omnipresent interference breathed out speakers indirect hidden made the air itself crispen strikingly in a hallucinatory stereo effect so absorbingly accomplished as tides of waves in chaos rumbling on us. The rigging that hung beneath the fans began a mechanized whine that imperceptibly outlined holograms to his bidding. Thimble is placed over tip of the finger tapping the air just in order to bring up a mono-dimensional panel of buttons metallically flash in response to instructions. This smile is spooky in this light earthly and murky. Capillaries sap out every milligram of Taiwan toxins moving in a bee formation to the apex of his mountain. Reflections dim of the displays is caught in the boardroom tabletop. Leonardo touched one, or rather suggested a general zone from his perspectival vantage and he took it for granted and the whole display vanished as if atomized the lights above extinguished and the enormous- sized rig’s presence of bigness diminished invisible as a voyeur observing from closed circuit, or the bureaucracy that dictates our hell, or the mathematics that defines the architectural spaces in which we dwell. Middlemanchild Leonardo is an angel of a salesman, first and foremost though a fauxwop as he goes off yon to sell, as those in rooms like these as well, or rather with disdain for all that data as we aim simply to narrow in our focus and not care of other locus but where Leonardo would seem to be the star of nothing really comparable as far as rooms go, so all other rooms whether extant or no when next to this hole are so segundo to Leonardo, gladiator in arena of negotiation called a boardroom table built for quorum presentations stretch before him quite some way from his warm and cozy station is the stuff, here in Taipei, which comprises the greater part of this, his existence, you might say. How Leonardo gets it, to paint a pretty portrait, is how the speeding car of Leonardo doth approach it, meaning the sale, like being a whore and if it more prevailed to visualize the shrivelled thighs regal of Client spread eagle and Leonardo his own happy self thrusting and sodominzing! Trusting auburn eyes gleam. Leonardo started smiling like a salesman ready to sell something! Yeah! Like ‘Want some ice cream?’ ‘Probably are you buying?’ The black cylinder rig of the electron emitters which spun like a generator, or then again more like a Gatling, stopped then started spinning again with this happening, shooting its rays of hues as portrayed in science textbooks the spectrum shining looks fake on the opaque pane of glass across with its surface frosted. The static receded deeper into the air shrouding its presence from reality yet residing spookishly in the heavens of perception so immersed beneath the surface of things as if a curse. The frosted pane went dark. It is constant though it wanes so he can talk. Green digital words read across it (the screen) babbling up from the processor of some suggested mainframe machine: READY, and then: RUNNING SPECIAL AFFAIRS VIDEOFILE 80-14417781. Client got Amantadine but doesn’t take none. If you were looking closely you’d viddy out the ghostly reflections of the green machine-generated listings in their machine-readable font along his laserpolished orthodontics glistening cosmetically augmented from opaque pane glass frosted. This went away from their view and instead up like a cinematic title it said: AUXILIARY TRAINING, the screen went black and static sparks glinted grainy, and lastly centered with no majesty in the black field on the wide square pane discreet careful letters went on to explain saying: STUNTMEN. What the Client saw first that fast at last what was halfass camcorder footage of fluorescent safety orange padded room confines with blue lines marked what was meant to be penalty quadrants. The Client noted that the lower righthand corner was a row of little dashes where it readout for a timecode. Camera didn’t budge parallel to the far wall of the cell just a touch as if a gashead tripod that ‘my God,’ the Client yawned, didn’t exist, but that didn’t matter, the Client guessed less than a second after. On occasion what careened on down the screen invading was a fine horizontal line of splintery thin silver static that fidgeted at the lowest edge dropped at the bottom. A tall bald black man in spandex shorts walked a diagonal course from the near foreground from behind the camera, bound for the center of the room, out of shadow into light before the filter could attune. The black man with his shorts had a t-shirt that he wore as he entered in the frame to an area contained and defined by line boundaries the observer soon found that the shirt underwent a curious transformation as the weave of the fabric achieved an interaction with the screen’s billion pixels way of rendering distinguishable but the components of the image didn’t own up to the limits of the device so it seemed a chemical process but more precisely what was the low-grade resolution’s kind of okay tendency to spectrum denaturation independently of the subject during taping. Leo sifted through the files sitting neat before his smile, and brought one to attention in the fingers of his left hand, smart. Another man, dressed in full padded gear walked into the camera’s view the same way from the rear, and stood opposite the first man in a probably rehearsed stance. The Client a natural sports asshole resorted silently to the hassle of noting the full padded gear in which he strolled in to appear. The black bald man who was tall stood nearer the further wall opposite another man who had the chest protector of a catcher, and also he had shinguards toeguards kneepads, enormous padded cricket gloves over his shoulderpadded shrug, with this added real careful over ribpads, over his pads on his legs which were enormously over-made ice hockey goalkeeper’s pads which had a nice stocky bold sweep forward, below the ribpads a girdle, attached in back of the glove of his right hand another back pad like a turtle, possibly styled for deflecting projectiles, also a fencer’s mask with the bib barely visible being hid to tell what it was at all due to an enormous football helmet with the frame of the face mask over the throat protector placed somewhat disastrously where his coat intersected complexly held in place by a chinstrap also headband wristbands and judging from his wince without release that he was chomping onto something of a boxing mouthpiece.
“Thisguy, thisfirstguyis….” Leonardo hit the skids. Leonardo screwed up. He continued uncertain as to stuff so his eyebrow raised suspicions rightnow managing, “Xico Matic…?” in a low tone of indecision. Leonardo raised his thimbled finger and the hologram did shimmer at his summons and he tapped the air it hung in somewhat solemn. Was that an asshole’s tone? See I worry since I’m prone away from being personable and the business hurts as a result. The picture froze. He made a signal to Igo. Igo was on his toes. Igo handed the fan to the Client, and the Client took it to his side gripping it tight with an irate brow kind of like he might say, ‘ow’. Igo walked, but not with glee of any height, around and up the length of the table just to get on Leonardo’s right. Up from the manilla folders Leonardo looked toward the Client. He smiled affably, and it took a while to catch for a minute, although a ghostly mimic, triggered in the midair, but ‘Yay! At least he’s trying,’ for better or worse, in the man in the leather zoot suit who spoke but only very terse. “Just a second, please,” he said two fingers beckoning Igo’s head. They need to get closer but not quite fast enough. Igo leaned over and Leonardo sat up. He gave Igo commands quite low and concisely, then he turned back to the Client as if a child in a high-seat, these tiny events sublimated and summated in a grin imparting trying to mark some minor farce, “Oh could you just lay that on the table for me please?”
“It’s Phoenician?”
“What?”
“Is this Phoenician?” he sheepishly repeated again, with a well hidden apprehension at having to say more than what seemed appropriate, if against the tide of all else, by potluck, apropos, necessary, his sole intent.
“No, it’s just a piece of crap,” Leonardo spouted wry indecent laughed in simpleminded propitation, unleashing a frail effort at mollifying things the supposed motivation. “Just kidding. It’s Egyptian.” His being ‘witty’ had eclipsed and destroyed any unalloyed anomaly of some non-commerce-oriented coy charisma as condition of the motive of such snortrippingly piddly flippancy as result of a goluptious collar-popping uncalculated mode of spontaneity instead of ‘sure I’ll crack a few jokes long as you’re paying me’ way that he gave dead a wee-bit too cadgingly engaged in avaricial sways that devoured dignity viewing in the bigger scheme all channels of behavior for getting hands on to some paper intangible in this case here The Client rested the flabellum on settled down the table long, looking satisfied expression and thoughtfully pitying the unremittingly graceless idiocy chockful consistently every last inch of the lame shit employed in these naked conciliatory exploits superficial salesman routine duly by choice. It went away after the movement of seconds. Flabellum from collection stationed in the fertile crescent. Leonardo transformed then he whispered with authority to Igo with a look of haggard chagrin replacing the complaisancy that had once been. Looking only at the good boy as the substance Client sees, wholly for the sake of where commerce is dependent, grinning, “Would you enjoy a cup of tea with me? This probably going to wind up taking about a minute.”
The Client nodded.
Leonardo stopped to. Compute this. Leo looked at Igo to move this. Leo looked at Igo like a scripture in the bible for a suspended minute, the bully giving the corporate coolie an eyeful of serpent shit in wheels and pulleys, early tools reveal rules to the next thing see your destiny grotesquely jocund put-on, entirely out of the sycophant’s go for the gold pictured gaunt to control by remote the eidolon probitious in the Client’s devoted sideways regard, suspicious, chose to let this guy play his card through the eyeball hardness he was still fallen under tight training the main thing he need to know how to play dumber on the crux of this unscrupulous expedition Igo stood with inextinguishable fidelity to hear the telling of the next position when L withdrew his trust cool to just sit thinking this one less string to pull unsolidified with no clue to the unusualness of no info to coincide Igo rejecting the option of getting started off on the best guess evoked as he saw it divested when the Client spoke. Nodded. Whatever. Leonardo, however, horribly, instead said nothing or made no steps in responsibility of filling in an epexegesis seemingly heedless thereby dissociating from like apparently this ho ain’t caring to be heir to the role of playing profit and loss who’s the boss who’s the wiser supervisorial duties unkindly ridding the slanted position finally looking trivial getting a concurrent anneurism merely to grant permission the bidding of the servant, ‘cause Igo thought that heirarchy was how Leonardo preferred to party, and did morph his mouthpiece into muteness akin to the Client in belligerence as to concede haughtily, full well knowing he can’t tell what he meant, authority of potency so corrupt in how structured it ain’t got to be uttered. For once dispensin’ the dunce-hat however improbable on this mission because Igo would have to rely on the obvious instead of an official announcement from the top office. Novel. In the capering annoying style Igo aped his employer’s smile with an arguably equal amount of sincerity carved really deep in his cheeks clowning sneeringly like a mound of violets in bloom. Igo turned around a left the room. On the tip of his tongue he envisioned a conversation where he’s inches from saying how wrong behaving so poorly in employer-personnel face- to-face is and where bravely he’d query this dirty old bastard to answer for all of the hassle abuse he would steady induce in Igo’s direction, with you leather fetished-up on your throne like God’s own gift to perfection, with your corny queeny airs and your black formal leisureware. But the eminent desire for involved colloquy between him as a person and this dog in working clobber perkin’ was non-concerning though he sermonized a touch too righteous for his butt. Yet if only just we were to percieve deeper, we’d see a loneliness inside this Leonardo get-the-green creature, colored by disappointment which sententiously boinged into the Client’s head in a manner unmatched in his actual unrelaxed natural reserved bland person-to-person.
So they sat in silence until Igo returned, stepping lightly so that the Client couldn’t have heard, hadn’t learned he’d readjourned until after he turned, his area of mobility marginal. Leonardo had to fight his own surprise, but it was hard to. Igo brought over the folder, titled on top of the tab of the border, nearly no room for all numerals on it and the Client could tell it was what Leo wanted because his mnemonic held what was still a focussed cognizance that what the manilla showcased on it’s dense label were what digitally was fidgeting on the video screen at the far end of the table. (Customers come with minor reservations so some are more stunned when run a demonstration so done for more presentation he decided then to tape one and titled it 14417781.) Besides they were memorable strategically for reasons we don’t easily know, as if someone had chosen them to be so...but, for what purpose? Leonardo leonarded, then wanting all the refuse discarded, made motions to remove the folders but Igo had already started with sureness to do this so harping is useless. Interweaving worms of steam germinate the firmament dizzily turning over like a hibernating grizzly from the cup and silver dish of heated up tea for the nihilist Leonardo. Igo walked all around so as not to block his boss’ starboard cautiously the Client saw so obviously or why else did you think he yawned for? He thought for a second that Igo would stoop over the table to hand him his tea. Leonardo raised the thimbled finger up in the air somewhat mechanically. This thimbled finger once raised there made trembling holograms appear as if mirages from the dead or trickery involving air. This thimbled finger once raised there made trembling holograms appear as if mirages from the dead or trickery involving air. The Client picked up the flabellum singlehanded. The screen went back into motion. Igo picked up the flabellum and examined it. The silver static splinters stood still then got rolling, going between interims while a clot at the bottom were caught up in trembling a lot, incessantly wiggling restlessly, shamelessly ignorant brainlessly, in this case, with no love for those in stasis above. Igo growing rightfully spiteful of supervisor and trifles of supervisor who provides the slew of psychogenic input and energy like he couldn’t find better things where to invest air in his chest and pay less for therapy. Leonardo parted the flaps of the file. Igo picked up and examined the golden flabellum, then set it off far and alone for a while on the table. The Client indicated it. Leonardo gave him it. Igo swayed around the way beside the Client serving up a sterling silver cup that lay inside a silver dish tray. Leonardo gazed with class at the opaque frame of glass. Igo left the room. To resume Leo spoke: “Let’s see here, mister. Direct your vision to the display. On the special viddy screen before you is Jethro Antigones Thorp, who.” Leonardo seemed to be wracking his brain. The Client lifted from the documents his winnowing strain. The Client’s neck jerked ajar and cast upon the violent sparring of the two men moving in a pugilist stew otherwise graceless, or fighting, depending on how you want to phrase it. Each morbid frame scanned onto the square like the tortoise and the hare before it became apparent to the Client it was slightly -slow-mo. Leonardo, wracking, “You see our lead assassin. He is a black belt in many martial arts. These are the stats tell it…pardon my pronunciation. It goes on saying. Um. Aa-ky-do, Shor-reen-gee, Kim-po…Heh-sing? Hezhing? I think the stress is weak. Let me see.”
The Client didn’t let him see. “I see you getting me a prizefighter and not a sniper. What about long range hits?” Playing a speaker faking eager. “He’s fought for the cause very hard in many wars. A stone trooper. He headed up his own group for seven years before coming here.” Discernible within the type of stare, to money burning Leonardo got hyperaware with the hint of silver inching. ever eminent. Attitude improving. Beneath the floor liquid lucre moving. Tintinabulary clink of coins passing underneath like lava awful slow. “Former KGB he stormed ancient Tibetan monasteries everyday during the early ‘30s campaign over towards the end of the Commissar’s reign.” Oh they said money go get it. I was livid but I hid it. Why did Igo go defy me in the eye so? Ego’s like those regal plates for real though on some high notes. Oh I so fully know he’s seeing other gigs on his breaks giggling. Big enough to do lobbies. Weightlifting as a hobby. Lazy, day-wasteful like shopping for someone to off your undesirables. Coldly conspire in your idleness. Bite on this. “Let it be understood obtaining fiber optic footage took pains. Cost the operative a lot to gain this cursory shot, plus quality’s distorted in crossover from the recorded format and x-rays in airport screening procedures, leading to the diminished image which you see here.” Affluent babylon stop and go opulence hotdogs and homicide, all-in-one. I can catch the glare of the dough. There we go. Watch his wallet topple like jericho. He’ll have to plaster the cracks in the plastic afterwards when I done broke this bitch. You can quote this shit. “There are three. Let me share for clarity. Another operative was taught by Liberationists in Lebanon. Feared within the field for perfect kills. They called him Megatron. I have no footage of this person in particular….” Leonardo stretched up from the groaning leather throne to catch and pluck in between the sheets fingering passed two stapled leafs in the manilla folder gabled away from him still in the Client’s hands, produced what he sought and then expounded upon the proof. “Whenever tactics involvin’ the skills of Abraxas Carlin he endeavors tp ascend the next level of assassinship.` Easily agreed amongst colleagues that he’s mastered it. Hardknocks grad. Self-taught marksman.” Leonardo looked up from the pamphlet he had sat smart and flat upon the black polish laminate, examining the Client, “Bad for your health. Proceed with caution,” with a very delayed sense of how the situation had swiftly switched.
The Client had, during this discourse, gotten up and stood by the door.
Stunned Leonardo jumped, “Wait! What’s the matter?”
Igo loomed in the arc across the room.
And then after a sighing measure, the Client gestured toward the screen, vexed and peeved, stretching his sleeves, “Thanks. Not interested no more.”
“You were a fuckin’ minute ago!”
“I don’t need your services.”
“Do I detect nervousness? True we’re very small, but there’s nothing off the wall in…” The game is nice like a naked genie shaking dice. If you live right then you shouldn’t have to say it twice. “How do you want these criminals to die?” Search the subliminal crevices down in your mind’s eye. Find someway to forge a just retribution. Should always be selling. Can you tell me what’s going on? Are you owning them mathematic babylonian habits about that cabbage? Meanwhile Leo smiled mirthless. So purchase the service from us or go figure it out in alternative. Nothing permanently put down on paper. Keep thinking positive while I’m on pause waiting for your stupid asscrack to pass back this way to do me a favor. Looking dumb. Chewing the flavor out of my gum. Chum. Partner. Pal o’ mine. Like stars in water each tooth giving off a shallow shine “Is it worth it to you?.” No more assertive with you. Now I’m flirting, eyes averted, toward the herd in purlieu, coquettish, curt and aloof, like I don’t care what you do. Flipping through appointments in my memory. Putting you on hold so that my friend can speak. Organize my fingers so that they form a cathedral.
“How do you expect me to decide from all these people? I’ll try the best.”
A treasure chest struck my digging shovel.
“It’s no big thing and there’s no trouble. That’s the fun you get choose. There is nothing here to lose.” Pimpin’ senselessly in a sense that since we’re all one soul, my control is your control. “Sit.” Leonardo looked at him a moment longer than he wanted, took a deep breath, spar in progress, and went into thought inside his too hot office. He dropped the hard copy. It’d been in his hand the whole time. He set the folder down probably to block the gloss’ shine. Hereby checking the Client mellow, he held on to his elbows, and said, “Mr…?” The Client only looked at him back as if it didn’t register. “Okay,” Leonardo was able to say spreading his arms over the top of the lay of the table’s glossy black finish leaning back nearly diminished being bossy regarding the Client’s ardent meow with a weary brow, “Sir. What would it take to secure your happiness?” A tiny beep, like a smoke alarm, and he reacted smacking the side of his coat of armor unimportantly, even sort of like a walrus flipper slapping this accordingly, jawboneclenchingly, “Authenticity…” Leonardo tucked his chest in and answered his own question, “I’m kinda at a loss as to what you wanna see…I guess, unless…..” Leonardo stood straight and the Client was still there just as if he could wait but with little time to spare.
Leo took up the folder, out which a twisted staple nestled took to the table, departing sliding falling out of the closure of the fold to give the table at impact the faint tap of weak metal colliding and then settled, parting its buff hemp stock of which enough has been brought favoring import from the sovereign assorted Afrikan prefectures, having, at least for theirs, a favoring for export herbocommerce of the hemp in kind of which this folder’s synthesized, to fall, so fell open spread well into his one hand’s span, and extracted a paperclipped package of acid- free lasergrade semibright sheets, which actually on occasion made pretty nice streaks of inconsistently shimmery shadowy textures that frequently gets misperceived in memory stylishly next to a borealis or australius aurora when moving through various states of disorder, removing to add to this a photocopied analysis featuring right at the center a dark and rectangular shape and also seemed similar to someone’s business card which he fastened no escape, mainsailwavering, nearly completely hewn and bonded of preconsumer content, these thread cleverly through the holes of staple fangs arranged leaves together with the hold of its able frame censuringly longspied under the tense gaze of blonde eyes with relished condemnation since absconding from its place in between the jacket crease mere moments before, knotting the pricking aluminum hardly resisting the style its assuming in painlessly, numbly or nimbly or with masculinity. The Client approached the table appearing more viably negotiable. The floorboard creeked and the Client looked at his feet. The Gatling rig and screen pane glass (black on and muted with no electrons on to shoot it) was on machine frame casters, and it sort of rolled toward his foot, passed his foot, then unplugged itself, kaput. The Client backed out of the way, re-approaching the table skeptically, realigning his vector now next to the table and opposite his game trajectory. Leonardo tossed the papers across the table’s surface with the flip of a wrist. The papers went with violence and didn’t stop over the costly and expensive black table top of the expansive meeting table spinning with the staple as the neutral centrifugal axis, sliding alongside the flabellum lengthwise and then riding past it, between the long course of hard edges conformed, beneath the lazily spinning fans and into the Client’s hands. Leonardo looked at Igo, but Igo had took off. The Client laid the papers down after briefing as if to scoff, from an enigmatic perusal. Then, bitch, make your ass look gooder than usual.
“Okay,” is what he said.
Leonardo could see it coming from a mile away at his head.
“Where are they now?”
“The STUNTMEN are on assignment.”
“Where?”
“I can’t divulge that information to any client.”
The Client absorbed the ‘fuck you,’ looking down at what the papers stuck to, sitting his knuckles on them and not trying to look despondent.
“This is where life as it lived gets rough and the segment of the population that has more than enough starts to riff and flap their lips about how just horrible the world and all it’s strife for them right now may somehow seem. You looking to get something with no limit to your dreams. But, what you want doesn’t exist. And nobody gets to how your feel when you are rich. You can’t take it. There’s no rational basis for you to take it. I can make it happen and adapt to how you’re thinking. You never paid for that with your own money and your shit is stinking. Profit is a gift. A gift that’s not earned. You can profit from it or on the downturn get burned.”
“Can’t the profit be a gift also though?” “Okay. Listen to me. Absolutely no. Anything I give you is an increase from nothing. A privilege. Amidst the fact that you suck at bluffing.” “You’re crazy.” “You’re delusional. You’re out of your right mind. That this is the best that you’ll get you’re not seeing at this time. But it’s something still you can see.” The Client beamed wanely, toying with a notion too ludicrous to disclose. Leonardo’s beeper went off again, and he whipped it out in one motion, offered it a marginal peeking-at, then stuffed it inside of his coat at once. The Client had rounds. “Excellent. Okay that’s it. I think we already have you down.” Leonardo sat back in his black throne and oh what a sexy sound as he fell back into its woe-dulling hull, like baby’s skull deflating, attempting something of a slouch as if it were his mother’s couch, palmprint to varnish, “Igo?” consoled through causing carnage, as if the wide world’s entirety was beneath his clutch perspiring, symbolically tying him to small men with small brains that extend to reign all, but who’s chains can’t restrain revolution’s call: Leonardo on the regular these days one way or another often found it immeasurably difficult to recover the previous level of comfort to which he bubbled after standing up to do something and being ruffled: he had completely forgotten his tea. As far as the fee, the Client guessed by the gesture that he could truly believe in somehow of the altruism inherent in all human beings, but then got hymnal paranoia he was on the wrong page when it dropped across his mind that that too could’ve been staged. This was all a friendly spar of chutes and ladders, while the fans hissed dizzy distributing air through the rafters. Igo appeared. And on the wall was a less than legible collage of chalk pastels on gauze of a lovely woman dearest who’s nudity was smeared and smothered into dense mists of atmospheric color. Igo was a big squirt and label whore, so of course he wore a torsotaut tee-shirt with emboldened fire ‘V’ blazing shoulder to navel to shoulder and milder simple overfitting denim trousers on him. A noxious fluid gummed up underneath how he held his arms pinned. Igo wheeled the Gatling rig and frosted pane back and replugged it in its place so that its power re-attached. “Will you help Mr…” “Hemet,” the Client said. “Sure; Mr Hemet to the door so he can get to bed.” “Flying early.” “My. Don’t I sound surly?” The Client realized he had no luggage to gather and only illusory sensations held his presence to the matter. The Gatling rig stopped its roll, and the prospect of machine silence only faintly enthralled yet mostly no interest from those people grown oblivious. Since the Client had worn his zoot suit the entire episode, Igo was denied the privilege of handing the Client his coat. Leonardo gave a stiff laconic good bye wave. “Subtle heat ripples from air thick with cellphone signals. Mr Hemet turned, so chose to forgo the encore, and went out into the ruckus of the falling day. Igo closed the door.















Lost Los Angeles like lost between now and how many other shadows can we imagine. No air imagination what makes up for it. Miracle of human unaccountability. The art of finding yourself completely. Completely consumed by a color blue that never seems to expire completely. Looking at dry wall. Detained by it's flat. Something to do with the hands. No rails. Shellfishshells all the time and. Me and this part of what doesn't make a map necessary anymore. Pride and another thing friend talking to me slopes inertia let's respond to sisyphus as if he was pyrrhus just to be flickering before a mostly careless brigade of it's a problem but at least we've proved to some members of the dead that we can reach out and in the reaching even recall some other senseless journeys flickering like droplets from a water main seen on the video recreation of when spectacles dissolve. Or something. Sick of this thing under the wires and weeds mistaken face how to conquer your pronouns and do more without even lifting up a single broken piece of chalk between memorization and what happens inside that let's not twist cadaver fingers with lights and floorboards and some tired expectation that nothing cartesian ever resolves in slot what when you see said they're gonna be tearing down adhesive taped apologies in a set.

I am build-

ing sleep
for





under
dirt

,


and
dirt. Homely oh so boring flightless give it a minute takes a power move and burns it from the abdomen read more than is waitaminute if it's in the middle then wait how do you build the rest of it fierce yawn learning how to live with the meltdown middle sternum glassed-in action death thoughts going over classroom-like no applause desk scraped tile you dead one and zero coming out dumping.

Meltdown sternum penthouse birdhouse ribs. One of those Frank Lloyd deals.



Looking for infinity again and finding you guessed it.



Most convenient emotions to build cities on right now for example if I didn't have to die as this here somebody else's bad idea of what would be a good example of how life goes into color of your choice, dust, cracks in the side of a wall and time.











"There's nothing to worry about. It's going to be okay."
Redemption.

"A-
me-
ri-can do redemption exposed..." A you-less hued drab pathetic crown around my naps. These accounts don't match to my eyes and it's driving me crazy. Jackson uncertainty jack. You could scream an open field and still you wouldn't feel flat. Snowflake decal suspects the glass is a rapist, finds out the glass isn't a rapist, and becomes dissatisfied with the glass. And there's this completely impossible photo ad of a skater getting gangbanged by American flags. His word balloons are punctured hamburger buns translated from the French (no
"Where?" Pause. "Oh." Masculinity lie and irrelevant to cause stars boom plastic bag drift away boring. It's lost on me. Still not sure where. They never close the door here and they need to. "Relax." Remember how your stall used to say? Pushing outward in a sphere of force muralist's mealticket is ticking on you. Never quite like needed a night before. Shock. Liars in a self-continued fire room falsify flash to alarm dry. Milk crates speech the dumb need compost ice intensive design flaw with rigor in more amounts than there’s meat to do harm reductive drive support into. Fake name of who’d win when hit dice comes to sig-


ni-













fy me-


mor



ies talk-


ing out- dead lines- off over. Special – ties in-closed your time to…


Em-o
tion -

ssssssss
ss off –sides simple spelling. I’m not crying anymore about anything. This is a song of steel’s.
Drainage. Repetition. Bleed ketchup for me objectively only thanks. You always only always get sick when you're looking good which is of course geometry's standing open cafe door invitation to looking better. An un-ironic moment to cut and dry rivets spelling be as it must ideas into the unfiltered air of a plane that's been gutted by a mountain peak potential. Sprinkle than a computer hope. Meaningful landscapes of avoidance in an integrity engine to do with looking for another timeline of how it reaches over placement streaks for a stereo to put in gear. The dire consequence machine of lies presented with all forward thinking fuel-injected. Sitting here hearing nothing drinking water that hurts my throat too much. Watching the day pull its spine out as in monthly comic books. Too debilitated to bring everything down to thorough and consistent rationale. Maybe wanting to do something to my hair, lose whatever's taking over the back of my throat, imaginary plastic hairy cockroach engineered with little sharp knife legs and needing to hang in the flesh there and grind its hips. Bolted question mark to hair. It's see-through. It's blue. I was wearing a coat from scotland yard. Oh okay. I'd never held a quill before. Old non-endearing objects that push people off the corpse of resolution in zero simple easy-to-follow acts. Wishing I'd worn a jacket. Counting the hairs on my head in the mirror over there in a high modernist detachment. Explaining death on a dusty abacus with my legs crossed thumbing stubble in awkward amazement and looking like caesar. You know. Excised. Not a whit of a gesture to play with the obvious situation and suggest the unlimited possibilites in this amporphous photon cage calendar shingle served with fancy fork and knife in an egg holder with a sprig of something rural. Pretty much expecting nothing I say to be taken seriously yet going there with it anyway. Sharing a scathed moment with the full up chair. Pulled up chair knee bump. Seized! With the wrist of every passenger in the grip of plastic fasteners to a whole new set of eyes catch the cast. A destitute full animal's memory into what I won't get a chance to be this time around. Not like I've never been in the light of day because if you're trying to tin toy take it that way I'll learn you the diametrical opposite. But there see these is mine hard won. Care not demagnetize an element. Great gripping plastic wrapped bones together tight no movement but an eye that hopes for itself a frame devoid of event with eyes sneaky tacked on and with it an entirely new face. Noticeable. Acceptable. Runs into those folks who knew the new face in question not all fanon in anthem by intent nightfall and when revisited whence said face displaced being transparent predator again with it. I hurt eat happiness yum. Another story, though. This wasn't meant to transform into that smoldering neighborhood bump track on access within can be pointed out nothing innately objectionable. Like I cannot go I know. I've tried. Prognosis? My stall knows what's best for me. Sitting in a cafe going over what exactly being trapped in history means. Over and over. Time after time. Demented query has become hey is this visage of acts which went before not accessible two blade street in all folly? Understand at all why this world doesn't open for me? Slide back days. We're speaking not from my social-political construct but from my smoldering awareness alone. Aversion to black athletic ware. A number from the mouth of nowhere nothing noble to say. Recognize no reason to be generous except for the best reason which is no reason at all. The enemy is conditional acts of good in a system of material balance. The argument against human contact forgot to realize being mostly drowned out in the production. Let no mentioning of my endeavors and character suggest that I didn't have enough colors to work with in the first place. Grown acquainted with can I get next to and say something purely sincere but still be not enough to register fully all the way through. Miracle of miracles. Acts within reason. The other deleted space. The possibility of not standing there. People can remind you rather easy. Oops! Are we sharing now? Not about that at all. Falling out of favor. Honesty as disease. Modelled off degeneration. Thanks for showing opposition to what forest setting mirage already knows about or a fear of not being able to see myself from the punctuation I left there alphabetized. You have the nerve to suggest that what my histomes decide to do are going to hurt your feelings. So here we are in a blanket of snow again for ketchup sake. Brokenness incarnate has a few single phrase obsolete combustion genius transfers to respire into electrons if you will not note down prefabricated streamlined awareness bubbling boys on their way to the center sizzling pixel of an agonizingly dead screening agent. Prides itself on nausea. The mystery of a completely open mouth secreting numbers by the gallon instead where the saliva might be to process reality at a faster rate of changed decision ocean palace of ice king bicycling locked in revolt to money's evil hand game play deviance round. Seduction of all things electric versus a fertile dark drive dance. Drop everything at the scope of purely worthless glass-coated apology. "What would you do?" "See, that's not the smartest idea." Leads in that fashion and has proven sharply proficient from poise unbecoming age. The perfect however you see fit. Jumper cable tin can wave. I mean you can completely see that from where things are now. If you had a choice between the two. You aren't as stupid as you pretend to be. How do those wristbands feel? A machine of the most insulting humor set to rumble can't swallow feathers when nothing good emerges. This is very close to not being there not to lavish undue privelege to there. What to pay as you can for a machine that will kill every trace of a complete donut embarrassment upon my language? Remembrances of exclusive adventures and not having the apt capital to reign in civilization for a weekend and protest forgetting everybody else who isn't happy enough to have these things down. Or a story about the complete set of responsibilites that it'd be impossible for someone to estimate unless they've spent a whole lot of time reading about the writing which was written about being inside of that skin there itself. Voyages to places I can't even imagine. My ability to build new houses out of the small corners of those houses still standing was a failsafe bred into the chrome oxide drilling shabbiness of the ideal financial living scenario left town. I don't need to be straight gullible eye-witness headhunter against hunger off the whole of my flea-bitten mistake flesh and let the decision to burn snow calories be crashed for me instead of hiring a bloodkin compact disc shimmer chalk dust hostage to sprout funny pasta towards it. Let me tell you how to work with frozen architecture on a budget of unadulterated silence so things seem less without light nor compass drawing when you come out of the school in the ground stone obsolete scholars fargone forget the swollen heated ketchup ingredient to open eye regalia those ones I can't right place. These blankets stand on their own shadows awfully adept. You'll read no complaint on air from me and mine. I hope we were recording. Just make sure you get back to this side of the demented mirror in time to properly follow. How much I'd miss moments that don't belong to me. Everything I'm wearing was stolen. We've overbooked back towards next month your entry box in the palace of pity freezer branch and I don't have to try to be funny. Drip offering of positively no return value as dawn's far name blessing to anything liberated to barter my success so I'm taking my talking cube away without rabbit ears for every reparation memorandum six by six wide through my indefensible hide. There's nothing left to practice but evil. Don't tell anyone in the firmament that I've been planning this. They claim to in gravity have the retribution poverty market running pat but then I'm not even turned around yet so we direct flight it there like gas on a rubber chair. I swear that sometimes nothing seems a thorn perforated ficchus leaf alive and well. Video perfect I hate my excitement yet one day we'll arrive. Collapsing scene from day doesn't really stand out a great amount. Drowning in an English exercise with no zerotime splash makeup he tries. Subject/author disconnected colloquy-for-pleasure before it had even the chance to transmogrify into something more relationshippy or swapping out impatience-based attacks disguised as concern for some immediately apparently reparable habit of annoyance from remarks which were once in these exact same fucking interactions so impulsive and seemingly genuine. Observe how the full rejection of any single smallish tenet of the American dream immanent albeit ignored on these surfaces destabilizes all other supposedly unrelated sections of social structure. Over-reacting a little. The offensive abject in all of its untoward volatile grandeur. Volatility as locus of eros no more. Times change. Nothing's real. I write like this because I know someone somewhere will find so blindingly obvious the language in English or otherwise noted of what directly comes from this locked key in the mail mall abdomen corporate guts sculpture monument to debt gurgling as something way too much to take because being too much to take is genetic and a mark of dying slowly without chains to guide your unwise and offensive shock reflex discomforted body mixed channel if that reaches stopped out sensuous pure or close to it nails in flesh spears through abdomen beautiful with blood in the face and paint in the hair and love in the let's not even dead narrative element heroic repair down the dehydrated longing for a frozen nuclear frostburn concrete citylight where the physics of consequence cannot apply and this non-application mistaken for rebellion against compromise which would be really fresh and and this qualification of fresh appearing singularly because I would not be into hiphop were I not from suburbia remember the shock of being is enormous. What is existence but an opportunity to translate in the most extreme terms accessible this dynamic shock of being? Why are we here if not to scream? Why are we here if not to disrupt? Nowadays feels we're both animal there to suicide cliff videogame it in each other's eyes only but my muscles can't follow suit through. I can't figure out why your heart metaphor dead sits settled in the muddle of a tortuous money killer trap's membrane without wanting to split the engorged viscera violently. Speaking from smoldering awareness alone and not through the media of this would-be ascribed social-political construct. They are two completely separate entities. The membrane of time exists to be destroyed dismembered cut defied defiled. You seemed to get that. Thought you knew that. Epiphany of absolute sight. The hiphop of my abdomen insides. Mutilated drum penis. Reason for slugging over the sparingly peppered ice of wasted day outsourced wardrobe recommendations called up with the color of drab open city beautiful bike ride into hell. Fell coughing out. The revelation on the steps as I sank below to half-consciousness. I think that was when purpose left my boy body. Naw. It wasn't purpose. As if I could distort the spatial relationship of that sick and tired organ from the continuum of all things which matter. No. On the steps to your house something left my body and it sure wasn't purpose. How absurd for me to even postulate. Heresy! Old Man Bicycle stepped to my defective cadaver glass shell and extracted hope for me and my people. Was that what it was? Am I sounding a little sad and maybe even silly at this point? No it couldn't have been that either. I done went and overheard a cop say that hindsight is twenty-twenty while it was then and there holding a tea cup and tea dish at the flightless fair. You know cops exist in a status which makes redemption a futurist's academic career. Crumbled up on the steps and letting the ghost drift up the stairwell through the roof thinking that this is my representation of shame (a-ha!) pulling from knotted ligaments of its earthly prison toward the only true redemption liberation of destruction aspired. The outcome would be the shameless realization now fully embraced that the only liberation redemption lies in destruction. Still gutless I would not for a split second even suggest destroying this lovely cafe we're in. Or would I? The compromise struggle has made me the biggest containment animal sound of symbollic automobile taking off for good that I know. Hoping some other life tribunal will gaze condescendingly to ordain the deed of it as hyper-noble. Letting the sun stretch its gridded feet past every other item from a shrine on every surface area carpetted calendar box wall to wall save our butter-line inflammed modernity narrative containment cafe croissant here...almost like a revolving door ceiling fan monk out of element from the stall in some ways I'd like to think. How easy it would be for the shock in the party to disfigure the forward destruction path. But to what end? Be it stairs or a cafe chair I'm the eyes nobody notices who hallucinates straight-edge access tracers in a post-apocalyptic pacific nuclear christmas tiding body of writing with the obvious fear of exposure in its leisure and breadth with a nostradamus message saved in the self-eating fetus grafted to my hip lint of an oblivion deus ex machina sidestepped for box office receipts on the game of mutual obsession assured by the fervor of this shitty end of the yardstick while giving up the ghost in a fashion commonly associated with government pawns or soldiers. Masculinity, undertaking, girth, dream and endeavor. The so comfortable around you with me and mine over-rated rem sleep pseudo-romantic novella I can't crack my lips to Cadmus. The sorts of fires ghosts are only most closely snuggled to. Let's ennumerate all the pernicious things. See how obnoxious they are? I know how much better our society would be without them just blotted out. Black hood and scalpel awaiting your word because mine ain't worth a damn. I'm the first to cut knowing all I have in this world is my hubris. Knowing I would be dead without my hubris. Remember how the calls stopped? I'd be a leper. Laid out on chemo. On the simulacrum, if it wasn't for my hubris, radiation would be taking a vacation to where diverticultis yeast babies get caught in my pubes and aveolar fibres. If I was only endlessly giving beauty I'd be the toe-tagged nation-state formerly known as what happens to stars when they get old with my stomach stapled and letters falling off the eye chart and rubber nodules worn. Screwing custodial hold up movie-typical hubris towering. That's because I have no investment in it and this is an exercise in emotional evolution would-be reproductive tumor. A not-condescending next on how to paint negative space in my race-transcending class (ha! academia is innately condescending) performing a c-section with a sharpened rusty mix CD as a whole bunch of fine stars were smiling down from heaven upon my marker and shovel in the Tunisia gay.com chatroom slash tomb, magnanimous or sanctimonious, whichever has the most syllables so it's a hook as sure as shit it's always dead in the waiting room since the condition of sitting in one of those awful plastic prefabricated institutional seats abnegates any drained clinging to material outright in the first damn place. Try Uganda's un-ironic shangri-laylow motel maypole. Cafe arcade's bicycle-powered dynamic irreconcilability machine. Every spineless calendar sunshine quadrangle is a stall knows best waiting foyer made to resemble a wind-fidgetted pine forest television tube on pause with electric leaves getting clobbered by the first intimations of snowfall over the public resource I'm sitting in which was named after the song that sort of favored someone else but in the given fluorescence of the dramatic tension might for a moment take on no that's going to far. You're the next song. Room turns. And since you will remain the next track on the CD, I will never ever have to showy-showy something into those dilated hoops of immortal cerulean that lacked irony and thus beg off destruction for the rest of us just a little bit more. Right? 'Sides, this matter may not be aptly broached having not done away with the grand illegibility surrounding the history trap agenda item everyone wants to skip. Can't put the ethnic stereotype in front of the antiquated distinctly regional transport, now can we? "Boy, given the impress of social stature would you be up to coming along to meet the old stall or was that merely a function of your automatic candor on automatic?" Adjusts hair. "Well I dunno. Do you think it was?" I wonder what my face looks like when engaged in speech. Is it just as the mirrors say? Crisis this tain of awareness earth's core. "I could guess and then go ahead and start up but then we'd be assed-out perhaps with yet still another wasted day-long desert to name something mock honorific," when I would should have said was, "your disdain for the object beyond the derisive regard is intoxicating totally." Perhaps a cafe is not the most appropriate place. Floated decorative ribbon encircled festive cotton clouds with orange soda spilled over giving into a Misses Tarumi celebratory missionary bells of wood going bong with a somber meeting between something that had been inside of a bottle for years and the stick-like elbow snowflake glass and computer wire sculpture's arrogance discussing the frequencies things melt at and don't you upright underage reading experience fade to telephone book service seagull song going through the same process so much longer ago than you can remember this empty athletic field filed under small ocean smell? Alone on the stairs is best. Fitting. Watch that shame evaporate with the lids wrenched shut from the lifeless post-bike corpse on the risers like everyday I go through this with bullying velociped bruisers who rough up my dumpster looking for virgins to humiliate. Then one day I thought I'd crossed the vector of some personality that was so rad I could for sure go on a talk show with coffee drinks on their tab but forgetting I don't drink coffee. A phosphorous game called compatible query? Quill to ornate coffee cup and tea biscuit my patience is boundless. I live to be case study incarnate.
This still sounds like a testimonial. Fuck. Oh well. Addicted to big words 'cause I can't figure out how this can last forever for me even though its all over having crept back into the high modernist pedestal with
a match and can of gasoline to incite my whitened black mind of this embarrassing direct account of dealings with miscegeny and sacrifice and love in the rap sense or to autistically do without any so-called fake tenacious ampersands as the second to last letter spelling therapy before love in the last sentence you'll ever need. How many cries for help make it to top forty chuckles the coolest amateur shipbuilder in your ranking to the castle. Nothing changes. I will as the days number from griot to griot with my dumpster-lint idealization of you and to be reciprocated as outright ignored frolicking grey test subject electric chair shock of being emits trying to seduce the castle ho until the interaction between my rigor and your propriety exhausts itself. You know you're alive when someone tries to put traffic cones and temporary fences and highway flares around your shoeless shadow torn at the achilles tendon strapped with a volunteer voucher chalked-in as how you yourself behaved when young made obvious by that unlimited empathy pipeline into civilization I live in fully taken care of birth order of french fries and beer. It's not like my bow to P.E. where I scream 'don't read this' would be filler to get your ma'afa on to. So we're stuck. My beautiful endless digression boy dressed in rap's scraps drinking coffee no cap no coffee but teased leaves whoops. Rap's body is a juicy gym-worked perfectible non-ending segue from pride. To the rhythm of the embraced responsibility to take the initiative to prioritize mildew and decomposing fruit for henceforth rap's armpit. See? All the world's a big cafe and this is a game of deferred passion to me. So much safer to write than to be with your misspelled predictableness. I'm just talking to my rap, officer. There never can be somebody else as steamy. We're talking aurally-transmitted communication sorry parasite death in the mid-eighties catches the authentic severe sincere emotion. Is there enough metis to be relevant to anybody outside of this cafe? Can you imagine rap outside of a gallery? You know the city they claimed I put together would live all the better absent this incandescent hurt song since I ultimately have to sleep in it instead of you know every night when I'm shivering nothing more democratic than the internet of course a total village down to the eucalyptus roots so fuck ya'll burn off forever. What this hey now recall the time and gross discomfort off-color and barely respiring bourgsie beat needs is someone convinced they're either from or sitting up out on another planet altogether, don't you feel endless suspicious digression boy? "Nothing to say." Aw. How's about workingman fabric weave traded on the open? Invented mannequins, anybody? Nothing, altogether. I pulped irony nothingness. Nothing immersed in the midst of the most prolific I know you can do it burnt collar on a compulsive prevarication ensnared in the pages of a laced up revelry die style. So stay in this cafe. Leave? Why? Can I get a few more words of wisdom, please, it's not a question, fool. Never off-course. Don't call me too big doctorish hieratic to talk to. That'd kill me dead right on the spot here and now. Or said "if they ask you if you do coffee, just lift tilt here put it up right good and close to your mouth and then what you want to do is pretend like you're actually drinking it but don't actually let them see and catch you not actually swallowing for real, see." Mirrors lie. Rain-soggy insect tenor speech chipped as far more motif wood of taxidermed cadavers than a scoutsman ranger's keen tenacity with the beyond human is blinking indicator affirmation subordinate to inconvenience will allow for us. The woods rather confidently hold parenting pet-owner keys on life through so many hole's earliest teased impulse demystified by retrospect species of fingernail dirt history-exceeded parody scale hole seen reversed. Can I craft words like an antique sword and spectacularize boyhood closer to the clouds in this? Everything in subtle code whether cafe or country club home. Plotting how to knock over local government domes. On the crucial. Isn't boostin' slug resistant or proof if it isn't the conglomerate troops ripping through flinching itching to do the not did yet. Autism artillery and sweat. Major anti-state nothing nice to say sentiments on deck in this flagrantly surefire obliterated self-taught page of pure thought. Um. Yeah. Jot it down. Suspensful uses for a withered cliff face pelted by some divine inspiration on a hook. Don't forget to bring out the language in animals mildly rudimentary but hardly not worth the effort. Loner's temporary dusty doorknob checked pulse are you shaven curse no knicked tesselation component watch me thinking about my special bird were you so surefire willing to grasp not the big D character no animation no scholarship. Transform a ridiculous elemental surprise on that fascist distasteful state of mind paralysis dissociated ghost in a clothing chain with no game. You know, Oliver Stone style. Cutting off heads and clinking silver dishes in the cafe. Aren't we decadent? "My." Reign it in. Chad's Verse: "More than one I don't see the need for weaponry bucket beyond chicken pantry unless erasure is to gain generous vacation garden granted elevator chemical. Wait what was this soundproofed stimulated two passenger fake unopenable accounting snow pea file by precious the emulator of a pretty good speed four passenger pioneered collision takes huh thousands of those guys hinted at just to make a difference and then even if bridging the gap up absolute mastery there's the pirate masculinity disk whisper drift opiate to absorb. Chicka-pssh! Conspiratorial bird-chrip conversation between Misses Tarumi beauty concepts and the bacteria that makes either jock itch or here we go again athlete's foot at the same time doo-doo on the solidarity to Gloria Jones' swimming diagrams. Nothing's real. The obsessive symmetry of the neutered number sequence for a cable-ready bargaining chip well chipped up. Jinxed filtered cylinder of water resonance. I wanna cry bike poison smiles in a room of sharpened fish-gutting tools just to get the pillow's wasted hours slogged-off sound of attention's public rap for way under nothing. Um. If there is a nothing on money's end of candy bar justice uncomplicated by intro to nature's given phantasm of the one of two who dramatic situation breaks and opens not being he who can of the two the what the other one actually rests back until jammy shivers overtake in the morning technically accomplished travelling boy shot in given scenery serum to chew: oh yeah. It's really fire-breathing wires in theory. Everybody forgets everybody else's map time. On and on. Vocoder-soaked in orange generally indispensible institution of soda's aesthetic stealing a beating a week from is that a patrician dishing to the disobedient freak of a fuck it all now no I'm not caught up in mordant cotories of political intrigues nor in league with the soldiers which hold seige so chill on this just inconspicuous digital wristwatch on the twisting bike-lanes of your implanted civic disgrace for mercy. Oh yeah, and, everything else in this universe that really matters." Caliban and Prospero: 'Thanks', says Caliban. "No problammo, post high modernist." Do you feel like building an un-ironic bonfire of things that wouldn't burn for science as opposed to things that shouldn't burn for sacrament? I never said it. Belief is a winter bed taken for granted. If you're friends with a snowman naked news item realtor grease stain then why would you want anybody to be your state? I mean, really, insert reader's name for author here. If the nobody wants to say smilingly had actually gone through with and succeeded their plans experts say that the face of the city would be something a lot more like taking a gander prudently upon the day's rock's building's behind our walk of regrettable but not intrinsically regretted more common liquids frozen solid. The blast radius pushed back prey's retreating impression swath through rainforest and reflective silicates and ferro-concrete more the shape of anger and hubris bonfires again with the anger and hubris of some type of innate clicking sound just a-goin' on. Rwanda's Verse: "With the collective clamour of every avant garde text/sound movement from the constructivists, the luddites, the hutus, to the catal hayuks to the ideas burn concept glade sprites that breed wantonly incomplete sentences. Unable to squeeze what would be a plainly irresponsible bending part from the seeping justice. A defiantly intense class stare star staring the sound his voice will have into my pocket. Like talking to a statistic on rails after the flight. Bicycle-powered machine that sucks back stolen colors from affluence and leaves everything walked-through drab. Having visionary a moment with my jock itch question of how much is performance or lives as impulse registry sundial kitschy sushi latrine in the woods." Fully present. Varial 5-0 on one half of the truck to a 180 to a lip grind. I'd displace woodland creatures just to get some inroad to a chat at this juncture fork. I don't know if that's true though. Smart people would spin the spoke in the middle around wherever it landed a compass having a near death experience marks our point of origin into a fully functional unknown. We must get gone err break of dawn. I've been lost in the mere primary reverb of where I'm not at for the longest time then creating the spirit of all that he meaning me as the body and boy inside probably dead somehow will become content to form this lynch fantasy soundtrack until something lifts my head out of the ostrich pocket I get blood capital infatuated indulgent. This not necessarily medicinal practice of releasing the ghost stepside cloud ribboned-back and constricted in form isn't liberating doesn't find any separation between what exists in the mind and what makes matter thumpthudreal thunder. Nothing again. Are you sure? Listen to me. Fulfillment is fantasy. Conception is all. Reading direct from the mastery document in the light which always only comes in here from outside the cafe bay windows. Warm on my ready to be erased desk face and broken joke pencil book inkless pen give it away as a gift lie. Happiness is stolen html bart ticket forged return stall breathing hiss fingernail clippers torn underwear every word in the English language sucked off to the highest height of sucktivity and ready to fuck my desk head from warm to luke to tile bible scab dizzy senior star citizen. Vicarious satisfaction of a language suburban out of the way from legitamate wildlife writing as the color we use to build or last days with. My right to life inside the ability to discern something one with being called mastery from loss is a pair of special glasses with freedom sunshine landscapes decaled over where the bars should be in my measurable and duly monitored instinct set. I'm absurd and out to devise the most politely reasonable way to meet my demise. Happiness is a lost pencil. You know, the pencil I used to invent the bellybutton and draw sunrise legendary long-playing phonograph record strike. I got tees. All sizes. Here's a "My life will have meant nothing." = $15 On the back is a picture of one unpierced untattooed African American deadweight silverliningless cloud bank made to resemble a vacant lot of un-utilized public property surrounded by soldiers and landmines in the strategic formation of a U.S. dollarsign, you know, state of the art, boy. Some long and sad old embarrassing science we made up voice on mirrors. Then he changed the momentum of the entire conversation. Am I blind or linear? So this is the what I in my prejudiced learned turned out to be that the effective way blondes have now figured out how to catch the day is through drawing vampires on mousetraps and opening the window at noon and it's worked for me better than a mahogany cane build your own satori bomber burrito un-methodizing class could for three years of the same my fault my channel's off. Isn't he just a paused video monitor to you? People tell me that rem sleep is over-rated. Lies of steel convenient emotions sitting out is likely to get stale on the sacrifice channel. Those after the after hours walks home (home?) and can't be remade topical right just this instant soup of mainline event culture hybrid in a recyclable styrofoam cup prepared with a carbonated cola soft drink and processed soy beverage chaser analog for water thicker than ketchup. Fan-whir cake dish fork-clink comprised of layers of several acid-resistant canary cage swing, fucshia and cyan bricks behind people of copier paper with ash frosting. Whoever's turn it is to notice. Dramatic silence. One observation that any mastery implies it opposite and any mystery implies the obvious (and that trapped feeling you were talking about) your idea of symmetry is off a bit and no decent silence requires an. This is one of the visits to the cafe where you get something out of it. True, everything does tend to become ten times more offensive after having a shitload of meat, still I've taken time to harmonize the soundless parts of look the world opens. Look the city opens. It's going to take a pride to the gut and well mostly conditioning but I swear I'm never coming back. See? This is a goodbye. Note. Swear. Looking to the.

stars) on a fancy radio tuned to Indian red inflammable swamp smell in the elbo room's bagcheck tipjar. I was a teenage cellphone signal on the suburban basin of a faceless seafloor blizzard buzzing and tears as lubricant, too. The temple of the free spirit is a cage that goes in all directions at once fake yawn. Seduction tenspeed smoke signal psychosis fan poster. I just want redemption. Now you can download cocaine right into our neighborhood sidewalk fissures to get fired and street-wash glisten because it's pretty chill about the mildew. Heh. I ain't too proud to segue whereas I could totally forget everything I was wait inside yours who's eyes yours smiling heh within an inward thought-instant boom boom landspeed world's tiniest mural of blacking out completely...(my non-objective political statement handcuffed to a digital parking meter shadow wearing a fuzzy fishloaf basket hat to the center, chief)...a ribcage of echoes.

"There's nothing to worry about. It's going to be okay."


Drip.
Etcetera.









"So cute."
I feel shaken in place. Like the only responsible thing to do would be to step down from history and call myself erased. It's better this way. Celebrate being the thing which is standing in back of you and catches all the sun and breezes that pass through your faint outline.

Glassed-in.

I feel shaken in place, dead metaphor. Irresponsible thing to do (author speaking wood step up taste made me believe an erased's better this way. Celebrate being the thing which is standing in back of you and catches all the sun and breezes (beautiful beautiful) that pass through your painted mouthline.

Glassed-in.

Insanity shaken space. Like the only responsible thing to do would be to step down from history and nameth thyself erased (nuked, etc.). It's sadder this way. Hella-late being the talking witches answers a pack of you and catches all the sun and breezes that pass through whore faint outline.

Asked him.

Desolate landscape. It's the sort of debility where a locked-up bicycle in the corner of my undernourished eye winds up meaning way more than it fucking needs to. So rigid. First I am going to talk about the city. Next, I am going to describe masculinity. Lastly every previously illegible mastery document will completely iris out burn off

burn off

burn off come down. Reference lost. How much later to docked passage preamble to pick up a dollar-less robot-self will solidify the connection through example after preclusion after curtain after checker flag dancers. Commencing with a firm give it a rest I can wipe whole calendar squares clear from my defensive side. Look! He's waving a native gets you know where calendar flag box checks unchecked dance of mutilated intrigue seeping dizzy just hold out even though I hear not being part of history is really big in Los Angeles over a telephone connected to a blizzard under fossilized wiggling seafloor cellphone signals. Remembered you mentioning once that little thing about the café in the middle of pride stature and all these things fatal fluorescent. Who's sincerity found the more mundane? That was one of the most beautiful things anyone's ever said to me. Wish there'd be speakers so I could. I can't wait until I've reached that plateau. Where I can look down and spell my name in parking lots and cross my t's with intersections and dot my i's with traffic snarls. The pitiful rigid inflexible cadaver limbs called the tacked-on 365 tiny pieces of wonder on layaway suffocated. It's not going to be time to be social. Something to take me beyond this debilitated state. So awake today caress the image of cartesian perfection and talking in a café with the adaptor removed from the back making drowned spanged power trip casino winnings from something an eye does in science class. I need to overcome several incredible obstacles. I think that what it was is that at one point, the body decides to just stop pulling together those awkward and unsuccessful set of responses and black outs that lead to nothing other than merely more moments lost and feeling upset with things as they lay. Constructed city lie. Either this person's a giant or we're flying spreading around this lint. Stuck on the intensely beautiful thing you said about the way something tastes in when your sleep captures deeds in the center of something that can't digest or deal on a globe finger spin to karma. I don't know if you remember. I don't need to be masculine anymore. They've locked us inside.

Seepin' desolation with it Alan Thicke.

Problematic lost and sinking sobering out.

Culture in a monetary explosion. Tires set to flame to shame no forecast. Five days away from a firm fluid. Shelter is a money-right lost on them. Sinking with the slope oh yeah. Pausing heart no rib cage whoops. Superhero cloaks in books of jokes. Too many icons not enough tiempo. I think the drummer's really a shadow. Make me a far than better person. Make me a righter compass drawing. Broken civic design schools of fish. Talking about electricity baby. This is the way we or we dissolve out. I mean because my breath is just useless. Nothing real that sweats on me. I'm castling made out of stale bread and ice. Contraband cellphone signals.





Bluespilled metldown sternum space explosion ribcages.









All the mistakes I've made. Catching up to a dying language. A house in the center of the shadow of completely opaque unpredictability. My weakness and living threat living in my dirty old clothed contempt. This music I make from your beauty in my memory etched in to where this stands and watches something constructed let's say that will forever or I'm totally sure with nothing to worry a long long time will be folded and put in a pocket and made into who cares how many forgotten cotton-looking colors I steal just as long as a religious remnant emerges and is finalized just like on the bus this morning when somebody please forget everything that was manipulated singing a transfer stood from where it can't be clearly made out against money's shifting gravity vectors toward a sin classification on time built. Constructing your face from memory. It takes a while. It's more than I can do. Doing this is weakening. So much city now open. It's been a while. Let's make something of it. Something like. Tastes of sin. Two people sharing a joke. Can I get you some more. It's over where exactly. This Los Angeles thing. A café of this size. Clothes don't match. Where did you find this character into colors on top of too many colors again in an improper for this given to seizures arrangement in the simplest of piece together the morning it's all about do you think dying is inevitable and the movie type of answer to borrowing from pain's social bearings cutting up recyclable cups language door locked. This map let's all try to forget the way out. Losing yourself in the wind of hundred winding digital unreal walls. Making everything into a simpler experience by just using shapes and colors. I'm not teaching class again and you look completely don't unhealthy don't you think need to try sensibly again want it's an age thing probably to make sense out of the sun sincerely I've meant it all those obnoxious and costly mistakes. I'm my killing currency expenditure penis father again in you song seeping my pleading imagination and things I needed to taletell whalestale flipper sing to make rows without a tiered bullhorn ax to you in this perfect little bleached-out mudhut honeypot for the grace of something that isn't really special the moment and this is what it takes to put a tattoo tear on an artificial face. Speaking of faces, the difficulties I face in finding clothing and attitudes to go with this music I can't quite figure out yet. Used to write scripts. This dying feeling. Remember scripts and all the killed off books it brought me to? I



could



spend

you
name
it pretty face
in the inside. If I could just eat something afterward like a normal it only takes object to degrade lose befoul five minutes you think. Is there any aspect to me which isn't broken complain complain blah blah. The temple of. What you see when you see me. Why do I put people through this? I would give anything to have a big eraser. Uh-oh. This glass sculpted question mark looming over my dome. Lost in this game where everything I've been glassworking on is not going to work through really so you only win by giving up as opposed to back as they go. People always go on and on about what life has to offer. Are we even going to give death a fair chance? How to keep false coverage on itself from sleeping completely into a self-indulgent text. This sprinkling sharing of the sharklike and sucked sound off qualities of history harrowing sucked I internalized. Figuring out where to go in one piece. When he asks I can actually acknowledge that he is this beautiful person and that these colors in my face are all on loan from that brief period in my life where I didn't have to do a lot of extra work. This place is full of lights. It's dizzying. I've noticed blue spill. Who did the effects work? Was it out-sourced to nominal stamps of greatness shadowmaker? If there is so much being put into the budget for the effects work, then why don't I have enough to eat? Fidgetting rolled over mattress sun trap. Can we just lake live this now in all its real-time colors and space and just add in the sad volume-less sprinkles in post prove positive production? Why can't I just harass my dad to drive me out of this desert? Have we been listening to repetitive variations of the same lie because I can't tell from listening to this seamless and so technically accomplished mix. Tomorrow we're going to start taking big strides towards that wonderful dot on the corner of what can be just tenuously out-loud defined from where. All those points I'd hoped to really meet a pointed bonfire frisky bends. Don't people know that on the real to the real the sermonizing get kept through this cancer causing pocket-sized guillotine on me just so I can fall apart like the rest of you humans over movies? Powerless before the grace of a fully lucid and great bonfire. Can you say kryptonite? Kills off natives and we love the celluloid for it's contract on furniture fitting lost. Pray tell something imagined? Was it a completely impossible language splitter into bitter what memory fails in haunted disgruntled numbers? Was I even for a moment and when it mattered most to me completely illegible pixels for breadcrumbs over death's droning tunnelvision signal outlines or details in horrible orderly you know what to call it morning dripping lint lips who's logic it runs off of tied to sidewalk bristles tree-kernel divination. Did the words not lift off my body and back into life with any flames or such? What is the face of something completely wretched? Escaping myself half unplugged and worthless. No cartoon out of this amorphous gathering together of what fire does at the end of its parade. I've been waiting to go down for so long. And now that I've fallen back into the sight of my diary of airy errors there's still so much more that is missing to my body that not even the belief in clothing over ideas the right way will spare. Please forgive me for flying so close. I needed a dictionary nearly twice that size and filled with far more possibilities than I was actively in contact with. Let me know when everything I believe in ceases to matter. Can I get lost in the budgeting prospects of an amusement park of deadness that never even saw the scissors hit the ribbon in the blue? My suspected glances. I need something more substantial than this knife pinning my hand to my head to the wall in the middle conflict resolution director's full cut nameless yet renamed that fills nights with mischief and language deficits. There I was a drawing in desperate need of a pencil trying to build myself into some place where history is for the most part exempt and powerless at the same time and the product of that adventure was a complete loss of how exactly my insides are supposed to politely respond to math and its Sunday afternoon discontents.


Starwars warp effect of the rain coming at the windshield when you pass under a streetlight. Shortness of breath.
"You know, that's pretty bad. Leib's gonna cut your privileges."
"I don't fucking care. He can't keep me from writing music."
"That's some pretty decent cognitive action there, buddy," Jack insulted self-consciously. "That's not even the level that you're supposed to be at."
"This person behind me is making me sick. I got held back," Jenny gave Jack a drag and then took one. Uncommon, unaccountable hiss in the library. In the Army, they make you into bad ideas for men that don't work with metal as much as they should too perfect. Jenny made the ashtray maneuver over the chairheads like the Millenium Falcon. Violence in motion. A smooth tracking shot. Jenny killed the butt in the tray and then cleared her dirty throat.
Jack said, "How's your headache, baby."
Jenny answered, "Oh it's just fine, honey." Jenny straightened the bench under her generous hips and straightened the marmy spectacles on her nose so that she looked altogether bookish, bodyhating. Jenny cleared her throat and ran through the adagio. She savored two notes. Jack lay beneath the grand piano with the hand in the crotch and carving ornately into the piano's belly. J's are tough because you must shift the attack angle of the gouging instrument, and also be able to supply pressure. All this to carve a convincing J. C's were the same way. Jenny's name only one J of course, and he wasn't out for personal vanity. He wanted to make something meaningful. But he didn't want her to see it. It was imperative that she not have any knowledge of the carving.
Jenny lingered longingly on the notes. Sheet number five. She slid of the bench to the sheets about the wooden gymnasium floor, and let her knee thump on a sheet she did not care about, and got four, and then she pencilled in the next note, and Jack hid the gouging tool. Display hook. From one of the abandoned stores in the abandoned town. You could find them in the gutter. Jenny sang the melody modestly. She held a note, and struck the key. The sound echoed lonesomely in the gymnasium.
They could hear a skateboard. Jenny seated back on the bench ignored it, while Jack continued carving up to a point and then took notice. Rhodhei came into the gym, walking like Frankenstein.
Seeing Jack and Rhodhei together. Jenny for some reason started thinking about the two of them doing. Stripping off their clothes and the thought made her laugh in a sick serious way and she saw the gate to Vairochana and stepped through and in this way she manifested her powers. Encephalon expand. Finite mind rooted in the infinite. Jenny Hemet all of a sudden embodied the deep-theme of the Dharma. For an instant the impossible question had an answer. What was the relationship between apparent opposites. As far as she could grasp, she had found the synthesis of thesis Jack and antithesis Rhodhei, and it was gross. They wanted to fuck each other. Sexual panic! Jenny's mind blew the fuck up. Sneakers slipping on bloody tile reversing the circumradiating flash of the patrolcar lightbar, retching cough and the tintinnabulation of shells as his lungs eject cordite, the promise of peace beyond the next year's horizon, and the aftershock knocks the loaded glock out the shoebox stashed in...
"We don't get charged by the phone company doing this, do we?"
"No, that's phone sex."
"Phonebonin."
"What?"
"Nothing. Just playing around with words."
"You're very good with words. I read your stuff. You're incredible."
"Does that count as phone sex? I think you're trying to suck my dick through the telephone."
"Anything you want, baby." "Hold that thought. My writing?"
"Exactly. Your power with prose is astounding. You have such a sensitive heart. It's not at all what I'd expect."
"How did you find my stuff?"
Ballad of the uncontrollable body.
"Please. They don't put chimps in the seat of CIA internal affairs."
"'Expect'?"
"Well, let's make sure we don't have any misunderstanding here, now, I know about your past with the little shooting incident. You went from orphanage to orphanage, then to juvvy to juvvy, then enlisted in the army as soon as you could no longer slide as a minor through the loopholes in Our Country's judicial system. You were tough, so they selected you for special missions. Shit got hot and you split. Took a powder. Needed to put smack on the table, so you hooked up with this Leonardo Patiforti and the rest is history. Met a Jocelyn Mins..."
"Zeppelin Sikes."
"What?"
"I don't know. I truly don't know. That's nothing. You read my fiction?"
WHAT LINDSAY READ (A VIOLENT DRAMITAZATION): The lighted kiosk read the sublevel number, the blue neon tubing reminded Jethro that he was in a reactor, everything else was your standard industrial milieu, anonymous, efficient. Aie-yirrr-yai-yai-yai-yai-yai-yai-yaiyaya-yah! Serious combat. C'mon on with it motherfucker. Kickboxing zen narcoguerilla commie hafiz murder machine. Jethro slapped the boalux to the rail and picked the explosive pills that didn't even explode from the decumbent person of the not yet stiff stiff beneath the auspiciousness of the militarystyle stenciled escutcheon that declared 'Choson M.I.K.' antepostpostindustrian, overlapping the relief of the company logo, a raised ideoglyph the top serifs interceded which readed to all who heeded: 'Daewoo': the rancorpro author of the undersea nuketest station as subject here, afloat asunk off the Korean chinchinpinninnins_ulahti flaccidly emptying into the Yellow Sea; land of the morning calm to land of the warning alarm. GAVELCLAP! Jethro took twelve minutes more at a hundred and twenty-four (124"). Glint on the nose of a fighter. Find the time it took for Cadmus (selfshunted potna) to split. Jethro was incensed: he cursed nonsense plucking the boombooms and hustled to the sub going the wrong way. Location: ignicirc, southseas, three thousand feet underwater Korean nuke testsite, and sinking. No in Korean. The frightened kiosk winked out, one in a series of one Full stop. Negative karmic saturation, 2042. Tapping pacrim moffette, astride a belt. Machinery droning like Buddhist monks. And rattling. Manufacturing weapons grade nuclear potential. The seathumping gas centerfuge. Whoompapa whoompapa whoompapa of rattling machinery. Are you sure it's s'posed to rattle that way? Yes. It works like that. Slipped out of the condemned unit. Jethro peered through the oeil-de- boeuf querying the glint where his eye should be. Sounds running all through the walls. Miracle of industry. Jethro aimed and fired. He was so happy. This would count as a side view. Jethro put the camera away and started to run for it as the station sunk. Time to get back to the sub. Jethro got to the end of the corridor and it was the wrong way. Jethro stood before an airtight hatch. Jethro could plainly see that the number ws wrong. Jethro held his breath and opened it. He felt a little anxious and forgot that there are usually two between. The whole wreck slammed to the side and he went against the wall hard. Jethro thought he felt the camera break against the ribcage, and it hurt. It didn't feel the way a gun did. Guns seemed soft in comparison to it. Jethro didn't like the sound. Though he wasn't hurt, the very nature of his environment had changed. Steel had switched their position far down and set a precedent for the structure above. Jethro sensed a hull breech. The air was dead here, but you could hear the air rushing at another end. Distant rumble. Jethro started for the other hatch. The outer hatch. It wouldn't open unless the other was closed. The rumbling got stronger. Jethro pushed the other hatch closed, pushing all sound on the other end out. The float of water behind him of the ocean. Of the ocean. One with the ocean. No fear. You remember the ocean, old friend? Stop lying to me please. Her salt, her cold, her darkness. She creeped in throuugh a puddle in the floor. Jethro went to the outer hatch, gazing at her liquid silence with reverence and respect. Jethro began deep breathing. He was going to really do it. He started toi unfasten the hatch, the bolts unplunged themselves, the door shook with the pressure of the sea to his muscle, and water shot in. Jethro couldn't stop it. Water sprayed and made puddles against the dry slightly rusted steel. Jethro liked the steel. This was one of the few places where you can still see a lot of steel on anything. Everything now was all plastic or some shit like that. The pressure was wrong. Jethro tried to push the door closed. It didn't want to close. The air became colder. Jethro let go of the hatch, and the whole ocean thundered in. Jethro fucked up and didn't take a good final entry breath. So he had to hurry to the sub from the outside. Suddelny, it occured to him that he wouldn't be able to get into the sub from the outside without fucking it up and sinking. Jethro lost a lot of air yelling underwater. Jethro swam back in to the hatch. His aveolar backup was dwindling. Suddenly he remember he had an oxygen mask. Then he remembered it was empty, and let it fall. Jethro got behind the hatch and began to push it closed. Of course he felt in the stress of the motion of his force as he did exert with a fraction of his might, but his sense of spatial orientation made him experience the undeniable, either psychic or physical, a deliberate drowsy sink. An uprooting, then a settling back into the derooted earth, this plant, at a slant. Uneven foundation. Jethro opened the inner lock no problem and the water thrust end and ran itself rare. Once dry. Once in wet mother. Now wet like a mother in dry silent air. Hearing's bad. Jethro took a breath. He forgot that he hadn't even been breathing. Jethro kicked the hatch close with a swing of the rear leg, but of course it didn't close, because it takes more than a kick to close the hatch. Jethro supposed he could easily do without a lot of things. Jethro went dripping and heaving up a step ladder to the floor above the floor above. He found another hatch. Right in the location of the previous one on the floor twice below. He confirmed his theory. He pushed open the hatch. He closed it behind him and opened the outer lock. Identification confirmed. You found another sub. Jethro looked around and Cadmus was standing, or rather hunched behind him.
"Look familiar?"
"No."
"That's because it isn't. The one we came on has a crack in it."
"No shit? I don't know about that. Stop fucking around and fly this thing."
"I can't."
Jethro looked at Cadmus quizzically.
"That's why I'm here. Not to surprise you, stupid. I'm manualizing the craft for use. Do you have a screwdriver?"
"What the fuck is a screwdriver for?"
"I need something to wedge in her. See?"
"I can hold that. Go! We're sinking."
"Are you scared of dying? I don't see why. You have nothing to worry about. Did you take the pictures?"
"Don't worry about it. Fix the fuckin ship so we can go." Jethro picked pieces of camera out of his armor, "They probably have the information anyway."
"You're probably right. Get the door."
Jethro got the door and Cadmus prepared the sub for launch.

Keep it in your pocket, Geep. Are you reading me? I tell you, they have not died. Their hands clasp yours and mine. Gogmagog did not perish. It was reincarnated a trillionfold. You've had your fun. I have come to stop this madness cold. Unify your many parts into a whole. You will turn into the nothingness of the fires of my mind. I sacrifice. The beauty, the barbarity, all consumed that the n(e/o)w order can begin. As if saying this somehow exonerates me of the crime. Should never have considered any of these fools. I should have embraced the lotuswomb when it first occured to me. I do this now. I will it all to fire.

MMXLII: the year madmen excel to. (Gaijin gaijin number ku, fugitive from city zoo, if the maglev jump the rail, seppukku! seppukku! seppukku!)

Jajajajajajajajajajajajajaja! Freelance espiegelerie and covert assagaikoolookamba. From the hemohexahedrons of the scarletetra under the Sober Sviatei Basil Chtetyel'nay to Liberte eclarissement le monde snotgreen metallish robefolds, Jethro dangles perilously by his broken neck, the starry Gogmagog that couldn't. Sheisty indivisibles. An anime space bunker with no windows. So it came to be that there was cold all about the glass and steel that Zeppelin swallowed all outside connections and felt overdrive. Zeppelin's life was so much like the continued adventures of Anne Parillaud in La Femme Nikita as the covert assassin for hire Josephine except my fiancee joined the armed forces and I'm hoin for death again. Nuevopeso to nuyen, but she hadn't the agio. Cradle depth of affections, her lips rain affections on my head, keepin' on dovetail, gravitybound. Aerodynamic osculation? Oh, ma! Just think of Princesses' Round of The Firebird Suite. Zeppelin in her youth a Laurie Anderson lookalike. Quiet, aloof, powerful. Amazon in Gilead. I've no desire to be liberated of the depths. Cubist hieroglyphs of the zeppelin under fabulously discolored abstractions of the hills and sea, clouds and distance. A klimtgiger countess over a black sea of faint silhouettes and small firelights beneath a navy infinity. A woman's place? The Niagara Mohawk talking to her, in the eloquent languages of ma, watching over Erie Boulevard. Stainless steel Spirit of Light. Fetish of an ancient soul? Zeppelin Mins from Jocelyn Sikes. The Spirit of Light knows Jocelyn; does it know Zeppelin? Zoezeppelin of Zoroasters. Madame Woemaker, zoetaker. Elektra valkyor unwomanly unmaker of men. Bodies by the wayside. Writhing. Sweaty. Waiting to take your soul at the moment of saikch. Matyrmaker, catching the pious in moments of secular imropriety. It was in this manner that she destroyed the men, but not what they stood for, insuring herself a strong lenghty run in syndication. The warm purr of cars activating on the street above in the morning, step up into the scent of glades of trim blades, grown and mown, egg and dagger shapes in white wire between the zigzag of fallen pink domino bricks and the bugs on the dirtclods and yellow rose bushes dipping under the weight of dew. Dew kiss. Sexy shivers breathe rivers. Force ma jeure foster descant of enquailing pungency. Zeppelin in triplicate streamlines stationed at apexes in the sensuous linear curves to which the bar of the rail was fastened bringing steel gloss to the dull dark hues. Wall to wall red carpet. Hints of illumination beyond each bend. Mesh of trolley cables overhead, she comes on one knee, and meditates before the Spirit of Light. Gift from eternity. Zeppelin broke into the Niagra Mohawk building and got to the floor where his head was and crawled behind it, and laid her head to rest against its stainless steel helmeted mohawked pate. The world is insufferably complex.
Zeppelin started feeling sorry for herself and let her voice echo in the Mohawk's hollow stainless steel dome, "God's got a fantastic sense of humor. When I see him, I'm going to tell him so. I'm going to thank him for reducing my life to an anecdote to be mistold at parties." Zeppelin MIns. Jocelyn Sikes. There. Delicatesse Anderson.
"Because of how my mother raised me and she never stroked me and because I came this way out the womb I assert that there is no difference between strong friendship and sexuality. Isn't that fucked up? The two are the same. We are all animals, sweetheart. Tight. Through the thick. Transcends physical but it wants to wants to." I spent nearly 30 minutes trying to put through and redialing on (vidiphone). You have to eat my pussy if this goes through on the first try. Don't ask who I was calling. Child of migrant workers in New York. Necessitous stoic eyeshadows. A sister looking like Reese Witherspoon and Emmanuel Beart mashed together. Nyctophilic perv PBC. Ingenue deportments delineated in magicmarker with pessimistic introversive meditation. So cool. So killer. Feelings long fatigued before nascence, an old soul, a wornout spirit. Her skin only scagliola. Terrazo patterns throughout. Spanishsmoothedaway neoAnglo smooth endlessly aerodynamic contours. Pyroavis.
Zeppelin continued, "I'ma set the world on fire. I built these wings. I'ma go peep Ra. This saturday, the fifteenth...of March."
So it came to be that there was cold all about the glass and steel that Zeppelin swallowed all outside connections and felt overdrive. So much frustrated energy. Tell me what to do. Throequaker. Soul. Light. Zeppelin crawled like a goddess commanding her body with the weakest forms of desires over the head and kissed the mohawks lips of steel upsidedown. Topsy turvy white element. Braids all a dangle. Spitit radiances, ectoplasm. A kiss. Zeppelin's muzzy pondering thundering heart. Exaggerated feelings of indpendence. Life without form. Life without courage. Wish you were here, precious Cuahtemoc, angry theiving scholar, man of my life. Go to him. No. Anne left him behind to rot. Thanks for the fuck. Now I breeze. Zeppelin designated these decisions outside of reason and uncalled for. Zeppelin followed her life.

Sitting there at the customer service area and not talking to each other it was easier to stir an upper open door to wood knocked knuckles raw in a book only die once no life support fisheyed dissolving world.

WAR! IT'S FAAAANTASTIC! Zeppelin descrypto Zeppelin thread thru the heronholes of Jethro's tomed biblincep. Treacherous female! Leaving me impotent and muzzy. Jocelyn Sikes at the age or ten sitting in the stands of the dome empty dome with girlfriends and sisters Delicatesse and Anne and Nia, light tall short, hops on the landing, girly abandonment of all things mechanical and manly, idle conversation of the most important sort and proportion, longhaired girls in plaid laughing at the iffy male gymnasts huffing and missing the horse a few feet from their front row seat, graceful gymnast you fucked up so grandly so laugh sweeping family epic with shades of human character that you get to see grow and bond and split and tense like the ripped tendons torn muscle twirling body like a circus, Anne imagined that wheel that they tie you to and spin you on and you turn to see the dagger tumbling from her graceful whirlwind body, oh to be a dancer, rock (Jethro) and whirlpool epic from epic and further, rebirth, (IT'S A NEW DECADE!), when my wife would close the door and tell me something, garage maw, sitting on the bumper of an old ---- car and just talking as the driveway sloped away into street before the plastic still stone and rocks, the times when this disciplined fasted gymnast bastard from Mitteleuropa or Greece, giantslayer, would skate past the landscape, now you don't see me?, I don't see you. No relatives. Unpeopled gymnasium, through it's high rafters, subshadows teeming with invisible gymnasts, pedophilic youth, empty house, netsmut, nothing so obviously and stereotypically such, but something the idle imagination can devise and spite can breathe life into. Who's Cuatemoc? He's a Native American. Let's go steady. And somehow the gymnast down the street faded into oblivion.

Zeppelin beheld the light of pure terror. Zeppelin found the world no longer a permissive and hopeful watercourse, but a dense entangled mire of confusion. Zeppelin from time to time discovers herself suddenly in a world gone entirely out of its mind. Zeppelin was tired of running into girls she knew. Zeppelin was rude, graceless and intense. Zeppelin found herself stumbling comically over unresolved emotions of unease. Zeppelin observed her own trembling and idiotic behavior with detatchment, until she forgot what she was going to do and did something else. How could a good white girl from suburban upstate New York suddenly turn so bad? When still but a televisavisual nascion arisen among her twentynothings. The dark song of an open garage door maw. Stand from inside and look out and the whole world expands as a gloriously dull landscape to fuck around in. Chronic on the rooftop. So that's what's in your pipe, mister. Zeppelin can never be sixteen again. Martial arts body. Athletic. A vision for me to endorse in his eye. Hey, I'm here. See me. Does he see? Scissorlike split. Revolving inverted ballet. Impeccable. He drove me into gymnastics. Lover of youth. Zeppelin can never be sixteen again. So light and in love. You can either try to push it out of yourself, or let love do it for you. Naieve truth of it all. Hair swept in one direction, ablelidded, evenbrowed. Zeppelin's luminous heavenly fireball body raised lofty. Meteorstream, meteorstreak.
STYLOS & ZEPPELIN RULE FOREVER INFINITY. "I love you Zeppelin."
"I love you Stylos."
"Sunday."
"In conduit twenty-two."
"Good acoustics."
"What?"
"Acoustics...good."
"Yeah...yeah."
"'Yeah...yeah.'"
"Shut up."
Kiss overdone sensuous sloppy crossfade hoverskatehum drunken rabble stumble up the stairs and ruckus. And back through the explosive entertainment thrillride of enough in that direction please. Stylos: medium build mild blonde (albeit darkly dyed, closely faded with a classic center part, bang swept side to one other) twinkling clear conspiratorial blue round eyes set in a creepy middle class visage. Troll principality. Orange trees down the side and a garage to the street. With a big rennovated back section hidden deep off the roof and a broken down camper with the engine block exposed down the drive to the walk to the path between untrimmed grass on one side close cropped lawn on the other up to the front patio. T-Alroy would practice guarding his father's antiquarium with the sweep broom as a poleaxe of might, spinning, spinning with enough patepunishing power to sweep brush the streets free of crime for tomorrow's children so their futures will be spotless. Urbexed effy-emmy natas Stylos, and even sometimes DV8, dehouring sprung mailfees. That was later on how Liquefied Lava Lad, voted cram of the crap by secret ballot, contracted HIV, infected by his molesting stepdad. Never saw twenty. Discover the beauty of the bored backup vocal. HOT CUTE. Acne washboard pubic canyon ripplinng cavemancolored nips snowgoggs acollaring jumphelmet skulltight blazing the rising avalanche junkee pansuit undid its zip to the outtie insulated polymer foam nylon oversized sleeves and vest flailing iceward in the chill under oversized ankledrapes icenikes planted in powder draft number on the bicep. Sprouty, puckering chill. Just friends? Chapping, reddening. Titilating hurlstrom of Zeppelin's hurrykoan. Took up his fighter stick and stunned him. Bested me bested me. Flakes twirling in unpredictable dances. Liquefied's nails were painted black, weren't they? Tenderly curving. Coital coeval moisture. Invisible exchange of fluids. Ew. You're thinking. She's cute. Get down to business. Now. Who you wanna see? Bald head big lips fabric baggy bulk lonely monglowing sole rascally-ass. Butterscotch unsquished all since first drip, sugary pools of brawn glistening placid. What is to be said of silence. Germs of. The lip of the berg. Virtual shivers from a virtual arctic crisp in the air. Watchband stiffly unlooped on the left he lifts to wipe condensation off his eighthead. Wahoo! It's a funny little story how he went on to infect Jill Shaw, Katha Moon, Letty Aluna, similarly sightless of their second decade. Durable travel gear in a mountain of movement not moving in the living room adjacent to the control room adjacent to the ready room (a door of the locker room, steaming, crawling with adolescent skin). Assume nothing. Boarding down the Nameless Tower in Pakistan. One of the Trango group spires. Koreteka Loretan group. Karakoram. Viciously overexaggerated for his skill level. Exaggeration of stakes. Cognitive overload. No sense of your own mortality. Fear null. No stake in life. As if. Desensitized. Made senseless. Effective longlasting charm to relieve aching muscles. Consult this if you wish to understand how and under what circumstances she became completely unhitched from the insignificant map beneath her delicate feet. Her ears plugged and she progressively heard less and less of the world around her. Zeppelin grew sleepy and yawned fittingly. His shoulderstoop sunk into baggy fabric ravish his baggy folds of. This unit (man) and this system (Zeppelin). Loose naked the idea being mutually agreeable on the thrown Persian flowered pillows amidst disarranged daisystems petals a dominant tone of turquoise possessively sharing a consumption interbound grasping in blissful unsatisfied repose. Casually dating in suburban NY. Preferential treatment of the cutie. Male competition and female selection. Now he begs off plans. Because he fit her contours, napping to their special brand of industrial/vaudeville fusion, clamoring for their atoneably dispensible vulgarity, shooping (so they screw folds of flesh in the grotesque genitals exposed draped in cumbersome fabric: floorbound flesh and scattered coverlets: babyoil slick young tits) to the groan of a deathless raga after doing their yoga stretches. Liquefied Lava Lad passed away and she never went to the funeral. Self inflicted turbulence. Disassembly of closest acquaintances. Coldly calculating artificial construct of Zeppelin a success. He honestly felt that after the sexually transmitted demise of a childhood friend that he had nothing else to live for. I was no longer worth it. I'm probably not worth anything. Transferral of status to the surrounding algid other. The only way to proceed at the present velocity against the frost. Ice collects on the wings. Does hate burn in those turbines? The world vanished. Progressive cracking inside the cranium. Worsened by the neural augmentation surgery. Intruding Abraxas. And at school they never stop, they never stop. A devastating moral crisis. Stylos killed himself but it doesn't matter. You can either be happy and nihilistic or angry and nihilistic. Acting all this time as if she had been made this way by a force outside herself when it really was her own unattractive character from the very beginning. Don't even know who I am. I can't stop thinking about it. I need to get it out. Don't even understand what I am. Don't even know how much all this means to me. Yet you think you do. Because you can't figure out how to deal with me. I can't stop thinking about it. Because you think you know how I work and you think you have me all figured out, as if everybody on the planet were the same and could be simply described. You can't feel me. You can't see me. You see me? You cannot see me. You don't understand me. And you don't even bother to learn how to. You don't care. And I can't get that out of my mind because that pisses me off. Because I am somebody, and you cannot see me. So it was the honest warmth of Ms Mins ingenuous indefatiguable charms that filled her with that same shattering glow in powerful illogical contrast to this wasteland of apathy. His room overripe with the smell of air freshener. She pulled off his mask so he: she violated his space: she did that and he took that chance to: she came to him first: so he put a kiss to her. Liquefied Lava Lad, T-Alroy and DV8 would sit in Stylos' biohaz chamber talking shit about his sorry lack of freeform 4-D hyper hologames.
"Have a good weekend."
"Huh?"
"Have a good weekend."
"You too."
She tripped out watching the layout cluster of thought in her brain. Slowly more and more blasted. The power trying to come back on. Extended ten minute junkee cough. Nothing to lose. Nothing more dangerous. Nothing more exciting and suitable for the fullfledged action movie treatment! Just because I'm quiet and don't protest doesn't mean that I don't care. Carved their initials into the evil smog-making tree. Did it matter what the mirror saw? Gotta get home. Not the winning but the running. Not the running but the race. Gotta get to school. Here we are, and in some unusual ways no name at all. Just a little don't you feel? Not an iota. Tragedy.

Zepass and Jetass unpersons unbellyfeel HALLAH.

Jethro clockwise spiraled out of control with smoke coming off his shoulders in a room that was black shapes and orange with firelight. Jethro stood over the dead bodies. The muscle in his arm was being pulled to the floor by the weight of the death launcher, and his eyes were filling with soot, and the perspiration made the torn KNICKERBOCKERS basketball jersey stick to his skin under his steel equipment; an arsenal of grenades and smart bombs, knives and other trinkets, black so that when he crept under the veil of moonless eternity he would be invisible to the naked eye, and the cold of the steel spotted the orange star of his ultraviolet image with sleepy purple. Meteorite Jethro hated this room. The room was on fire. He wasn't responsible for the fire, for the most part not directly; it was the stupidity of the surveillance technicians who put electronic devices in this stupid room, and then decided to duck behind them when he fired the death launcher; the electrified napalm death launcher. Napalm meant napthene palmitate. Palmitate is a salt of palmitic acid. It cost the Taiwan government two hundred million dollars to try and find a way to make napalm conduct a charge. Jethro clockwise spiraled slower and slower. There was no way out of the room.

Pierced by the arrow of vector direction linear objective to goal electrified current go this way. Black sulfur black merc. Electrons thattaway. Quicksilver highroller with a deus of crooked dice named death launcher. A mercedes of midnight marked with hieros of gold. Triumphant Triskelion less one, Abraxas, exteriorized, made the greatest leg of them all. Wind me up. Once their apex toe, now infinitely so. Can't chart that nigga. You can't see him. Base to apex in nuclear fire. Link to dreams. Towards origin. One chance out. It rains when Abraxas is in the hospital. Last moments of relative mundanity. Mitsu-hishi triceps of divine power. Three they ran run in three masters of the killing spree. Radioooooooooh!-active. Abreuxiscadeuxis was once young and even the only white man in Centrafique, back back in the day, and his associate was once a Hemet, but Hemet caught the fame and the light on the face and had to get splitsville of soulsville when bowlsfill of his share. Orieocci. Would you like to meet Abraxas?

TRIAL AT TRYON!!

Nebraska at 6000 feet above sea level.

The 18 wheeler military vehicle started braking and could no longer continue its straight arrow and the wheels spunstuck spunstuck. The mercedes continued to climb in speed and sped going straight into it. Zeppelin veered past the cabin AND...

KNOCK 'EM DEAD IN THE OLD KENT ROAD

The mercedes skims around the side of the cabin locked in death to cross with the jackknifing rig AND...

The mercedes nears the back wheels of the rig in a split second AND...

The mercedes is struck by the backwheels in its back bumper AND...

The mercedes is knocked out of control as the rig ends up on the tarmac the wrong way. The mercedes plunges off the road. Field. As the mercedes enters the bush and rough, it doesn't decelerate but starts going faster. A thousand thankyouma'ams triple time.
"Chopper!" "Blast it."
"HUT!"
Funny bits of metal brittle debris bouncing and falling on my car. The mercedes, accelerating across the field changed attitude five times every second. Jethro was able to fix and fire off a missle while Zeppelin dodged the craters the barreling aerobatic notar assault-recon chopper made in the ground. The helicopter blew up.
Zeppelin finessed the powerstick, punched the accelerator, and made a lovely half circle back to the road. Where more were coming. Jethro hung out the window bending backwards, firing wildly. Zeppelin reclaimed the road. With the recovery of the level driving experience, Jethro started hitting things. He filled the armored vans' windshield full of bulletholes one after the other. Zeppelin STOPPED!! the mercedes. Jethro ducked back inside. Zeppelin gave up the road and went back into the field. The vans followed. Oops! FAKE!! Zeppelin pumped the wheel to the right and Jethro came back out the window with a new clip and bathed the armored vans with vishnu ackack. Zeppelin punched around the vehicles. There were six. One, facing the field to the road at a 30 degree angle as all the vehicles did, went into reverse right into Zeppelin's path AND...

The mercedes frontend collided directly into it AND...

The mercedes rammed the van pushing it fifteen feet AND...

Zeppelin slammed the brakes and went into reverse AND...

The armored van tips over AND...

The panel slides open on another armored van revealing an antiaircraft fission cannon AND...

Zeppelin still in reverse lurches trying to go off the road as still another armored van impinges toward it forward from behind AND...

ZEPPELIN: I'ma make this son of a bitch shoot its own man!

JETHRO: Oh? That's easy! Let me drive! I'll turn shit out! Easy!

The fission cannon of the another armored van fires AND...

The mercedes veers off the road in reverse full speed as the still another armored van moves into the place where it was AND...

Still another armored van blows up AND...

Zeppelin steers the mercedes in reverse through a wicked quarter circle in the field and the whole vehicle spinned around about face and vaulted back on to the road and left the armored vans behind in smoke and piles of rubber, into town.
Their vehicle (oxygenated turbo diesel Germany luxury paxsurpery car fuxloverly urborunner, rurohunter) sliced the counter gust load like butter in threat azimuth: precision handling.
Having lit up and stepped over the tripwire forces. Wooden bombs rattling soundlessly in the backseat. Batches laid while the blastpipes played.
List of features. Lifestyles of the violently irresponsible. Our friends get tactical for a two to X surgical strike. Shallow focus. Phallagocentric gunclap. Worried dimensional tones of the clouds. Dispel her illegibility. Maundering. Jenny Hemet deposes the fallacy of the villian. One so easily discerns alleluiatic antiphons from her silence. Well unpast crepuscle and the sun was above and the sky orange and the land was as if under a brown filter, and black submerged in a hot Purkinje haze. Deathknock battle grips syndrome angel child. There she was. In the gym.
"That's impossible."
"Yes it is."
ANONYMOUS TROOPER ENCOUNTER: "I'm not gonna kill you."
"I was gonna kill you."
"That's right."
Jethro cold capped his ass thirty times until it stopped moving and you could taste his blood in the air. Super baaaaaad.
Jethro truly was sprung like mightyjoeyoung oughtn't be as if on a first day out of Izo. Call the cav! Stick a have! Oh! The shit they were saying. Yelling loud enough to draw the attention or wrath of the gods. Moving as a god, too near to godhood, risking fall. Terrified, and keep going. No fear of obliteration today. Do-se-do doxy, thorough heterodoxical tabula rasa, tac-au-tac et tac-au-tac, dozens bruised as if a worthy messmate, Madame Woemaker to Kmt midnight murder machine Jethro, theosophical killmate, so much so as if my own Thetis, naw, take to ya heels like an eel through seaweed, leviathan dirgible rising and suckaz still bleed from the tertiary consumers on the chain. Come on. Bitch move too slow. Heads flown awry from nigh to time zones behind and ahead. Battle free for all.
"Effed ova something like as if tomorrow ain't comin, reducin ya to ashes with the forces that I summon." Jethro knew a bunch of Polynesians.
Meconium. (Don't act like you didn't think that your first time was the shit.) This green star on Zeppelin's cheek. Thrash your zoe to bits in psychotic fits.
The episodic day back when Jethro was but a kid and appeared in the TV show reality just for the sole reason of having his single parent father shot down by the bullshit plot filled his kid brain with hate. Filled with hate as Okonkwo had been choked by it. Jethro sought his wigga Stalin so he could get the glock hookup, and the attorney principles of this TV show reality chased him into a warehouse and tried to make him give up the gun: all this after making him endure a bullshit trial, and then testify to the Man that he saw his Pops go down for no other damn reason except for the sake of the narrative, and the attorney principles tried to talk to Jethro nice and convince him to give up the gun, and the gun shook and shook in his hands and was shaking in his hands and that was when little Jethro died and the Jethro that would arise out of the guest role and turn the punk ass plot on its ass ss sss sss shot them both dead when he shot them both dead, both attorneys and he had to split the fuck outta Dodge. Fatally shot. Cold prison, cold storage, izo. He ditched the piece in a smelt of steelsoup. Jethro feared no sparks. He leaned over the chain and stared directly into the orange fire ooze, and the heat rose to smother him, and he nearly slipped once, and in the regaining of balance and life, became energized. The world was an abandoned warehouse. Jethro killed that tagger piece of shit rich kid mythologizing the poor with no real respect for the poor as he tagged the building. "I'm swingin' like a rusty gate!" Jethro called out, beating the corpse holding the barrel of the assault rifle. Jethro kept missing the head. Gatastrophic gungineer with an infallible crack shot, guiding the bullet which has your name, adress and your phonenumber as you gallipoligallop into blessed, loopfinishing non- existence. Chicks and Nyx don't mix. Ho! Fitting recyclication from the blackness you left me, now here I am, not all there, to drag you back to blackness: momentary flash of light. Ho! Zeppelin's airburst in action from which comes only a salvo of hostile missles on octopus tentacles of smoke which whizzes and frenzies to copulate their benefactoring mates into the great unmentionable with a final prophetic wargasm. Ya baby didn't suffer.
Zwenzwig quad-deuce by Gaia's watch. Aliquot nachtander. Oh, okay. They came into the gym, and had to face Jenny. Pieces of Jack and Rhodhei were on the walls. Something how the light decided to come in the gym just this. In fact, if this was not set in the real world, I'd mistake that easily for some kind of spotlight. On Jenny. Tryon among the great cornhusker plains. They got into the gym with methodical swiftness. Acclimatization into the world of Jenny. INFLAMM STREAM cut across the top from the trooper's angry nozzle. Zeppelin's thoughts: You Can't And Won't Catch Me. Fire in the hull like a motherfucker. Snatched the grease off my cornrolls. Get hype. Streaming white tassels on the gascap of the bullet. Ballistic thundering over the terrain. Side-to-side. Front-to-back. Incandescent piercing gold. PUSH PUSH to failure. Zubenelgenubi. Complex torque and yaw. Echoblip. Sudden commencement of life's end. Toppling procession. Strafe hail of novachrome ack-ack. Tachyslaughter. Walls snatch pickup splanchic qirmiz garbage. Call the cav! The hyperviolent conflation of Kmt Midnight Murder Machine and Madame Woemaker came to stack asses. Thunderbox Monumental and strapped to the dental. Never submit. Never submit.
Needleknight: "Break yoself." Flesh and blood megacharacters in the space age. From crunch to bang and bang to crunch again. No equal. Have twelvebanger, will gobble. Oxblood garbage. Unarms and so caught. Zeppelin and Jethro stole a march on their legions. Kreigspiel on an even keel: knife switch in the contact clips: Jethro and Zeppelin decreased the military forces by a handsome 90% in under thirty minutes.
"Tenstrike!"
"Dunka!"
"Cordite? Mmm! Cordite. I love cordite."
Jethro made the shit bust through the median. Beat the fuck down a warpath. When handed demons, make demonade. Hyperviolent. Crimson garbage. Teethy omniphagous airscoop streaming flashes of saliva. Zeppelin's scansorial acrobatics. Arabian handsprings up the wall and across the enormous arc of the white white ceiling. And as usual, Zeppelin drew the fire as of no danger to herself and Jethro aimed at the muzzle flashes of our journeyman sniper. Chumming. Muzzle lava. BLAOW! BLAOW! Got 'im. Another. Zeppelin crouched one her toes. Moreorless swung her arms back, threw her head back, arms up, legs straight up up up, kneetuck, then turn kick, feetlight, and she swung her arm into the next. Across the enormous white white ceiling and down the side with superhuman rapidity. "I'm takin rounds!" the trooper yelled into the cel, then a bunch of blood came out of his throat, and his body dropped to the tile, WHUMP!, and Zeppelin went up in the air, WHOOSH! Sprawled in the arches and vaults of slippery stone, heartpound, ichor highways prominencing, dripping pits.
"Your mask is only half disguising," Zeppelin mused dulciferously, delighting in the conceit of her discernment of the ghosts from her sole true godhead. Spatial dendrite hookbill blades RETRACT! She lands. She walks digitigrade, stooped, prowling. Perhaps he had replaced it, and now he'd forgotten where the place had been where he'd placed the replacement.
"...I need a screwdriver...Zeppelin?: to fix this fuckin...my fuckin... my toy here." Zeppelin gave Jethro the screwdriver and, "Aw. Perfect," passed of his lips. HEAVY FIRE!! Zeppelin crawled up the wall and evaded all the bullets meant to take her life. They just sort of bounced off Jethro and he took cover beyond a corner, mimicking disrespectfully, "I'm takin rounds." You can shoot all you want, but you won't hit shit but the extras. "You'll only hit me once. You'll only wound me." Her feet took height sprung and tuck knees and chin to chest taking her shins landing with bent knees that flexed with the shock they absorbed and she straightened her body back right, evident doubtless as to doing it an inexhaustible amount of times without fail, a graceful machine.
Floor gave into landfilled decade dead and buried heterogeny and confusion. Jethro and Zeppelin ducked into a portal. Dust and deadbodies crushed under slabs of concrete. Whole chunks of order, in pieces. This was a legible floor. It made sense. Now it don't make shit but an obstacle to run and evade bullets through. Beneath the hypocenter. Ground negative interger X. Jethro returned fire. Fuckin punk with his fired and forgotten artillery rockets. No sportsmanship. Beginners blood. I smear my hides with beginner's blood. Flee the scene. Somersaulting shells of Parthian shots. They raced down milelong shafts of trapezium and parallelogramic anime bunker corridors. Chest deep water. Through soundproof glass and reinforced concrete and barriers of titanium blend. Implausible Kmt heroin juggernaut. Yer dogmeat, baby. Pulse rifle kicks in, quick spin, thick's thin, nicks shin. Juncture. Chainlinkfall. Pounding monster dents. Jethro blew the hatch. Daylight, ninety minutes later. Aggressive homogeny. Zeppelin took a short skip into a handstand whipping her body sideward-ho hand then to foot then to hand then to foot, until she met a lamppost which she then scaled, and then shimmied down the electric cable to the next one. It only counts when I use it. Fire and forget because it'll hit what it hit when I loaded up the shit when I told it what to hit. Zeppelin and Jethro found themselves among a ghastly prefab homogeny, on a ghastly wide helicline avenue. Having climbed out of the sewer and scramble shafts beneath Tryon, onto a mud crusty curb with runoff streaks through the grass, dry white and new, this abandoned suburbia of freshly cloned deluxe homes, signs of peel out and quick evacuation: not one vehicle left.
"The gym is that way," Jethro heard Zeppelin call from the top of something tall.
Garage maw. Deadlights in daylight. Three bedrooms on the upper level. The forbidden boundary of thieves between fences between houses. We run like children, the most magnificent secret world-notorious of bad children. Jethro had full view of the back side and bushes. There was a fence through a backyard, suddenly in a sprawl of unutilized tractored dirt. Picket fences down an inhumanly treeless superwide avenue wasteland of concrete and even asphalt, the nadir of a valley of gradual manmade hills to each house. A cement path up. Cold. Empty. Godless. Virtue carries a lean purse. Dreams of symmetry and order; physical incarnations of the mind.
Divaricating distributaries of soulforce divagating. Jethro came saying, "Fuck! We're not going to split up! Not going to let us divide. I have to be down with you." The two came into town and did not bifurcate into their own variant dimensions. They stuck as a unit.
And they came to the gym before Jenny immured within. Memory error. Deathknock. "That's impossible!" "Yes it is."
Dizzying balancing act between here and the eternity between here and the ceiling and falling down the narrow stairs, as the deepened into a veritable acheron of warmest wooded colors, the high lights of the sky glass, exaggerated depth, so you really need to watch each step, because each might and should be your last, don't forget. Aeropause between our domain and hers. Underpinnings of reason maundered quizzically astray. Jenny Hemet. Edge of chaos. A beyond meta-preternatural meteromantic, ornithomantic phenomenon. Zeppelin and Jethro met her confrontational apterous defiance under a unifying will. Music of auspicious clouds. Fans hit her from every direction. Aerous ramages feathering from her arms like heat ripples. Seeing her. They came with their arms ready before her. Jethro came saying, "We make a great team," whichtowhich had Zeppelin's reply, "Sure we do."
"No one will sample my DNA."
A trooper came into the door across the way. About Jenny whirled. Air squeezed. Aeroembolism as she (Jenny) funked the air pressure and the blood boiled and popped beneath skin. And the mother fucker's bones burst through the skin. Two years in post production for five seconds on the screen. Okay, there's that. The anomaly here for the moment is unaided flight. Parasol soul. (Wo)man against gravity. How am I doing this? Am I doing this? Yet I suspend before the ground both feet, and I am drawn to the walls of the corner. What is this gym? It shrinks. Jenny's curiously aliform psychic ripples of the transpiring trailing edge. These four walls where they convene a corner, at 3. I (she) can't stop (!). Where's that light coming from? Nowhere? I feel angelic. Out of my mind with happiness. Something (c/sh)ould disfigure the beauty of my theantropic joy (,tonight). Put to rest my allocated allotments of earthly necessities. I'm up! Wind from the rollingeverrolling wheels of nonexistance enrapt my ...my ...(clothes). The must've-been burned marks of Jenny's skull cap. Triptophanic radiation pulses? Nitrogen on the brain. Poor little girl. Transilluminate her skull. Bluespill betraying Jenny's seamless trucage. Light ya head up. Their techniques overcame all the military content in this base but here... Scintillas hot imploding to her mental center. Riposte came, shaking his arm, and the gun Jethro had fixed with the screwdriver, shook with the screwdriver, and though he couldn't hear it in the field of wild silence, he could feel the riposte shake his arm, his finger slipping, activated by a slip, and before he knew what had happened, an INFLAMM STREAM had vesuviated silently forth. Zeppelin's allburnt shell fell pale at the edges. Jethro's alveolar backup withered into anoxia. Jenny Wind God made an anacoustic wave of white noise before she went. We stumble over pebbles never mountains.
"Move." SHE WASN'T MOVING. "Minnie? C'mon." HOW CAN YOU SHAKE A BURNT CORPSE AND TELL IT TO MOVE. "Min?" Jethro loved Zeppelin. What if Zeppelin were really dead? What if Zeppelin died? "C'MON!! MOVE!! STOP FUCKIN AROUND!!" Jethro shook the corpse. No flames. Did you see? Jenny vanished. You felt a shake. Saw a flash. You did it for real. See the walls over there? That's what you shot. You felt it go. All all the way over there. Before it got to there it went through her. "NOOO!! YOU FUCKIN COCKSUCKER DUMBASS!! WHAT THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO DO NOW?! I'M FUCKED!! I'M FUCKED!! I..." How did it happen? Jenny, the flying girl, she vanished. A vacuum. The vacuum moved me. I was holding it like this and then I felt a jolt in my arm. But I was moving all about. How did it fucking shoot? The ceramic screwdriver stopped broke the current. Jethro took off the gun. Of course it wasn't a ceramic screwdriver. What about Zeppelin. She'll pull through. It's funny. See how scared you got. It didn't fire. See, I thought that I fuckin fired the gun. That was a spasm. The vacuum knocked her out. Get up. Get up. "GET UP!! YOU FUCKEN BITCH!! STOP FUCKIN AROUND. STOP FUCKIN AROUND ANYMORE. ZEPPELIN? ZEPPELIN? YOU STUPID BITCH."

Got the gate. Got the gat. Stand ground here, in ambush, weilding luck and skill. The light got funny. They came up the sides. Hit a fence! Theantropic ultramundane colossi. Two less one. Jethro split. Jethro killed Zeppelin because she was going to tell Paolos about Lindsay and Lindsay about Paolos. Bitches. They piled up outside the door. It happens all the time. Zeppelin was worth a lot to Igo. Igo inched nearer the jamb. Jethro put his gun right where the head would be. Jethro aimed. Jethro ran out the back. Igo, Guiness, Pierce and Kali. Jethro spreed the alley, on the first bus outta Bosnia. How many killers?





Unbraggable sentient ring of higher than emotions split into groups and playing infinity hard into one another's vanity building doing sweet justice to the memory of their father shared the ruler.
Do your own stunts. Who did not love Zeppelin? Can you blame them. I think that I want to die. How did Zeppelin die? I tell you they have not died. Their hands clasp yours and mine. There's a sequel in the works. Zeppelin couldn't have died. What's the fuckin point if Zeppelin dies? You can't kill off the principles. That's just it. What kind of sick message are you sending out to the world. Don't make me get maudlin. You're not takin me.

Yeah, he blew my head off, but I wet him up, though.

"Jethro Thork? You sound smart. You killed Zeppelin all over jealousy. You're dead!" CLICK! the phone clicked.
"You were so beautiful," Lindsay said to the dying Jethro in her arms. "What did I do to you? Where am I?"
From relaxed sources we are told that the suspect was then enticed from social obligation as unrepentent unrehabilitatable negroid psychotic reprobate sociopath terrorist author of civilization's decline terminally wicked wretched of the earth nihilist saboteur gangsta malcontent narcoguerilla commando. Jethro there bled, talking his motivations lightly, stressing the first cause of his stress, to his caputbaiting audience. Lindsay stood, a victorious agent of CLIT, destroying a threatening trophy figure of male generative power. The world darkened around the Fraternal Order of Police.

IN THE PRECEDING, ZEPPELIN NEVER TOLD JETHRO HER FEELINGS, AND WE ARE LED TO BELIEVE THAT SHE THREATENED TO BREAK JETHRO FROM LINDSAY AND PAOLOS. WHAT WOULD HAPPEN IF WE WERE TO PURSUE AN ALTERNATE STORYLINE IN WHICH SHE HAD?

"We make a great team."
"Sure we do. It's because I have it that way because, well, I love you so much Jethro."
"What's wrong here? Something happened to the air. I can hear you."
"Shut the fuck up. It's so quiet. Don't play off what I said."
"...I hear you..."
"SHUT UP OKAY!"
"...I just wanted you to know that."
Jenny watched Zeppelin and Jethro talk. "Why do you hesitate? Did my father send you here to kill me?"
"...maybe."
"Why don't you then?"
"We don't know how to."
"What are you going to do?"
"Whatever you let us."
"I have to destroy the world."
"We can't have you doing that."
Jethro and Zeppelin fired.

"What is this shit, Igo?" "Did you kill her?" "She's not human. We don't do that type of shit."
"You did it before."
"That was one time."
"Were you successful?"
"Yeah."
"Bullshit. You would've said it up front. WHAT THE FUCK IS THE MATTER WITH YOU?"
"We don't do this thing."
"It's not like we didn't try, Igo."
"Get your ass back to Taiwan." Leonardo stood over Igo. "What did Ms. Hardaway say?" Igo asked him, turning off the air.
"Don't even worry about what she said."

TRIAL AT TRYON!! (get involved remix!!)

Zeppelin went upsidedown across the ceiling of the milelong trapezium and parallelogramic anime bunker corridors which shook from surface detonations. Jethro toted the death launcher in his endless present, and in this endless present, Jethro got his. Piercing alarm. The plasticoncrete composite stones of the passage shook, although packed and sealed were their masonry, they loosened and drooped and Zeppelin could feel it. She began to believe with great certainty that she was dead. It would be possible to see it on her face. Zeppelin remembered the eternity it took for him to die. It was the simplest thing. She had decided not to use any fancy weapons. Zeppelin closed her eyes, bit her lip, and felt the edge of the blade pluck against the flesh of his neck, just barely plucking through the neck, but it was by now at this point a few too many seconds longer than it needed to be. While Jethro was busy clearing out she took the time to sink the sharp steel through his breathing windpipe. Zeppelin intentionally imagined the tract of the pipewall, through sicknesses sliding with phlegm, as an abstract form in the void, and the way the phlegm slid, coldly, steelingly cut by the blade, separated. Then again, this would only happen in a world of unreality. The breathing pipe, flung with breathing blood would probably and definitely cave in on the slice of itself when the head fell forward. There was hair under the helmet. The knife was pulled out. First the knife wrapped around out of nowhere, pushed through the skin of the neck, and came out the other side straight and bloodless. The folded pressed steel rejected it. There were spots on her fist. The flesh pulls together on the correctly on the assassin who uses it. Zeppelin knew because Zeppelin could tell you that there was absolutely nothing spectacular to be beheld. Dead withering soldier. Zeppelin experienced the soldier's twitching muscles in the worst possible sense. Zeppelin observed that the soldier was soon to be no more. Zeppelin broke his bones. Zeppelin crushed his skull. Zeppelin clung to the ceiling. Zeppelin felt that she could narrate for anyone in full detail the frantic fraility of the fray and how a frantic frantic thantophobia aided her in the business of freeelance espionage and covert assassination. As sure as the scientific implausibility of the radiant nerve impulses of her experimental Korean paratechnophysio doctored supersense bodywide railways that allowed her to assert what she felt was real, mind over matter, which allowed her to force manage her biology and climb walls, the selfsame proclamation exclamation of DEATH! DEATH! DEATH! at every turn made it possible for the human to luck and to luck and to luck through. Each time is like being shoved through the birth canal. Zeppelin understood that the lazy soul negated task. It seemed to be human nature to want to be well off. And this selfsame tension thrust Zeppelin on through the bad dream that was freelance espionage and covert assassination. She supposed that machines had feelings to. The pawn senses and dreads being checked from the board. The instrument feels that pain. Zeppelin supposed it was the terror of being used. The pain of being forced through a cosmic mechanism she had no control over. Zeppelin had no control at all. Death lurks around every corner. Fear it? Zeppelin was the death. Zeppelin was part of the cosmic scheme. Zeppelin went as far to assert that she was the cosmic scheme. Zeppelin began thinking differently. She could feel herself getting used to the sight of death again. And she found its antics humorous and begged the player to perform his performance more. She intuitively predicted that she would die in the third reel. And if she did not, she still would. Zeppelin decided that if she were to die that she would also not die. That she would kill and also give birth by the same action. The corpses around and way back behind her feet were more suit to be as if she were in a nursery, tending, reaping and sowing and birthing. Maker and taker. Zeppelin was driven by these emotions and this duty as prime mover of this upsidedown dimension. Knife through breath. Knife through voice. Knife through adam's apple. She would pluck the vocal chords with the pointed edges of her knife and make horrid music. She pushed on her toes across the ceiling, digitigrade, foot after foot of the concrete and plastic mile, Jethro toting and huffing and puffing beneath her in and endless present. Zeppelin at one point loses her footing a little and he stopped and helped her back into position. Their panting merged in a sweating stress headachey delirium of the most deathly fatigue and supernal spirit of mechanicl maniacal invulnerability. Zeppelin leaped and landed back on the ceiling. Apparently she can fuck with gravity to. Zeppelin thought about her crisp humming nerve endings. Her womanly figure, fit, and the muscles twined and steelied tight in perpetual godawful ache, tirelessly, feminine. She could break Jethro's back if she wanted. (She too cold punch through stone. She too could melt steel. Well, why not?) Their host's attempted at a cave-in were not proceeding successfully, and the charges eventually stopped, the rumbling of the shaft walls subsided. Zeppelin couldn't see the end of the untwisting hot corridor. Zeppelin feared for her life because the situation had grown far to grave for departing just yet. She inverted her geosynchronous orbit with a cloud- like train. She has thought before of this being, targetting the section past the metallish corridors, more closely resembling on further down the passage an anime space bunker with no windows. Total events in all controlled by ideas of self reliance. It was only another death in the service of life for the ambiguously gendered high-tech crimefighters.
There's an ellipsis here because a passing satellite afflicted Zeppelin with short-term amnesia. Detailed system of movement and response algorithms. Zeppelin could, all though she clearly dispensed no effort in trying, see no reason to continue living. Her cable gushing severed teeming with nanoscale scorpions.
"You didn't tell me she was black."
"Does that make a difference? Don't look at race. That bitch gave my baby away."
"No. Lindsay, race is the most important thing to you and don't start acting like it isn't. I'm not even doing it. I have a problem."
Lindsay presented the gesture for fear not, expressing that, "Look, don't worry. I'm just going to sit here and I'm going to keep my big mouth shut, okay?"

IGO: "Well? Nemine contradicente, dissentiente... Greenlight. All systems go. Make it so." What was Zeppelin supposed to say? She was caught. Tatjahnali was a trifling hen. There was no other discourse to be pursued. It's a shame too, because Zeppelin had always been the type of person who when things got driest had the perenicious milk to pollute that stream of consciousness. Non sequitur. Jethro spoke then, "Yahoo. The worst way to get someone to do something for you is through trickery."
Tatjahnali looked at Leonardo. Leonardo smiled at Igo. Igo stood up. Leonardo sat down.
"Hustle like Russel." Zeppelin said. The wheel of checks and balances. Nature of reality. Not so. Where's Abraxas? Sixteen megatons of action buck jock thrust marx doubt to tha maximins behind Jethro's protective hedge of bush.
"Me and Jethro. We're just work. War is...close. I'd die for him. Mmm. I bet he'd...I know he'd do it for me. That's love. But if you love him, you know, I don't care. You can love him too. Do you see? See, there's enough."
"What about Paolos?"
JETHRO: I love Paolos.
LINDSAY: Do you love me?
"What difference does it make?"
"That's good enough for me."
"Paolos doesn't need to know."
"Who said anything about telling her?" Jethro became inexplicably nauseous. Much later, Paolos would meet up with Zeppelin.
PAOLOS: Why do you insist upon judging intelligence on a moment to moment basis?
ZEPPELIN: I don't ever want to be better. Like me and Jethro: we don't even have anything in common.
Blood! Blood! As long as she functions she'll keep numbers near her that point to her precise, virtual and approximate location. Kyria looked all visitors straight in the eye. Loathsome! Loathsome! Tricks turned like another page of history, like tables round as the world, like as the world, by Kyria in the courthouse because of the way the things, also in like fashion, achieved the condition 'out'. Positive hostility. Some agitation. Lest. Kyria's sister, Edwidge, on death row was among the many others exterminated during a prison riot. Shaping the psyche to become cannon fodder. Kyria is listed as having bought food in another state and it incriminates her someway. Accident on a computer lists Kyria as being HIV positive. Kyria plots to kill Lindsay. Wipe out jail population. "I don't like this! I don't like this world! I don't like myself! I don't like you!" Kyria responds to the death of her brother during an attempt towipe out the prison population. Kyria embodies reactionary rage. Her sudden need for crime, which is not shown, follows a lengthy passage of government bureaucratic injustices. Clocking her incriminating nonmovement. Mine actions speak a resounding silence. Kyria's idiosyncrasy killed the kaleidoscopic... Brown and served a civil suit. Apocalypse, genocide and other cute atrocities in the name of democracy. Over juicing Othello crossbearing nu eta kappitalize, this Aegiatic trialgoading only by mass media technologies possible. Repressed religious experience of the sentencing. Very happy very mad. Unnatural body temperature, stigmata, levitation. Bluetrue backdrop of the drawnout purplewhite clouds as she reels from the judiciary snuff film, flesh scaly, hairy uneven, looking very much the unproductive corpse. Goodness and innocence of her unformed and incomplete personality. Frauguile K. She could shoot him, having robbed him, for being so brave, but that'd be murder. Yet in leaving him alive, robbed, this brave guy breathes by turns bleeds revenge surely to rise back on her with sudden lethality drug lord no escape, but then that wouldn't be robbery. GOD EAT GOD. That was the best that she could come up with. Jocelyn Sike's sister Delicatessen, walking with unerring balance on her inclined heeledges, the supersmoove geijutska BABAWHOOM she said with a mirthless exposure of teeth on behalf of breathing "I hate seeing girls I know." Inhalitus. Out the cunt of sicorax. Nude with knifelike appendages radiating. Notions of dangerous sex. SPECIAL EDITION vaudoux insect morbifical samurai robotical Zeppelin! The searching Zeppelin seen here from germ's eye view is searching for her sister in a Hayes after the general fallout between her and Jethro in an argument that needs not documentation. That and Zeppelin's astronaut. Zeppelin's severotonin volhumlored astronaut airyraidianting aminorsity. Mad robotical psycho crusha. Actually, Zeppelin touched base from TJ to Los Skanless and back to Nueva York and lastly to this small comicbook shop. She had never known a trip to sweetly sail. Vaulting and sorting manga superconfidently from an earlier zoe pop era. I'm the bitch buttnaked riding the nose of the divebombing sublight scramjet on the Heavy Metal magazine cover you stupid bastard with the yankedout bloody nerverwriggling spinalcord in my Palmolive grasp belonging to the pilot shimmering solar spectrums in the slight drizzle. Simultaneously powerful and traditionally feminine. Hair impossibly fluffy as a spacepussy practicioner of afreak newdone. Zeppelin who was enchanted by the moving image was won over by the stark power of the split second portrayed in cinematography's father, although the starkness was only revealed through a process that was aided by the progeny cinema allowing the film to shoot automatically through unraveling the evanescent attribute of the temporal components of motion purely out of the arbitrary which was incidentally Delicatessen's reputable forte of accolade on professional renown. Congress on this level was impeded by a sororal friction relying an indefatiguable antipathy locked throughout the cells of their form. She's so hot that her eyes sparkle constantly with the quimglisten of a hundred Goddessly novas. Gillfilled squishbox of bioamore. She runs into the battered and bruised Hzong/Ganges. In the year 20XX, Delicatessen (both of her nipples pierced, a chain connecting them) put together a new graphic series aimed at adult audiences; entitled ZEPPELIN, it captured the imagination of billions of readers worldwide. Then they tried to fit the entire intricate universe of the ZEPPELIN LIMITED SERIES into a animated film, like the one you are now tripping on. Hzong had had enough of these nonsexual relationships with women who had supernatural power. Turning to artsem as a last ditch effort to get as many of his codes into the next generation as possible. Flamboyant fanzine illustrator Delicatessen Mins. Suck my cyberseed. Cho and Alex's Baja California rancho estate looked like a rock with incidental windows and windmill tower silos like large parking barrier posts of beryllium alloys, double skinned vacuum vessel welded, docile aesthetically swerved cold manmade lake it fringes. A Dutch Modern fresco mural done in crude chalk, comprehensible strictly in details at a time, jumbles of large letters, anthropomorphic and working. Alex stood unpretensiously ecce homo before the port the tempermental antithesis of my good father materialistic bisexual sociopath. Indictive of a more richly futuristic world of curves: lips, magnox smoke silos, hair, contoured spoiler, mushroom clouds.... Tarry Hollywood, shoeless, came upon Zeppelin darkening the NNE's smart exit's plastic frame. Paolos sat and let the warm jet spew her urinary organs, and the muscles tightened from being loose as warm air blew through there. Animatronic dolphin underwater waldoed, put on VR goggles. Alex refuses to see the world as the fucked up place it really is. This was coming to his house. No respect for authority. The malcontent always struggles and dies. People who work hard always do more. This is why Alex was so nice to Zeppelin. Insufficiently educed little nonperson. Better off dead. She's too dangerous. We can't have everything we want. Alex's raising differs drastically from Zeppelin's. Chess, checkers and scrabble. TV allowance. Reading system. Alex's parents are in New Orleans. Overstressed and overscheduled. Alex is revealed to not be moving randomly and having a rigid plan for his movements, which his enemies find, xerox and use to destroy him. He's built this vast cash reserve and has a house in the palaceshades of Kali Vaja, operating her disk around the presumption that this operative was out of action and married with a son. CHO (Warwidow to be descended of warwidows): Dominatrix assassin? Whatever. Does that seem normal to you? What a marvelous world we live in. That's very exciting. Suburbia breeds murderers. It's so mysterious how unexpectantly Oriental it is. Appropriate bloodswell here and then. Placid gold visage. Smarter than that. Slopjawed possession. Powers to trendscanned time. Juicious first- timing predscents never rediurning. Characteristic silence. Deepset eyes. Best front. World class. At this, Zeppelin sunk into soliloquy to the point of somnoloquy partially to prove her authenticity and to fascinate Cho in the cottoncandy fro palepink hiphuggers white rubberized biker jacket at the invitation of Cho's comment and theorywrapped Alex stared off into space suddenly very calm, trying to find his center, and preparing for what he felt he needed to do while staring at Cho's space of the couchbase where the edge of the left shoemouth was digging in her ankle with heel oblique to the floor completely unsheathing the ball of the foot.. Blast radius of an oil barrel. Heavy crude? Dimaxion refinery plant in the deep waters of Maine. Liqud to gas. How much the gas expands. Dynamite. Glycerin and sawdust. Flammable gas. Radius of expanding flammable gas. Oil barrels of jetfuel for high powered hydrofoils. Armor-piercing rockets. Needs to be ignited. Rocket launcher. Nothing short of the holocaust amazes us. Improbably explode. Bullet. Ballistics. Need to fire exploding shell. Would it explode better with or without the oil? Combustion is a chemical change. The oil in the drum goes from a chemical that's sitting dormant to one that combusts when in the air. Touching oxygen. There's a thermodynamic equation for the combustion of dynamite. Numbers flashed through his head. Adapt that to our oil barrel. Secrets of the Universe. Keys to the Godmobile. Converted airport. We'll need lots of room. Enthalpy. Suspect. Combustion is a chemical reaction. What happens when the chemical in that barrel becomes a chemical that catches on fire when it touches oxygen and changes into a gas. Not instantaneously, but one molecule at a time. Expanding gas. Chemical reaction. Chemical transition. Chemical change. Exothermic reactions liberate heat. Endothermic reactions absorb heat. Namely because there's no oxygen in space. You can have air without oxygen. Look at Jupiter. We see through gasses too. We think the gases we see through is air. Okay, anything that makes clouds is airy. Into nothing. Nihilo fit. Energy changes. Chillin' oil to burn never return. Well, it returns. We don't see it. Nowhere for it to go. It's beyond our scope, but returning. Why do pyromaniacs never set themselves on fire? They burn everything else. That's selfish. Power. We want to see it influence others but not ourselves. Makes us think we're strong. Develop attitudes. Touch fire. Vampires always like to touch fire. That's why we think they possess a strength we don't. Their energy doesn't change. Rather,the energy of the fire can't change them. Well, it's heat. Makes you jump back. Raw energy. You can harness it. Make it do something to something else. Etcetera. Must keep going in a circle. Reactions and actions. Effects and causes. Are reactions equal? Breathing pushes things down. Think the other way. Breathing keeps oxygen in my brain so I can think. Lower more stable energy state. A dusty cloud is more safer...more stable..more calm than a stick of dynamite, nitroglycerin and sawdust. Trinitrotoluene. Tolu basalm. Seaport in Columbia. Wicked rainforests. Never be able to harness the capabilities of the earth completely. Think so? Why harness? Well, don't you want to see what it can do? Realize the potential? The potential of the nonentity. Would it be an expression of my own potential? My own possibility? Represent me? Semblance of my self in nature. No, I just want to see. Why not imagine? Just to look at it? That's only one sense. That's an indulgence. Mighty presumptuous one. Hear my voice from another place outside my head. What gives you the right? Because you can? It's harder to leave things alone. Imagine it. Not to do it. Is that how the Animal Kingdom do? Their minds are off imagining and the body is on its own operating on instinct. Guided by the spirits. Does it make a difference in the end anyway? The universe will continue after your actions have either extincted yourself personally, or contributed to the slow and inevitable extinction of others. Why resist. Look at it as if you are one with the universe, you won't need to harm anything and get into realizing the potential of yourself to get like the animals. Weak. Tolu basalm and bezene. Man is innocuous as the animals again. Luba jawi. Incense of Java. Used in medicine and perfume. Styracaceous trees also give storax, the balsam of the Asiatic liquid basalm tree, used in medicine and perfumery, a gum resin form the former tree. Fleshy or dry fruit. Clusters of flowers, usually white. Trees of the laurel family, the spicebush or benjamin bush. Benzoin. Lubenzine. Benzene: a colorless inflammable liquid is obtained by scrubbing coal gas with oil and by the fractional distillation of coal tar. Trinitrotoluene is an isomeric derivative. Electricity shot at barrel? More stable state of energy and chemical. Rocket and barrels of crude oil. Would it blow up? Let's say it did. She said so. Spontaneous combustion. Heat or work. Energy must be liberated or given off. When I go do things. Where do I feel impetus? Electronic reaction. In my body, or in my brain's sense of my body? Which experiences impetus? Real or imagined? To the environment. All my sense. My nervous system. Sending messages to my brain. Mind forms concept into physical self. Electrical reaction. I do stuff. I feel the need to do stuff. Hyperreal. Does the eye notice the flash or the central aura effect? Eye doesn't miss it. It pays close attention. Effects men expect you to, but we're glued. Have to try another way. As heat. Merge. Localization is bad. Universalization is bad. Rise in the temperature or solution wehn acids are introduced. Heat is the product in an exothermic reaction whre heat is liberated. Heat is the reactant in an endothermic reaction where heat is absorbed. Heat in a raction gives kiljuoles. Or kilocalories. Turn sluggish chemical liquid into heat energy. Endothermic reactions carried on by plants. Carbondioxide and water are converted by photosynthesis to free oxygen and glucose. Combustion=burning. Heat and light. When coal explodes. Coal doesn't explode. It's combusted. Chunks fly. Harder chunks that don't burn easily. Chunks of ash. Account for that. Extrapolate by chaos theory exactly what happens. My head aches when I had too much of the sun. Reached limit. Get to a point where our contrivances deal us nothing but death and we'll have to force ourselves to deal with ourselves. Natural gas, methane, CH4. Liquefied petroleum gas. LPG is a mixture of propane and butane. Activation energy. Spark. Flame. Rocket. Electrolytic decompositionof water to hydrogen and oxygen is endothermic.
""Only a small amount of gas vapor under correct circumstances can blow off the front of a ship""
""Flying shreds of can will cause extreme damage"" ""Blast radius no less than at least 100ft""
""Increase pressure buildup for a large blast radius""
Point where mother relinquishes all control to her astral intuition and lets go and finds her children delivered from the arms of absently secure assumption in choice exceptions how awful that slip in mother's exhausted leaving all to certainty out of the terrors of the void Alex observed disjointedly this mother who syllogistically let her children not follow her out perhaps wishing they weren't even there trusting their ingenuity and the perceived stability of environmental and situational probability patterns to draw them back to her way out. Alex observed her using the rail. The things Zeppelin about motherhood; no term benefits. Blind languid trust as inconstant as clear skies, infallible as the ability of blood to oxyginate cells. One factor which would affect telling would certainly be an insistence to present meaning out of chronological sequence but according to a significance determined by the power to indicate certain dumbfounding universal halftruths. The way black mothers ignore white mothers. Zeppelin herself had dodged the fruits of maternal experience in consequence of the myriad of scientific and medical advancements in the realm of contraception. Alex remembered that persons with unusual hair exhibited liberated behavior.
"How could a government have satellites that see the larvae sacks on the backs of ants beneath the pavement from orbit not know about the narcotrafico?" Alex has a cel station jam a signal on him from a satellie so he can talk seriously to Zeppelin for three minutes and propose to Zeppelin to kill Cho. Alex should himself die. Alex sets about a course of events which causes Zeppelin to visit.
"My guy in Taiwan handles jobs."
Alex and Cho have a dog, which Zeppelin petted methodically, gracefully, and she continued, "Why don't you just kill her? You've already killed her."
"I need help. Because I don't know how. I don't know how. I'm not like that." "God don't even bother with a trial when ol' Armyghetto come rollin around. Just kidding. There's nothing to be afraid about because there is no God. Remember that. No God."
Dictating to the indifferent meaningless other. The answering machine. Developed an egocentric infantile relationship with the other. Frantic spinning of caprices. Notice now, that Alex seems to be treating the machines as well as the people. Alex is optimist, pessimist and realist. Optimistic that the path of conservatism will benefit him at some magic point in the future: happiness. Pessimistic because he, as humans we all, had a dream which he really felt for and abandoned because the prospects of blind ambitions were disastrously hopeless. Realistic because that's how the fuckin world works and that how I fuckin work. "You see, you don't think of the machine, you think of the person who will get the message. You want to sound friendly, not awkard," Alex explained, reading her. Of course. That made perfect sense and she abandoned her previous assumption as being cruel. Changes in pressure. The more sullied of soul Zeppelin found Alex to be the better. Anyplace more ripe for the contamination of intrigue criminal psychoses the better. Zeppelin was incapable of describing how the darker degrees of corruption among the ruling class was found much by her erotic. Invidreadjewels capable of irrevocable torment deific in potency and velocity. It was still up in the air just how Alex would fall witched in her sensuous allovertica.
Zeppelin threatened him with information, although not common knowledge, yet was transgessive intelligence, teasingly, her bodacious female sexuality and power, and Alex was not moved, acknowledged the threat to Cho and his American way of life, but defused the whole situation by playing it all off in a fashion which foolishly challenged the expedition of his destuction.

HALLAH. THE AUTHOR OR THE STUNTMAN? SOMEONE MUST GO IN! CALL THE STUNTMEN! Stock and Sandroid in: Demented polish composer. Wall of smoke. Steel BMW amphibious car manufactury, in Katowicz. Church and factory merge. Exhaust ripping the sun. AT THIS POINT IN THE STORY, BOTH ZEPPELIN AND JETHRO ARE DIGITALLY DEAD.

Up close to the sinister camoflage on the large armored construction wenchtruck, like a cement-mixer with a ramming-bar, rollbar, laddercage, toolchest, chain-tailgate rag of torn camoflaged material made to resemble foliage but still looking like rubber, thick tires around rims with shiny blakc lugnuts. Rocket array. Lightbar. Highbeams. Jethro wandered amongst them 'til he found a truck with tented windows. Jethro wandering the narcotraficante tunnels beneath CUBA. He fought so that I could say that. Libra the libros. The buck stops here. Scar of the improvised penal occiput. Jethro, fully reformed, was a better human being. Simpering fidelis. He fought so I could say that. Allshookup. Hard to regiment. Complexily descibed special effects sequence. A Yeggman from NeoYeddo Hzong knows. Lindsay goes to the lab where the government fucks up her baby. Lindsay Maxine Fulbright versus E Systems Chemical. LINDSAY: What the fuck did you do to my baby!? SCIENTIST: That's a good question. JETHRO: Well, find a good fuckin answer or I'ma beat your ass. ZEPPELIN: Don't dawdle. JETHRO: Tracks! Why come I don't sees no smokeclouds yet. LINDSAY: Look at them! Lined row for row into the horizon! ZEPPELIN: Slaving scientists stretching in a warehouse across the desert. JETHRO: A scientific sweatshop! How the dignity of the learned has fallen! Who say nearly fiftty years ago could have predicted so bald an irony, so inhumane a fate!? LINDSAY: I could see that shit comin like an overweight woman. It's foul. ZEPPELIN: My mother, um, I mean my grandparents were migrant farmworkers, and they had a fate such as this. Working day in and day out. Working. Working. They didn't understand, as I do so clearly now that there is no love, no knowledge, no fulfilment, no hope in capitalism. The fruits of capitalism. Ha! Which of these eggheads will ever see such a fruit! The terrors of nameless endeavour, each filing out in succession, in ditto meaninglessness. What existence is that! Inhuman! Basta! Most foul truly! Lindsay, I don't know what they did to your baby, but it isn't here. This? This is ashes! Ashes! (DROPS A MOLOTOV COCKTAIL, WATCHES THE LEADING BLUE EDGE OF THE FLAME NEAR HER TIPPY TOES BEFORE VAULTING UP INTO THE CEILING. JETHRO PICKS UP LINDSAY AND THEY BOLT OUT OF THE BUILDING AS THE WAREHOUSES SPANNING THE ARIZONA PLATEAU ADD IN FULMINATION) This is death! Flee! This is death no more! This is life! Vibrant and gold. A sun for the sun! I see a resemblance in the spawn, as a new day dawns! HAHAHAH!

Enable trace. Trace enable. Patiforti's secret. Leonardo looked at both of them in mock curiousity: "Well!" Leonardo Patiforti tried again: "...well. Well done? Oh well...? It was that Fulbright CIA bitch, wasn't it. Jethro? Jethro? Fine," he addressed Zeppelin, "Zeppelin? Zeppelin? Look at your fucking names, for chrissakes, man...: 'Jethro Tull?' 'Led Zeppelin?'" Leonardo took a breath and pulled out the com, whispered, fed it back, thimbled his index with a tap on the table and summoned rigwhirrs with holoscopic planes of metallic buttons with omnipresent static hiss with the gatlingpurr and tumble by a simple, nearly effeminate, tap on the air, dethimbled and addressed them in the process as if removing the thimble and, talking as if it were just a little bit too difficult to manage at once, said, "Look: It doesn't make a difference anymore; I'm dead, you're dead...both of you...that's right: dead. In-fuckin-visible. So, fuckit, right? Let me tell you two the truth. Neither of you is who you think you are." Igo loomed over Leonardo. "Get out of the chair." Leonardo looked up at Igo from slunken shoulders with a weak chin and hair he needed to knock out of his eyes. After a speculative pause, he motioned his tuxsleeved arms so that the palms met the head of the armrests, and with a breath pushed his body out of the chair to a position of retreat furthest away from the threateningly looming Igo, and watched with ashamed impotency the usurpation of his throne, hands pocketed.
Jethro watched Zeppelin ask Igo, "What does he know about?"
"You weren't bothered by that just now, were you?"
Leonardo faded into a backroom and returned, "Idiot. You think that just because you have emotional responses to phenomenon that it means that things in this universe happen for a reason. That is fundamentally absurd."
Igo broke down, weary, and clasped his brow. His finger found the thimble and the thimble found the air. The screen played. The static, nearly forgotten by all, went away, and the white noise made everyone feel very excited. A juicy hunk of exposed brain filled the frame, lobes numbered, scalpels prodding, wires plugged in between the juicy wrinkles. "Technology is very advanced." Jethro didn't know what to do. Jethro sprung into action, grabbed Igo by the clutchings of his cottonpoly mock neck shirt and dumped him out of the chair. Leonardo sat back down. Zeppelin stood over Leonardo, he looking curiously, herself looking questioningly back. Zeppelin flew into a rage, "No more culls."
"You don't have to kill me. I'm just going to let you go. This whole thing is sick."
Igo shrieked from under Jethro's tackle, "Kill her!"
"We're going to kill you!" Jethro decreed with leveling ire, "Because, this is too fucking incredible. We're going to cull you."
"You'd like to. You liked the whole thing."
"How do I know that wasn't programmed? You don't have to say anything..."
"Well, we would've had if Leonardo wasn't so fucking stupid."
"Who's gaining by this?" Jethro interrogated, digging the barrel of a small firearm in the well of Igo's navel.
"If I tell you, my head blows up."
"Like Alex?" "Alex isn't working for who he thinks he's working for."
"Well, of course not," Jethro jabbed the barrel, "that certainly suddenly seems very easy to believe. Who did this?"
Leonardo looked into Zeppelin's eyes and addressed Jethro, "What the fuck difference does it make? If you lay low for a while, they won't find you."

I'm not trying to force Champion aleator Jigganeutro macrohard dopedis with his aliquoran looked down upon these meateating shallowbreathers with impunity. I blame society for how Jethro came out, blunted into existence, whose Pops was a big Really Realiams- lookin old nigga who'd tell you to get your shit and get your ass the boot on the fuck out of his motherfuckin house to the curb and on the smogburned and oilspeckled concrete if you try to act funny 'cause not a damn thing was, and shit. Father not a frightened negro. Somebody shuffled his feet? Profound when he pounds the ground and make the dirt obey and fuckin do shit his way. Jethro, snaggletoothed with the snot runnin out the nose staring up into the smogbrown sunset pierced by the migs vaportrace. Pleading with a separation from gangsterism put upon and central to a twosided conspiracy upon Jethro's character. I got a gastro-intestinal situation that's about to blow like Mt St Helens. Gospodin Thorp of the KGB. Electronics and firearms. Sickeningly limited horizons. Sharp class contrast. Pawnshops, junkyards, topless bars, liquor stores. Depressing blacker than black eyes. If she sincerely believed it, she would say it. Because she will not, you know that she doesn't. Before turning the gun on himself. Before tripping into the tuneup pit. Before driving to the garage. Thanatolagniac, the esteemed utilities of Jethro and Zeppelin spree rheotauntrichly toward the nearest climactic gravitational head or gulgolet. Inexpugnable assassination engine. Just two asses together only another ego in the race. Treacherous violence. Accomplishing over and winning through these terminally wrong things with a minimal concern despite the uniquely rewarding quality of receiving that which was desired however lightly he did succeed in slovenly grace these terminally wrong things without caring at all. A fight ensued. The next minute, Duchamp found his jonhson fondled by the wife of his bestfriend. The two built a verbal stew of contempt over their common and acquainted themselves to the point of adultery. She saw cleary all things as they were thereby no longer what she would seem them to be. Duchamp rinsed; he told the truth and she took that chance because she knew no man would ever say words so ringing of it again too soon. She perceived her character as woman strong at last; will impel flesh as steel, she had toiled hours of much upon a feeling for Duchamp, and as she glanced from frantically to affrightedly she began to say so, "I am very excited," because of it. Duchamp of these concerns understood very little overly much. His impression strikes the observer a tiny fractional deposed of empathetic sentiment mathematized after the conclusion a cold cold one. But never before did he feel further fallen from this unvoiced esteem he dealt towards with unvoiced esteem she so honored.What would you prefer: a humiliating verbal reproach to my shunning him? Remember when you could stick your tounge between the two front teeth between your two front teeth? I usually need something appallingly stupid to rebel against in order to be creative. Lowest productivity day. Stalking in deep strides and halting to wash in his own wakewind surrounded by his own direction lines.
"You're not going to get to live in the spacetube, Jethro."
"Yeah? So fuckin what."
Slipstream action lines encase the sudden stop. Tireplants.
"We got Mark, Luke, John...the whole unthinking flock." But there were in fact two Mr Hemets! Impossible? Given the fact that two people never have the same first and last name in Hollywood Action Movies. Let's drive extra slow past the nigger.

Developmental acceleration of the world. Leonardo looked at Zeppelin crossly and said, "don't you remeber you and I having this conversation?": "You can do whatever you want with the character, but you will have to pronounce it this way. Are we in agreement? As if I had to ask." What kind of gun is that? The death launcher. What does it shoot? Electrified napalm. Resulting partway 'delusions are our speciality.' 'Christians do it better,' or 'Christians do God better.' Zeppelin's good friend Amina. Nothing which could not be traced to feotal alcohol syndrome in his features if you weren't aware that his mental retardation was cancelled out by cybersynaptic engineering. Zeppelin wanted to go to Marie Callender's. Spiked punk blue cru-cut. Leonardo's dark blonde. Mr Hemet's hebrew curls. Ichorails prominencing, laquered nails luminencing. Paolos the classy ADR actor, master of a thousand tongues. Making up ADR noise to Jethro's riduculous stories until his assassination machismo narcoguerilla gangster schtick is drowned out in tightlipped ghetto asphyxiation.

Paolos cried like a baby when Jethro wouldn't say anything. Jethro always had to play the hero, and you can clearly see that it drives her bug. Paolos could smack him. She slapped him through the midsection of his sweater but it had little effect. Paolos would never understand why there needed to be so many stunt players. Foam insulated aluminum construction of the civic route fenced and stoned, Alex followed the backpacking areateen, and Charlie followed Alex. She has the cute holographic caricature of the basketball gangster african on her backpack. Alex lucked out having enough nuyuan to stay at the relatively inexpensive youth hostel. Charlie pulled a squid from the plastic sack and took a bite on its sandy capital prominence. You'll eat anything when you're hungry. Alex picked his nose with dishpan hands. Alex strolled past the traffic backedup visitor's bus, with lens filled tinted windows, and saw one passenger doing pullups in the straps. Their celebration of X-mas and Kwanzaa and Chaunakha gave Alex culture shock. Charlie put a squidbone in the Santa's cup. Identical houses overlooking the coastal fishing district. Such a cute bus. Allowing consideration of his natural manner, it was not in the least suprising that he did not believe him (Charlie) when he said it. Charlie even had a mint copy of the picture bible. Little worthless handcrafted details. Quite a noisy encounter. Squirming as consumed and washed in soy. In an orchard, roman symmetry. Her mix of melon mams and short skirt is dangerous, especially at this time of day. Kawaii=cute. 'Sharing in the joy of attaining their goal after working so hard.' Abraxas had an interpenet relationship with Duchamp that Zeppelin and Jethro knew little about. Abraxas gave Duchamp information to Hzong concerning the nanomechanosynthesis merch kleptoprospect. Reach inside politely understanding kin annihilation. RIPUKA! HAZARDOUS! Feel the sting of self annihilation. UNSTOPPABLE! Into the tender planet heart faithfully I go. CATASTROPHE!

Unphaseable as megarock. Final ultimate mutation into the isokratic cosmotaxic organism. Jethro in his coalsiltish enumbrasome cannedabyss pentafoil baseball fatigues. "Look," Stock said, the way a body would predictably preach it at a chile on the fringe of lacrimation, pulling a bag from his pocket, a khamical tribe from Africa. From Xico Matic. He held up the clear plastic Triphop for Ganges to see: cobaltic sperms, tinkly pabulums, a tasty-looking gourd of cuntopiquim in a cyst of dredded yelofeign, chrysalises of jizz like thin scarlet goatcheese lwuxanas, acid enwhalers w/ the Nihon manufracturer's nomen scratched off with a knife...."From Africa," Stock said, dangling the Triphop.

The memory in its shocking solitude from being deserted and utterly rejected stunned and jarred him, tapping a deeper childhood trauma, making him cringe at unknown dread, making him reluctant to dare tread over the commandments of acceptable social behavior, making him overly timid for the moment as he ran on the assumption that he would soon get over it, but then that was dangerous, wasn't it?, things like that were not to be rushed and he was encumbent on find ing it within himself and soon the power to overcome this arrest. The screen displayed a blue field that broke briefly and sporadically to display non sequitur snips of scrambled action. What was he worried about? It was rejection, pure and simple, and he would have to get used to it. The question did occur, was this the way that he would slink his way out of the pressure and retard the fulfillment of his responsibilities? Slither off crying? Forever hinder his boldness? He never would be the same bold player again. Wretched. Or was he still to evolve into the patient diehard who obeyed the structure of society steadfastly and with high nobility to realize his dreams at the pace the world would allow? Intensely self conscious of the universe. Grinlabium. Eternally tormented. Jethro smiled as he cleansed his pissmirched fingertips in the basin of all sin noticing without acknowledging the pride in likelihood modestly manifesterd of the white exec's extended-play micturation. Bubbling boiling urine. Rude at an opportunity I'd no intention to be so. Went to the bathroom door to another door. Blower activated in his incidental passing. The light of the bathroom magically came on because he entered. Jethro had difficulty during urination because it psychosomatically interpreted the slightest touch along it as license to prepare for some vile activity.
"What's that for?"
"That's for a reason that's wastefully explained if not readily grasped."
A child who inexplicably kicked the other kid in line in the stomach. A child got really really mad. A child had to be restrained by custodians as he tried to run around. A child would choreograph intricate control battles. A child would destroy the schoolwork of other children. Screaming matricide and patricide in the parents arms for hours. One time, mother was at the mall, and the child almost gets hit by a car, and the mother grabs the child from death and holds the child in her arms and the child started screaming about how he wanted to kill her again, and you see the mother weary with revulsion, fear and indignation pushes the child back into ther motorway, but no cars are coming. Inexplicable rage toward the central caregiver. Never learns to trust, and feels that he must control the lives of himself and all the world around him. Holding therapy. Generational rage with the perpetual calm. See how they never show the angry maverick black cop yelling at a then-strutting now-cringing black suspect? Leonardo was the implied white suspect. A long long time ago. Calculated rage. Relatively stable caregiver frightened not at the calculating terrorist toddler, but the smiling rehabilitated young man. She delighted in destroying certain phallic symbols. He actually believed that she appreciated having her perception options eliminated in a limiting categorization. He said, half in resignation, half intending that he perceive the implicit element of the insanity that he himself as listener would not openly identify.
"Is it possible for a schizophrenic to be egocentric?"
"Well, I would if I were open to playing games but I'm no...and besides, you're older and should know this because we have the same 24, plus, you never allow help on a test, so...."
Nothing is worse than bein' blitzed and hungry.

From the sprawls of Baltidoma to Portport warps MIPs slowly, gigabytes shower on the....

Take into mnemotech the phenom of cosmtaxic lightmotivations time, fever and vector. He prided himself on the calculated cultivation of his filth, and took outright offense to able-bodied persons who relished images of infant deformity. Jethro was in total agreement with this drive to earn. He growingly began to seriously, strongly detest individuals who seem to miserably percieve life as nothing more than a complexity of responsibilites and obligations from which they could never be free. Much later, without a cautionary sequential precedent, in the rabid night metroplicated hyperarterial urbocosm of the Greater Atzlaniano gigapolis, as a very happy black man copulates voraciously with Lindsay Maxine Fulbright, across the vast body of water which separates these two continents, roughly a hemisphere away, in a comic book shop not unlike any other in the goth underburbs of the Brittainical Islas, in the middle of the afternoon, a commotion flies. The instigator suffers from an excessive aggression complex. She is a mercenary -- as is Jethro Antigones Thorp and a number of his tightest homies. Some consider her one of the most dangerous people on the interpenet, if not to the world it was contrived to represent. Her name is Zeppelin. ESPIONAGE: The World's Second Oldest Profession! Centurion accelserate mad-dash thundersmash breeze glide redundant nonending tread of hashmarks flying swish down the concrete sodium-vapor shine splash on the rushing stone shatterharpy raiden hydro cloud release ejecting Z. in dangerous! dangerous! attack mode from Merc Binge. Red alert tactical spaz miasm maneuver delta tango. Z. is the master of the ion night! Z. spins the center to fold double dutch frigid alabaster champagneslick liplicking beestung farflung alabaster gams shifting calves tense bicep swollen torso shivering the claves dynamite at the full moon of her rump rubber tight around the nipples monofilament razor wires spun on the spool draped in darkness behind the lunar rump slicked in industrial polished rubber hair stiffed in fire red fronds of frozen red and black leather dress her stack knee knuckles and Z. cominatcha.(ZEPPELIN: "Job description:" ) Z. throttles Be the first kid on your block to get your social security number. With a peculiar rise in the ultima to emphasize natural amicable qualities. Even the bible itself is a train of blood, confusion and death culminating in a savage climax at the end of time. Sad and heavy. Jethro confides genially to the audience, "You see, the reason why we needed to sneak into the EE building, stemming from the tactical concept of well hidden in plain sight, to spite all us bureaucratic micromanagers, was to access information for some Client (you'll need to get into contact with Leo for the specifics) that couldn't get jacked through cyberspace. Ain't that just a bitch? I hates when that happs, indeed. Zeppelin and I were working to attatch the data system to a modem transmitter. We were working against the clock to vary our tactics to stay ahead of the AI's prescience. The data system was verified by the Client's sources, which is basically heresay that amounts to shit, who I am more than willing to lay my life on because my life is meaningless and I can't sit still anyway, describing how the system is set up. There are databases incased in security systems. Sorry. Threw you. Meant to say ice. This is funny to me, because of my HMS background in computer progamming, because the number identification of the system was modelled after hex. I remember telling Abraxas C series, when I really meant CC series. But for Abraxas, being psychic, it made no difference. Oh, we never got the shit. Remember? We got our asses beat. In the light, we now see that Jethro bears no resemblance to the man in the video, and there is a feeling of relief, because Jethro is quite a character. Sitting in the nocturnal tinted silhouette streamcurved sexcoupe interior with computer bleeps and red dots winking like dead solitary stars here and there. Jethro came up to his Mercedes Benz, running, then trotting, then jogging, then creeping real slow with the gat aimed low. His braids didn't even make a sound. Shhh. Jethro shot the bitch through his window. You aren't very good at what you do. Jethro touched the window, his braids falling, his black fingertips over the laserburn, white hot, intensed like a lens, and spilling all over the interior. The white hot cooled and the blood was viciously absorbed into the black interior. The car purred, powered by that horny old vampiric hunger that only comes from Mercedes. Jethro, the Universal Soldier, Unisol, the only sun, the solitary spirit, original gifted one, outside hisself, outside kisself. Jethro: Surrounded! Then they enfolded him totally by surprise, and the real lights came up. Their hover vehicles illuminated the concrete beneath a fiery orange, met by the cold blue of the cosmos. They came in massive suits with enormous sleek white spaceguns. Jethro giggled a little bit, dropped everything, caught his breath a little more, don't have it all back yet, at least another four hours left to go before I can give someone a gangsta lip and stop my shoulders from heaving, my forhead from pulsing, my adam's apple from bouncing so stupidly, and he tried to close his mouth as best he could as he set back his braids and gut the but of a gun in the chin and hit the floor. Overstanding elated interpol sexhound Lindsay's eskimo braids in elegant medieval filigree, with strips of leather sewn into them as the Lady in Pink, Officer Maxine, "Get up soldier."
"Yes sir!" he shouts with digestive works and little burps near his anus. Jethro sat locked on unloading as the present stretched past with drive swam the bloody path with fatiguing boredom gaining seige by the league. Ripply digital chrome with options of assault spilled out to alternate cover and suffered to return bullets by the hail and blur. The sky admits of dawn. Suspend the window of disbelief with tachyslaughtering hypnogenius and a booming KGB voice. Wasn't it in postnuclear Paris under the sky reaching deep out of the earth's protective tombs and domes that he had met her in a holosuite rippling out of control between black and white and highlights of color where he was once ago cornered au naturel by the fully suited in her planet police officer uniform planet police officer cap planet police officer shoulder pads and the pistol planet policeperson stature she uprightedly stood in the check position elbows bent a figure against the window the passing lights of spinners and apogyrotorques disturbing the darkness the chill of death of being tracked down of being caught in postnuclear Paris it wasn't. Lindsay. Her sex appeal. Her cunning. Her stealth. Jethro hands behind head nose pressing floor dignity eschewn. Surrendering all that he stood for oh how he longed to surrender. Domination stamped through his cells goddam how he longed to be dominated.
"Where do I meet this Lady in Pink?"
"I only watch movies when Christians die, because that shit's funny."

Zeppelin's went to the back to the Sikes as Jocelyn with Jethro looking a lot like O'Doyly. Shredded streamers floundering a thousand gallant ways individually prismic, queues of jetfumes criss the sky higher. Customary appreciation days saw the reduction of petrol prices. Female exhale. Etherhangs levihangs to Jethro Thang the Kickback Kang in the Oriental Lounge colored with blues on filling cycledelica. Jethro sat quietly and lazily stored his energy. If those whiteboys said another asanine thing he'd pretend to look at his pager, swear, stand and walk out. The engraving seis on Christmas Mins triplified, turned with vulvic vortextual force, Jjhon Axelrod Sikes head shocked black and slicked brilliant with large ears and small features saying, "That's probably not the wisest choice of words he it you're lookin to make me feel guilty," leaning over the couch on rubbersole denim threads icicling round in shreds and Delicatessen Mins sitting in this lovedrunk stupor wearing eyeglasses with a hungry delinguent looking mouth, which rightfully wasn't what she ruefully wanted when she went to the looking glass to work her face, fumbly fellationic flossflower a flagrant rouge, faintly freckled dream, Axelrod with the sallow profile of the phallicophile with the calico smile, evenly pierced of lobes, getting the knewyou loan transferred to electrons in the credstick eft, Laurie Anderson's lenghty breakdown looming over all their heads like a balloon in the thanksgivingsday parade. Her portrait with cartoonified scribbly embellishment owning high support strings stretching off big nails with an unnecessary misuse of negative space which Jethro rather righteously linked metaphorically to the general vacuous state of the shallow plastic people sipping teas of all nations as if. At an advantageous seat with no incosiderate busy bodies busily bussing want to be brushing his African inspired breddy draids in the bustle past knocked out of order. Check. Engaging spar. Money on the black playing white with white playing black. Mixed with so Russian so you know how the odds are lookin. Amina's had-of-it rapefrown passing a cup of orange mango strawberry banana. The room emptied. The spaceship drift of the hanging lights in the rain draft. Pitterpatter like Seattle land of the Buffalo cattle. Backlit fluorescent theatricality of the board of faire. Delicatessen Mins' younger looking skins her limp woody locks and coochie leather purse. Turinquisit Ln along to. Jjhon Axelrod Mins pullmoneys and strappingly stillbeats a professed boastguster of realties. Could never find the legion of Zeppelins in her sisters but women infinitely more desirable to his sinning cardiac than the ebeauluptifuller younger sis (Delicatessen). Polishing her asscrack with cotton balls. Heavng as he smoke. Jethro seriously needs to dynamite the hymen through her groopy juicy fan peeflower bringing close the chemical tension with fat finality of the yummy hebetical sis-dish-screwish factor. Tapping her jaws, topping her flaws, tipping her raws. Jethro had succeeded in seducing her. She was hooked. No: curious. Shed her staid Catholic pretension. She looked back. Longing? Jethro knew better. His spine to the whole world of the freeway passing enchanted with the question to his philosophy that persisted: barely legal. Any o' bro with a pecker be certain to inspect her. Dissolve into ambigooey. Manner and features giving me a hardon. Yuck. Get away. Oooh, da's hot! After visualizing sex with Delicatessen in Herzegovina. And Amina? Wasn't she a scream? Niggerati cold pharonic black within black eyes and gat barrels staring down the camera back in old russianamericanistic LA, when the bombs fell. Barbed wire and neon. Move a little because people have to walk behind you. Thanks. Two drink minimum. You're blocking the stares. Here you are. Okay. No smoking. Jethro in his glowing white- purple slowjam suit in the violet that is ultra back in the day. Wanna scratch your own nuts but you don't want to be caught apparently masturbating in front of the clapping marks at the table. Cigarette falling out the mouth. Waiting for better. While women rhythmically expose their genitals and men casually notice. Hell? She had said to a lugubrious patron, "Don't look so grumpy." Jethro's gonna sit you right in the front seat, for the next drop using a bigger bill, erection on auto pilot, unbelted, strapless, put your hands up, step out of the car, exit the door to your left, thank you for riding. Synth orgasm all mechanical and space smeared. Perfect ass, tits and hair. Hooded glance down at the virgin in her strut Delicatessen loosely lip syncs. The virgin meeting the eyes at the opposite end of the table uncomfortably. Black mole on the waist. At 7th Veil just kickin it with the hat on straight, talkin shit to the catholic girl while starin down the kungfu master talking fast to the neophytic highschooler peddling longstem roses to kneewagging shinjinrui and proley nonmasons. Jethro, popping his gum to the asssmack. Come and wash the rain. Slapping her flat ass. Delicatessen's killer smile etched in stone signifying nada damn thing. Baggy pants drape his skinny legs. Languid working the red paint laquered ply to her favorite metal tune. Jethro's kicks cocked on the drinkboard, stretched, chair inclined. Hollow infinity of flashing lights. Taped applause. Gossiping stooled hookers. Slinky platformed snakeheeled princess of capitalism, knees knocking the fallen folded bills indifferently. See my girlfrind. Delicatessen/Paolos strutting from the western theme minimall like a worker in her nylon F-1 racing jumpsuit laced in kanji from Hollywood High doing shotokan laghats in slowmo on sunset, jazz escaping from the pace car streetlegalized windshield in slowmo cracks over the sodium tinged smogosphere galaxy up up nice hit you prick. Anonymous wall of windows with one shade ajar for the light shaded on the nightstand when Paolos closes the window to turn on before lovemaking casting it's beam and glow to this point in the night alley all through the night go off, only to come back on when Jethro gets that idea and has to write it down with fingers smelling of Paolos/Delicatessen'(s) cheesy lube around the govt inkpencil. Notice how every woman so far seems to be a hooker or wants to be in the author's story so far? I'll be sure not to do that when I start writing. Smile. Cocks don't bother me, they father me. Really? She worked at the Burrito King. The high table and stools. Choked fittingly. Diced tomatoes, black beans, guacamole, pico de gallo, spicy red and green, corn chips, sour creme, cheddar, jack, lime juice, enriched rice, chile peppers, parsley. Got his refill drink then bounced at reckless speeds about to eat shit. Into the tunnel. Red heat lamps and ultraviolet. Got carded. Using the distance with security guard Xico to discuss assault weapons being completely indifferent to the existential bitch on ism. Counting the singles while bouncing her ass. Sliding the straw to the side to drink his ojay. Veronica, bored on a stool after being bored pretending to be hot on the runaway. Writhing to slow jams. Crookedtoothed bourgeosie. The ithydontifrice of the working class. Speaking rapidly and sopping the pronounciation into interminable sound. Makin ends doin odds back in Los Skanless. At one point it became obvious that Zeppelin's little sis Delicatessen was getting hot, but at another point much later on in the ride it hit Jethro that he was looking a lot like D'Oyly. Did this ruin things? Did Jethro pull out? Zeppelin stepped a draft through the center of the lounge. She watched Jjhon talk to Jethro with Delicatessen watching while Amina played a little pool a little while as they talked with hands vaguely (like fans). Zeppelin sat the screwdriver on the table of pressed glass. She saw Amina get further remote with each fanswept half minute she leaned on the stick. Zeppelin broke. Can't hustle me. Chalk me up. You're full of bullshit. This the first time you've won? You've been practicing. You aren't even calling any more. Funny how you can seem to be calm while you brow sweats. Want a napkin? What are you looking at? Champion soccer star. If you only knew. Urge to move his knees. Gone. That typewriter isn't going to last long balanced on these books. No strain. Kanji in her hand. Death and hope. Danger and rebirth. She looked at him her eyes thoroughly red. Raining atomics on the slavic village. The last bus had gone. He'd decided to stay the night with her. She had said this and that. Not she wasn't saying go. This would make him look bad because after all that time and this and this and that he had to look like a fool because she made it look that way and now it seems her head was thinking different things directly diametrical in opposition to the reading of her posture the vacancy of her open mouth the youthful incarnation of Zeppelin but more fine and refined now meaning nothing at all but an act of desperation made worse with its high sounding highly visible unavoidable failure all grotesque. She became conscious of the passers ingraciously brushing against her hair and Jethro observed she bothered but he knew that she returned. Jethro could give her his seat. Jethro decided not to. She sat there. She sat in the same place and suffered all through the night all through his mind. Placing the speech low as not to be over audible above the music and genteel bustle. Perpetuating this even while they addressed him so that he couldn't separate the address subtracted from similar lines of speech nearby. Their dumb show abscond was cloaked with the dim den cover of poor lighting. Kind face in a million. So sensitive. What are you talking about? Two forms erect bodies still pressing furtive in the shadows. Could you imagine being her living under the persistent suspicion of people fantasizing getting orally copulated by her. Fevered draw of her touch along his skin at night. Ravish her there and then. Lovelorn hearttorn ofr a background wanderer of intense pulchritude and indolent deportment. Dim emptyhead lorn problem Jethro would willingly cop to, waiting for the placation to stop. Now the school that Delicatessen had her minds went at was just out the side of Hayes, a nice place, a new art college, her everlovin home. Granite composite and slick concrete. Curious spray stencilled question mark. A Nishiki Manitoba 10-spd. Danger High Voltage Keep Out. Delicatessen lived presently in a University janitorial room. Lockers, pipes, dumsters. D'Oyly's sister takes woodshop there. A girl in heels for an interview gallops past. Regando Con Agua Reclamada. Aztesselation. Lagoon ripe with canard feces. Size and clutter of the Japanese teenager. The type of style to make women feel freaky. Sound absorbing white panels. Shuffling busily in her short shoes. Breathy method of girltalk which manage to seem as if each exhale was a response from a stirring beginning in the clitoris and continuing probestyle all the way through to the womb and back. A no bike standee positioned in the center of the promenade. No bike signs taped everywhere. Post stripped and scrawled with neat printed deepness. Second hand turning on the hanging clock bulb the same speed as he passed it. In a room with the "Electrical warning" sign on the door. Pink walls with orange sodium vapor. Ceiling of the clositer run with pipes. Rang with the sound of construction across the way. Supersystematic gauge theories. Non- abelian. Safety orange PVC fencing. Harrow hours on. All in the muck to her neck. Push all it can go. Multitudes of terror in a lot of different funny directions. Once again push forth no mercy. Ageless descent. Powerful bad like she never had. Reflective pause. Macabre tremble down the poorly made. Window of hope. Hashditch chance for a defending stance. Completely tweaked the opportunity. Repeatedly hitting the pause button to increase the damage. Echoing its loop out over forever. Echo deletions. Bubblegum blues. Conquering cascade. Fishman. Empty echo. Victory. Rough exotic tactical to lounge melody. Kamioosako. Jyagua. Ashenden. Tomohide. Bungo. Aribon. Slide the princess of to the left for just a moment so I know what's at stake. Master-D. The base will explod in 50 seconds. Lock pat top phantom hero. Gondamin. Download main galactical gigacrash unsatisfactory cataclystical attractor. Lone rectifier of bad news. Perilrich cauldron flickering disasterworld. Hypnotically linked to death with the intended. Nemesis from beyond the dawn of time. Vanquishable spirit under great irritation. Through a splitlevel ODB which was strongly reminiscent of Zaxxon.

Giulee's supposed to be the lady of a fool named Leonardo. Pimpstress thongrocking in the structured soldiers uslurprix. Jethro liked playing good rap, but didn't enjoy buying it, which was what was so cool with Paolos was that was, shopping not a problem for to or with her, as long as she had dough, which Jethro knew something about how to get. Jethro's hands were never once cold when he touched Paolos' body it just so happens. Jethro another ego-part writes his masterpieces drawing on his retina while he does pushups.
Of the five, cross the watersgeny, siam reflection of his.
ESPIONAGE: The World's Second Oldest Profession! Centurion accelserate mad-dash thundersmash breeze glide redundant nonending tread of hashmarks flying swish down the concrete sodium-vapor shine splash on the rushing stone shatterharpy raiden hydro cloud release ejecting Z. in dangerous! dangerous! attack mode from Merc Binge. Red alert tactical spaz miasm maneuver delta tango. Z. is the master of the ion night!

Comin to fuck you up and whatever the fuck you worship! Everflowing undying thrill machine of miracles and morals. My parasitic vitality reassured. The object on the disadvantaged edged of the furniture. My dignity entirely intact. My resolve insoluble. Unmistakable response of revulsion. The distinction so arbitrary as to be insignificant. Enough water to knock this thing completely inactive. The disappearance of the screwdriver. O'Doyly took the screwdriver from the floor where it lay, and went outside to tighten the mirrors on his motorcycle as it lay in the pull hitched to his truck. He had waited for the longest time to find one like this because it was precisely this sort of fastening that was used in the factory and not generally available for public consumption. Zeppelin personified a convincing vacancy as the seconds progressed into infinity. Jethro furrowed with wrinkled ancestal sorrow on his ugly brow. His smile wicked, releasing his fury in manic measure and eyes of avengeful glee. Zeppelin growled in severity with the gleam of evil insight revealed out of what at first seemed only an empty unwatching stare. Limitcase Zeppelin, hardcase Jethro. Jethro spun into a frenzy of self-determinist negative righteous rage.

SUPERBOWL SEVENTY-SIX.

Zipping to and fro in the airport. Zipping to and fro in the spaceport. Headphones over baldpate.me, and we hit the night. Anonimo sang all four verses of the Star Spangled Banner, then began improvising his own verses. In beautiful falsetto without his voice synthesizer.
"Jet-ther-ro and Zep'plin doubly stink at their work...." Anonimo is bald, eyes changed. Vocal chords tweeked. All his teeth are surgically implanted steel. Praise the pizzlepuss.
"I win!" Dexter Sinisi!
"Where's Abraxas?" The suicidal terrible hermaphroditc destroyer who lives in an inactive volcano in South America has captured our tergiversate action stars! Is this the end? All a game from the very start!
"The world is sick! The sickness is evident from their media! See the sickness of the world! I have destroyed Santa Barbara! What coastal town will be next? The world needs to be taught a lesson!"
(NOTE: Dexter Sinisi, arch villain doesn't actually say all this. Part this part in the comic book area of Delicatessen's.... Should Jethro similarly follow a complex quest to a villain? Or to.... Wait! That part can be a dramatization of the part when Jethro tails the trial investigator during Lindsay's trial and stumbles upon the man who was impersonating Mr Hemet.)
"It was I who gave Abraxas his brain." The Villain of Dexter Sinisi shouldn't say much. He should spout and then quickly kill Zeppelin and Jethro because he can get the information out of their brains.
Dexter, who was alone, recited personal dogma to his personal computer, which listened: "My weakness is ignorance and the I mean and my fear of fear of it. One thing I can't stand. Will not tolerate. No how. Inexcusable. Information is the phenomenon over which evolution is determined. One thing I'd wage holocausts for. With a clean conscience. These people have no vision. Fuckin worthless. Unevolved. I feel no sympathy for something whcih cannot perceive its own exploitation. The logic's simple. Any energy expended on their preservation is illogical: I firmly believe this. How can you even call it evil. Am I right, HALLAH (model 'y' prototype, not the 'z' model maintained by the Illuminati which stalks us all)?" HALLAH beeps. Jethro weeps, for had this not been his philosophy all along? No longer human or more human than all? He was truest. Shrewdest. The extremest. The real deal. That was real. On the real. That was real. Dexter was serious. Jethro had only all this time been a pale substitute. Jethro could never hope to be as cold as Dexter. What Jethro has failed to notice was the purest embodiment of scientific thought for evil, because human life has a worth beyond how they might be able to contribute to the intellectual world, a worth which cannot be determined within the system of logic, because an awareness of the worth of humanity, indeed it is true awareness itself, which remains a child born and thriving solely within the nonrational. Despite the noblest of motivations to clarify the reader with the moral objective which was attempted at being communicated in this parable, it is a disservice to privelege the reader with this information. Get the characters to a point where we can at last see them in the heartpounding gladiatorstyle heroic action we've been all along waiting for, straighten out the mentalities, streamline and modify their morality so nothing upsets the perfect deathdance of violently aesthetic, erotically kinetic cinematic slaughter. Vessel of oblivion out of control. There's no metaphor. Evidently unbefitting her touch and jerk. Zinc clad panel. Nearly elliptical vault. Tapered floor plate. Hand polished cement panels. Daylit atrium. Fritted transparent grazing. Singleflow circulation path. Hardwood tropical gangplanks. Vast gulley tesselated concrete. Prominent riverfront. Decking of Ipe. Close to perfect as it gets compelled to-frown extra lazy. Galaxy organism of a system. Hiphop, pornos, and wordprocessing. It's all real. Surfable. Jethro held position just as his pursuee took light. Pursuee's calculator loaded with options. That was based on logic. Couldn't he see the fallacy. It was so evident. Just when the most he could possibly perform realized itself, all the world collapsed, all of his effort consumed in holy fire! Jethro held position just as the pursuee took light. Bald braided brains turning back behold the bold vasculation mainmass of his neck keelcolored with the disturbing propwash of the bottled saildrift years contained in every drop to the present not in the smallest disimilar to past tidings. Shark in express taking after the prey with a whit of what warmly promised to be really something worth giving one's legs a stretch to suit them for. Jethro's ass breathed free of the bench at last. He had to move it fast to keep that freedom. Steps swoop steps. Chevalier gobble the trail up beside. Wooded judicial rash. Light contrasting source the farend hall glass peaking dayfall deepdarks of the backlit strong throw contrasting shadows. Following through the flux of peoples swirling this way and that, the rows of the benched, Jethro stood behind a protruding pilaster as soon as he entered the farhall. Magesterial folds of the long gown. A fresh little breeze. Breasts protruding. Board dangling. Breezy fresh walktops. Compulsive unconscious martyrhood engine subroutine she sinks into. Her heartstopped when they announced her name. She dropped the pen on the previously dropped pad and it rolled unwilling to place itself still. Arms to lift out of her bucket seat. So absolute was the omniopia of their watchfulness to the presence of her ego's jittery display that the customers seeing (paying no attention to) her rise from the chair at the start witnessed (playing oblivious to her movements) her reach the point of her lifted itinerary's completion. A sales attendent noticed her shift nearer, ignored her halting. Key to their collective neurosis is an insistence upon the character extras in conflict with their liberal understanding that only the human form in it's totally unadorned modality is necessary. Drugless sinful left her fun job with a nitroglycerin grin ear to ear no vert fear taking a brochure on the war on drigs which she was very much involved in because she just gave her car to Jethro who as you know kills for a living right now in Cuba my mistake not Jethro but the other 'O' Infesto fucking convention of solidifying all black males in one lump she could deal with. Sun up froze the washing chill off the flesh of the new earth. Somebody realized how important they were supposed to be to god, being god and all. A glint of a shadow through sundrenched frost heralds the return of the hero, stomachs grumbling. The hero's stomach grumbles in anticipation of a little promise made to him in a forgotten deep body dream mind in an earlier scene centered around a heroine of maximum pulchritude as the story goes. Rooting and grounding and centering his awoke mind for the story to unfold. A story in the death-throes of birth. Rose like the cheek of the heroine promised the hero from the unseen narrator of them all, his sign the sun, creator of all tale lines, like the color filling out the acid flower of his migraine. Witty reportie exchanged in real time to true effect, grounded rooted, somebody trapped the heroine in his head by the magic of simple colloquium bent from built to perfection. In the scenes to follow, approaches are heartrendingly close, eternally leaving a residue of something to be desired, a residue having germ qualities capable of being expertly replicated under the creator's hands into the stuff of further convoluted interludes of the type of obstacular sort known to bring all the hero's godgivens to bear. It obviously being part of his genetic makeup to be archtypically hot, he made himself present unaware to her attraction, simultaneously bewitched to the heat of the heroine. Our heroine is perfect in every way but her intelligence. Primary source of dissatisfaction?: the sinking disappointment which ensues shortly after the sun has risen and it becames paifully obvious that no fulfilment should be had by any easy means if means at all, and that the various plot elements waiting in the wings to assail the hero are contrived to consist of soulwracking irony as per the ink on the creator's busy drawing board. The cold of the morning efficiently sizzled into the air. The hero interacts with the heroine with lazy easygoing patience. Damp sexy hair. Greatest desire to kiss.
"Don't be so pushy," recognize achy jitters like oscilating electricity the whole hand through.
"Are you okay?"
"Fair enough to assume. That. Seems." Our heroine, brunette lengths recently washed, engaged the first witness with conspicous antagonism, which was surely legitimized because of the earliness of the morning hour remains wholly intact the duration of the afternoon because she stood down the challenge of returning the patience frequently afforded her by persons experiencing the selfsame emotional responses to life's ceaseless challenge of vagaries weary upon their plodding conscience. In maturity, the heroine is thrice the most motivated above and beyond her trembling countenance associated with her youth, mere ages ago yet less. What was to be made of that look? Representative of the metamorphical protean quality to the spirit of the human. Grounded rooted in any kind of reality, foundation struck in the firmest of terriculous solidity, getting back to business early, coming into being with the equipment to tackle the full of the day's loads.
Iacopi lighter than air metal form.

Titsdrool!!
Cunteatah!!
DOT DOT DOT.

Twas Cholly ope ye mechimportz much to the shagrin of Strodeher, who shimmyshimmied full cepbi ingbloat, and Awelux, who lay deactivated, ready without his knowing for the subatomic deathgat to be merged permanently in the place of his hand. When Awelux awoke.
"Xico," Cholly detailed with murderous serenity, "is an agent of Dexter Sinisi. He was sent to kill you."
"I know that. Why?"
"HALLAH conflicts! We are the puppetdance representing the computer's dueling suicidal and esteem natures."
The fuckable unfucked. The disk struggled the drive before entering, little ejection button popping forward for whatever. Lenghty masculine stretches consuming time. Gravity cycles. Turnstyles. Farted in the window. The admirable fortress of his peson. Hurtseeking mistress. Still in transporter. Tap the press the punch the clip clit. Get the power pellet. Fascist videogame BGM. Flying spike bite. Spinning lights of the flash. The leader in plague production. Make it megaman. Behavior mod. Toxic effects. Prohibitively expensive. Grounded, rooted, steelied. Wideroaching knowledge. Guitar sololick. Tavern of pub. Tatsu maki senpuu kyaku!! JAPAN!! Stony exterior. What has gone before. Flying platforms. Death tank underbelly. Rising dragon fist. Kyaku. Anusface. I get my reruns from the Harukiya shack. Skydown walk knee the concrete. She knees the concrete. Complacency and closedmindedness going hand in hand, he rewound the tape, afflcited by diseases of the mind, unable to deny the emotion behind his objectivity. Noxema smears like cherries. Working his abs. It was in this manner that he armed the house with the power to detect any entry. Lavished alone lavishing in insane processes. She was taken in thoroughly by his objectivity, by the smell of his doublethink, the way in which water and barbs rolled of his gentlemanly armor. Straightening her bra, gripping the microphone, experiementing on the drum machine with a hammer, pulling the erasure sensitive carbon brittle and twisted from her blazer pocket, tendering her resumes, mimicking the choreographer of the women in the hair commercials, lights of the passing cars rushing over them, in movement through a world of senseless violence. Several years again. Feel stupid. Taking phenomenal effort (got got got here too early then stayed way too fuckin long). to move beyond the fact of her folly by embracing it whole heartedly. Here before you stands the abject manifestation of the villain. I am the villain. You are my toys. Haphazardly speeding out the joint with the order bout to bounce...

BIG ENDING! BIG ENDING! Quick and dirty ends the race during the uroboric swirl of ruinous gesthalt, mmmmmm, shyly, elusively Silly Set muntruthfully mayanx verbetrays swishes self azteknot for Abraxas clockwisdom beyond the pull of gravismortis collective turmoil. In his smite whake under a sackcloth moon with a fork and spoon with the visual accompaniment of the pussywrinkle stormclouds of Jupiter. Mass times velocity equals momentum. ldn't have been anymore than a landing strip in all directions and a flowering structure of concrete as the Sunstar sets on Moonworld in a nonrational moment of wonder. Unitary oneness. World of appearances. True being. Selfeating feathered serpent. Illuminating all in a gentle obliterating radiance. A brilliant tree of smoke, branches of fire, fruits of destruction, roots of ancient explosive. All up. Godlike ascension. Eat the fruit and transcend to eternity. Not surely die. Axis Mundi, center of the world. Moonworld in the center of the great Pacific. Here the twisting interconnecting serpent principle. Minnie smells me through the void. Stink of memory. Breath of oblivion. Smoke of destruction. Be as one of us. Technological return of the serpent. Serpents swirling in a pool of stars. Ununited shapes of amoebica. Brighter than the Light of the World. Consumed in my selfconscious plan for the future. Earliest of earlies to the latest of lates. Black snake roots of the tree of death. And the next time that you're waiting for my downfall...bonds ya'll together. Life everlasting. Devil's shoestring. Boneset. Lotus. Thymelace wonder. Illdid. Arpe-reposoir. MMMMSHAIALOOD. Zozolanget. Zozolangue et. Zozolangue at sprake the spade sped. Toward the tail end muffled. Spiritual Unity. Straight Path. Wishat us on the interpenet. Neapturn. In clearly legible dearjohn font. Setparity. Space exploration, falling from this subject to that, as we did before (and now do again), "So, I've noticed...," beginning his explanation, quite loftily she noted, concerned the business of the next hours, which passed slowly. Who matterfact reclining Jethro phoenisized (where his power lies) of pharonyxal epic proportions matterfact, all the while. Desecending the rises. Valvewheels and gauges. She went by the shadows of the display on the digital display. Down the surface course[ trumpet exchange]. Wrapped in gold foil. Cirrostratus halo. Steel piercing the cumulonimbus. Upon a butte. Condesensitive. Improper advances. Alex Uptome. Alex asked Zeppelin directly. "I'm not wearin cologne." Gentle flex through this outside finger along a chairback. Double aryaned colloquy. Piles fruct the calf as a mother. In the longlasting serenity of the absolute. He took the inwards in. I hate writing. I want to read. This noble misunderstanding she'll allow.

The blue door opened. (Jethro enters.)
Condensate puff, teeth in the blackness ripped into a smile, chainlink. Diamondedge glinting titanium polished with a blue laser grasped with lethal might while wind rippled the mauve silk over the back of these sweats with the beads of the galaxy winking over the nubian dome. The blue door opened. Transparent over the blue glass canvassing the overcast marine of the concrete dotted with flecks of sodium orange, the angles of teeth indicative of mirth, the ephemeral puffcloud of exhalitus. Treachery in the midst. Haircut. Zeppelin runs through her beautiful naturally grown locks with the speedrazor. Zeppelin now looks a lot like her sister Delicatessen. Zeppelin faxes in a picture of her sister. Zeppelin scans the retinas. Zeppelin touches up the retina scans in a photographic manipulation program. Zeppelin has a laser burn the design into a plastic mold. Zeppelin fits the eyes. Zeppelin gets a synthesizer. Zeppelin impersonates her sister Delicatessen and asks her father, Christmas, for money. Zeppelin comes into the possession of a credstick with a five thousand nuyen liquid charge. Zeppelin now has money to get into the club. Zeppelin having fed the rest of the nanoscale drones through a syringe in the toilet pipe. Seedy stall. Platforming joylevel. Taking a bunch of flax. Brushy sworls of polylineal mystical contours of water, hair, speed, wires and energy. Streaked with erratic confusions of ectoplasm. Bawdy threads of eternity. Grandiose and vulgar. Reworking the world a little somethin somethin. Meanic turbulence. Value by association. Instinct to peep through the drapes every time you hear a v8 rumble or axel cry out typical of persons sitting on that windowhugging couch. No matter how much I tried to lighten my brow I looked like a criminal.
Me and Zeppelin one time man runnin runnin like with like in the unicity little somethin somethin cinematic televisual representation of the public interspatial polyglot. "Yes, yes, let's see here. Good." The old white lady had gold glasses, a bag for her golf ironwoods crammed against the cubicle, the matrix of which of upper borders labyrinth the myriad horizon flatness, butterkeys down the natchboard.

My ni'r vs. nice wrotten opt exposing a clear goal to bastardize the white race. Return of Our Severoir the Masshagia. He maid ich crying, 'Jethro's onkept moi stresses becaughts he cullnt mach a faineru salaulction.' The whole horde filing apathetically past. She babbled phony bucketfulls of fake concern. We all listened and nodded and when she was done tried to think of an explanation. She sounded too guilty to me. What was she hiding? Who was she protecting? Jethro would stagger then fall to his knees. So finally, as the scientists claimed, the illusion of a sturdy stride is blown out of the water by these startling consecutive coincidences. Damn it all to hell. Jethro slapped Lindsay. Lindsay kneed him up in his groins. That knee stayed lodged for three seconds. The officer flattened the pile of his crewcut leaning to the side to listen holding Lindsay's purse which was a bag of black leather and could pass in a scholatic setting for a little pack for a little back. Lindsay, Lindsay, Lindsay, I've told you time after time to stand up for yourself as she knelt near the falling warrior. She had knees like the penitant. The sky was red like blood, and for a change seemed a little normal. Conlan loosened his tie and wiggled his pinky down his ear canal. Conlan had ear canals like a sewer, retaining the feces of everyone he came into contact with, later you could suspect he was going to trasnmit that feces raw to the page. Lindsay carried the backpack next to Jethro and knelt there. She opened it up and whipped out the pictures. Jethro was in the vicinity. Jethro did wetwork. This is enough. In the first photograph was the depiction of a night scene of a stand off blazing with rotaries shields in phallanx beneath the battlements of the superintendent building, the doors open, a body falling, blood. The blood was like the sky at present. Sometimes the sky would remind man how small he was. Jethro had seen blood before. Lindsay straightened his cocking head. In the second picture was the graphically realistic capture of a long fuzzy seize where the lines between evil and love had been unundoably manipulated for the bad through and through by someone's smudge tool but still it is good enough to see that Jethro can be seen bombing through the door, fleeing the scene, a face marked with guilt and a gaze that can cut down whatever type of bullshit you want to post up for what it is: (i.e.) bullshit. Jethro let go of a single tear, but Lindsay somehow missed it. It didn't mean anything. Lindsay rubbed his washboard with that way of hers meaning bad news. Jethro got that feeling in his lower abs something like that failure which at the same time sinks and stinks. The other officer put his pager on vibrate. The other officer cracked his knuckles. The other officer cleared his nostrils. The other officer fretted through his pockets at the missing penis cancer medication. Lindsay hefted the honorborn head dripping dreds with reverence affected through hesitation, scryed the brownness of the double sparkling globes of dusty umbra, and removed his athletic footwear. Jethro cried a single tear but Lindsay misses these things. It was a matter of prideful assumption of will perennially drained of courtesy to banalities, born white and pale under her tan, Lindsay seated his shoulders in her open hunkering lap attentive as if for confession, narrow cheeks abandoned in straight shadows like the stony barkface of a petrified forest moist with the moss growing toward magnetic north the star fixed abovewhich her ancestors personally never had ever to chart for survival oh maybe eons ago. When you hear that many cars pull up your instincts should teach you that you're screwed. Jethro had been in the business for nearly a year now, and not once had he been shook down so well. All for love. He didn't kill no cop. Jethro's usual self-assurance was ebbing into no more, and this was the most hardest for Lindsay to take because it was the single defining characteristic of this man and she watched him disintegrate into somebody who's mannerisms she did not recognize, a codex of a lexicon of which she had not wasted away many pleasurable lazy hours analyzing the syntax of, presented with this, she turned into the keeper of books having text industriously changing to this alien tongue by inscutible means. A cop was dead. His partner was dead. There was a crime in the global village. The village elders had him marked as the killer. Jethro was screwed. All over some girl. Not just any girl. Jethro should have seen it coming. How could he have been so blind? In all of his whole year doing this, he had never been so blind. How does an integrationist cope with the caste? This was not the way to go out. Jethro felt a fear rise in him. Because he was in deep. He knew her father. Her father was going to kill him. Jethro had broken the law in the worst way imaginable. He liked her father. He treated him like a son. But justice is justice. Lindsay was glowing. Their glowing heads together which they had was an illuminence transcending to a nativity abortion. Jethro was surrounded by whiteness in her purity. How could something so pure be so poisonous? Poison encroached as the blood sky allowed no visual distinction, images smeared, there was no way he could see out, the heroin in his arm was not heroin, the heroin in his veins was not heroin, the heroine in his arms was heroin was not heroine was not in is arms. She sent a silent alarm, and the cars pulled up and her father came in after the officers, surrounding, the yang with the yin of their face, with a cold like that of congealed blood.
Lindsay staggered melodramatically back to her unfinished drink. But Jethro never paid taxes and he wasn't going to die so with promises broken he resolved to finish tokin in the ODB with a sack of chocolate yogurt.
Jethro came into the room late, and always when you come into the room late you miss out on certain spectacular sights such as Lindsay throwing a tantrum. Jethro didn't need any of this. He stirred into his coffee and stared opposite directly into only one of the preposterous gentlemen, and then only because he was in his early forties, appeared to be upwardly mobile, but had a stud in his ear. It was small. It was a diamond. Or wanted to be a diamond. Jethro frowned and played with his dreads. Conlan comes creaking over on his cane like an evil elder from the back of the wooded room packed with greenery on top of daylight yet still remaining unpurged of unseeable content. Wires of every sort spilled off the redwood of the defense line.
Chilly in here. We're all alone, figuratively. Jethro frowned and played with his dreads. The head in front of whasisnigga clutched the shine. The greyhaired lady in the business skorts with the credible smile and brows to go with it suppressed a lulu of a cough. Jethro looked at her sidelong, skull still in an attitude to affect the image of fidelity and support to Lindsay's cause and veracity beneath the redwood prow, spare red drapes. Houston, we are connected to the world. Jethro read that. The eyes of America are watching. And if you believe that you must be new here and I have something else to sell you. The woman next to him cleared her throat again. Then she sneezed and Jethro blessed her in Swahili. Syntax error. He blessed her mother. Common error. Like you'd know. Jethro thought about his car and how it needed brakes. Jethro thought about Lindsay's cars which also needed brakes. Jethro feels that he needs to be in control of his vehicle. Jethro's vehicle was parked on the street. The street was busy and the sound was suppressed through the glass like the woman's cough, like the talking in the courtroom by people in the gallery, the commentator bay. The commentator rubbed his cock at Jethro. Jethro turned away. The commentator proceeded to masturbate ferociously beneath the red cloth of the courtroom drapery matching tablecloths unique to the commentary. The commentator throttled his meat. He was blocked by the console. Only his head was visible. He looked down at the defendent box, how tight her big titties were in that dress. Oo! This was insane. He was jacking off in a courtroom, and nobody seemed to notice. She noticed. But she's always sneering at me. You're good. Sitting in the hot courtroom all day. All this red around. The line of questioning extending over the hours and rambling. Covering this tremendous case nobody still conscious could possibly give a fuck about makes a commentator nihilistic. The other commentator, Shirley, was listening to hockey. She had a teleprompter keeping her posted on the case wired for the hearing impaired. I lost control while she schooled her daze on the words down below us. I was lost in my own world of thinly veiled homoerotic passions. My panting became fairly audible. People in the gallery started to notice. But nobody would ever suspect that the commentator was stroking his meat in the courtroom. And then she went back. She tripped over one of the wires. I mean the prosecution isn't even present. This is all a bunch of bullsit. The DA righted the upright. The courier investigator jogged out of the room in her pumps. It never seemed to occur to her to take them off. After nearly breaking her neck, she galloped out to general amusement. Look at her tits bounce! If I went that way, I could go for that. Now I see how heterosexuality is a viable proposition. Ah! My dick is in those tits! Yes! I'm coming in her tits! Ah! Jethro stopped playing with her braids and followed the defense investigator. She sat watching him go sorry his leaving and played with her braids thinking about the form and expression of Jethro's manly ass in comparison to the struggles of this one man in the horrible system and how Lindsay was such a bitch and he had to sit here and watch all this and pretend that he cared because he couldn't cook, didn't drink so disapproved of her drinking, of all the drugs the government had to approve, why dangerous alcohol and not a substance so horny as heroin, ho ho, what a little bitch. She wished he'd come back and play with her braids some more.
With an unrealistic goal in mind, Jethro constructs popular notions of masculinity as the unthinking brute unthinkingly, Lindsay would rate him inconsiderate, as Jethro would himself had he not a more important goal in mind, which he did, and an unrealistic one at that. For someone who had spent all day in a library his bibliophagous appetite seemed nonminused. In any other situation you could count on him to do the most selfless thing, which was in overt terms, pretending to care about what was going on here. Jethro could no longer bring up the strength for that. Jethro Thorp had been holding it for a while and let go. He no longer would be swayed by the tenderness, you can see him looking uneasy because wasn't it incest? Jethro couldn't let himself do that to another soul again. It was time to cleanse the spirit. No more to frequent the downsides of human inclination. He wasn't the only unholy motherfucker. He knew two. But you can wanna see him about that on your own time. Folding his hands this way. Effeminate? Jethro knew exactly what would happen if he gave in. So he set himself staunchly to resist against it in opposition solid. When it came again, he would not buckle down. Jethro needed to get here. Things were looking good. Jethro was pleased to see that Lindsay had established so impenetrable an argument. Lindsay's opposition, this girl, the defendent hadn't a spatial dendrite's chance in Acheron. Sweetest satisfaction at least with the freehand from all the sheets rubbing the right way so what would you do marooned on a desert island and all. Bitch never came to visit me. Leonardo tried to distance himself from her by thinking about other women, but he couldn't. Seeing in his mistreatment of her the potential to see his mistreatment in others to gain their antipathy in scores. Bunched in the web knuckular split between the digits. That way. Malleable. Giuluy. Gummy aftertaste stale on the upper palette. Fly the fuck out the country like she always do to take her foreign fucking photographs in the third world. Take fate by the testicals. Leonardo confident with great invisible effort rubbed his nose with the skinny sticky fingers on the hand of a skinny arm. The last word in s-a-t-i-s-f-a-c-t-i-o-n. Just another assancient twirl of the earth in a dizzyspell, perpetually on the verge of submergin, surgin, substantiate the urge an'....

Suppertime smell southward. Leonardo, pleased, confident, ran the digits through the dark blonde touseled pile tousling out of its last sensible arrangement into derangement. Peds in the hallway bustle fashion and he got away with it. What was that all about.

Abraxas when he got deadset in an idea played it through like a mountain unmoved and bellowing thunder yet broken on all fours in the eye of the twisted fate twisted by beauty herself. What's next see get sexed tonight no exphiles who's pebble struck a big toe on his migration of the soul while hoofin on up conduct hey what's up houdini day after this no trace abyss konnichiwa the inwit clear the finish whole race. LAPD Mobile substation. Genre blurr. Sometimes Lindsay resembled a Dennis Muraki painting. Pink dot delivers. Syren latex couture. Shadows burned on buildings. The whole works. BURNSHADOW THE UNFORGIVEN OF LALALAND. Lysergized. Properly metabolized. Shadowburn. So behind on the times it makes my rectum burn. You don't put the leaflets in public restroom stalls? Sayonara Mister Madman Reality Mover. There was no shaking the fascist in his bloodstream. Swastika bra. Because beneath the thin skin of femininity lurked the bulky dread of man. Something so secret which was herself an untouchable holiness never exposed to exposure when she exposed. A scamp most invioable. She kept her true self to herself lest it become trite. Mister Contradiction!! Contradiction!! Creating serious mischief. Watching her reflection at a sanitary distance. Seeing. Looking at looking. Tchalgadjieff. Yet remains a breathing undercurrent of female desire. Desire to be desired to a female. To be the object and the objectifier. Squandering what time they have left. The very face of greed. For the commited and alert. Get as high as a concept. Pseudo-individuation. Monadic. Nomadic. Bleak. Cutoff. Woman in a vacuum: CAT IN A BOX!! Stubble. Jethro only watched the world arrested and croaked when his rage had sizzled down, "There's not enough time." Because he's the only that makes moves like that. Someone to introduce just a little craziness into his perfectly ordinary routine. Time to kill. A packed compact of empty-headed individuals with nothing better to do with their time. Twist her compact with designs to intersect. Struggled to define his standing. He took a year extra because they had a special and he bought it. Technique of melding each idea at with a feature of a landscape to find it later. They designed the ghetto architecture to showcase their graffiti. Platforms and writing utensils were affixed to buildings in order to foster it. Failed to disclose this or any other things that occupied his fancy 'cause he was old news and too much time had passed. Besides he had some hourstrokes to smoke. Manifested itself. Didn't like the way she looked at first but now. Open to all the unkindness of the open sea. But he doesn't walk around with them because their out of fashion. Utah and Tustin. Shaking intensely. Not the sort of town you can do shit like that in. Carefully put it facedown. He grew. But the pens are all stolen and the whips remain. Made himself relax in a place he hated. Long long phonecalls from whatever is available to certify the heterosexual bond key to breathing deep and head held high. (Who's wrking here?) This character has this junkie look on his language like he needs to kill my body. Rarely out with a brain most wild. He's magnificent. What are you a super hero? Immanent bold glow kept under wraps. (If I had I wouldn't need then I could give.) Stylos! Stylos! Stylos! Stylos! Short spanned precious emptying after this no more remain and all traces erases. The quest for more credible visual puns. Tattoos. Over that? Remnants. Straggling sessions slowly wriggling down to the wire. Upstanding. Although here his mind is there. The last of the last. I resist being hurried. Dedicated to a life of service. He doesn't feel anything. Thankfully not employed in anything that would bring out the worst in him in any occasion. Not enough to be full and just more than empty. Little reason for breathing. For Macon. Macon does that. Once he expanded the camera of his mind and had a lens pointed in a hundred different directions at the same time and he saw every point he'd been in relation to where he was now as if a scene he was filming and watched the people watched duplicates of himself doing the past. Not literal. No contrivances. Emptying and joining. It's so beautiful. Infinite indescribable. If a chair bumps you it needs to be moved. If a man kills he deserves to be killed. Taking care of his end of the bargain no welching no begging no bullshit. Wideawake. Reach a mode where he can't close his eyes. Stopped at a place to eat where the menu's up before the staff has been hired to cook it. Anti-larceny country-western muzak playing. That ashamed frightened inattention, the world-generalizing blurr too hurried with bringing about the death of some expidition with the best possible haste they can make to stay shielded from being torn apart by the world. Raised his eyes stealthily. Delivery: rehearsed. Sadistic fascist bastards having the sprinklers douse the benches randomly at night so no vagabonds can sleep in the public park. The central natorium bound the community, next to the community youth challenge outreach building, by creating a tension regarding Western values of the body in theopen communal sex-segregated dressing rooms, burning unconsciously in the people who swam regularly as well as those who avoided bringing society there and never set foot inside, because everyone alike carried compulsive anxieties toward what was seen there. Proudly restraint, compliance and objectivity reigned over the mores of every young citizen. He was down to serve filled with just enough fervor on dreary grey days very early when he got up in the morning. Everything but the. Fuck Mazda. I didn't do anything. I'm not a thing-doer. Unrise. Abraxas when he got deadset in an idea played it through like a mountain unmoved and bellowing thunder yet broken on all fours in the eye of the twisted fate twisted by beauty herself. What's next see get sexed tonight no exphiles who's pebble struck a big toe on his migration of the soul while hoofin on up conduct hey what's up houdini day after this no trace abyss konnichiwa the inwit clear the finish whole race. LAPD Mobile substation. Genre blurr. Sometimes Lindsay resembled a Dennis Muraki painting. Pink dot delivers. Syren latex couture. Shadows burned on buildings. The whole works. BURNSHADOW THE UNFORGIVEN OF LALALAND. Lysergized. Properly metabolized. Shadowburn. So behind on the times it makes my rectum burn. You don't put the leaflets in public restroom stalls? Sayonara Mister Madman Reality Mover. There was no shaking the fascist in his bloodstream. Swastika bra. Because beneath the thin skin of femininity lurked the bulky dread of man. Something so secret which was herself an untouchable holiness never exposed to exposure when she exposed. A scamp most invioable. She kept her true self to herself lest it become trite. Mister Contradiction!! Contradiction!! Creating serious mischief. Watching her reflection at a sanitary distance. Seeing. Looking at looking. Tchalgadjieff. Yet remains a breathing undercurrent of female desire. Desire to be desired to a female. To be the object and the objectifier. Squandering what time they have left. The very face of greed. For the commited and alert. Get as high as a concept. Pseudo-individuation. Monadic. Nomadic. Bleak. Cutoff. Woman in a vacuum: CAT IN A BOX!! Stubble. Jethro only watched the world arrested and croaked when his rage had sizzled down, "There's not enough time." Because he's the only that makes moves like that. Someone to introduce just a little craziness into his perfectly ordinary routine. Time to kill. A packed compact of empty-headed individuals with nothing better to do with their time. Twist her compact with designs to intersect. Struggled to define his standing. He took a year extra because they had a special and he bought it. Technique of melding each idea at with a feature of a landscape to find it later. They designed the ghetto architecture to showcase their graffiti. Platforms and writing utensils were affixed to buildings in order to foster it. Failed to disclose this or any other things that occupied his fancy 'cause he was old news and too much time had passed. Besides he had some hourstrokes to smoke. Manifested itself. Didn't like the way she looked at first but now. Open to all the unkindness of the open sea. But he doesn't walk around with them because their out of fashion. Utah and Tustin. Shaking intensely. Not the sort of town you can do shit like that in. Carefully put it facedown. He grew. But the pens are all stolen and the whips remain. Made himself relax in a place he hated. Long long phonecalls from whatever is available to certify the heterosexual bond key to breathing deep and head held high. (Who's wrking here?) This character has this junkie look on his language like he needs to kill my body. Rarely out with a brain most wild. He's magnificent. What are you a super hero? Immanent bold glow kept under wraps. (If I had I wouldn't need then I could give.) Stylos! Stylos! Stylos! Stylos! Short spanned precious emptying after this no more remain and all traces erases. The quest for more credible visual puns. Tattoos. Over that? Remnants. Straggling sessions slowly wriggling down to the wire. Upstanding. Although here his mind is there. The last of the last. I resist being hurried. Dedicated to a life of service. He doesn't feel anything. Thankfully not employed in anything that would bring out the worst in him in any occasion. Not enough to be full and just more than empty. Little reason for breathing. For Macon. Macon does that. Once he expanded the camera of his mind and had a lens pointed in a hundred different directions at the same time and he saw every point he'd been in relation to where he was now as if a scene he was filming and watched the people watched duplicates of himself doing the past. Not literal. No contrivances. Emptying and joining. It's so beautiful. Infinite indescribable. If a chair bumps you it needs to be moved. If a man kills he deserves to be killed. Taking care of his end of the bargain no welching no begging no bullshit. Wideawake. Reach a mode where he can't close his eyes. Stopped at a place to eat where the menu's up before the staff has been hired to cook it. Anti-larceny country-western muzak playing. That ashamed frightened inattention, the world-generalizing blurr too hurried with bringing about the death of some expidition with the best possible haste they can make to stay shielded from being torn apart by the world. Raised his eyes stealthily. Delivery: rehearsed. Sadistic fascist bastards having the sprinklers douse the benches randomly at night so no vagabonds can sleep in the public park. The central natorium bound the community, next to the community youth challenge outreach building, by creating a tension regarding Western values of the body in theopen communal sex-segregated dressing rooms, burning unconsciously in the people who swam regularly as well as those who avoided bringing society there and never set foot inside, because everyone alike carried compulsive anxieties toward what was seen there. Proudly restraint, compliance and objectivity reigned over the mores of every young citizen. He was down to serve filled with just enough fervor on dreary grey days very early when he got up in the morning. Everything but the. Fuck Mazda. I didn't do anything. I'm not a thing-doer. Unrise. Abraxas when he got deadset in an idea played it through like a mountain unmoved and bellowing thunder yet broken on all fours in the eye of the twisted fate twisted by beauty herself. What's next see get sexed tonight no exphiles who's pebble struck a big toe on his migration of the soul while hoofin on up conduct hey what's up houdini day after this no trace abyss konnichiwa the inwit clear the finish whole race. LAPD Mobile substation. Genre blurr. Sometimes Lindsay resembled a Dennis Muraki painting. Pink dot delivers. Syren latex couture. Shadows burned on buildings. The whole works. BURNSHADOW THE UNFORGIVEN OF LALALAND. Lysergized. Properly metabolized. Shadowburn. So behind on the times it makes my rectum burn. You don't put the leaflets in public restroom stalls? Sayonara Mister Madman Reality Mover. There was no shaking the fascist in his bloodstream. Swastika bra. Because beneath the thin skin of femininity lurked the bulky dread of man. Something so secret which was herself an untouchable holiness never exposed to exposure when she exposed. A scamp most invioable. She kept her true self to herself lest it become trite. Mister Contradiction!! Contradiction!! Creating serious mischief. Watching her reflection at a sanitary distance. Seeing. Looking at looking. Tchalgadjieff. Yet remains a breathing undercurrent of female desire. Desire to be desired to a female. To be the object and the objectifier. Squandering what time they have left. The very face of greed. For the commited and alert. Get as high as a concept. Pseudo-individuation. Monadic. Nomadic. Bleak. Cutoff. Woman in a vacuum: CAT IN A BOX!! Stubble. Jethro only watched the world arrested and croaked when his rage had sizzled down, "There's not enough time." Because he's the only that makes moves like that. Someone to introduce just a little craziness into his perfectly ordinary routine. Time to kill. A packed compact of empty-headed individuals with nothing better to do with their time. Twist her compact with designs to intersect. Struggled to define his standing. He took a year extra because they had a special and he bought it. Technique of melding each idea at with a feature of a landscape to find it later. They designed the ghetto architecture to showcase their graffiti. Platforms and writing utensils were affixed to buildings in order to foster it. Failed to disclose this or any other things that occupied his fancy 'cause he was old news and too much time had passed. Besides he had some hourstrokes to smoke. Manifested itself. Didn't like the way she looked at first but now. Open to all the unkindness of the open sea. But he doesn't walk around with them because their out of fashion. Utah and Tustin. Shaking intensely. Not the sort of town you can do shit like that in. Carefully put it facedown. He grew. But the pens are all stolen and the whips remain. Made himself relax in a place he hated. Long long phonecalls from whatever is available to certify the heterosexual bond key to breathing deep and head held high. (Who's wrking here?) This character has this junkie look on his language like he needs to kill my body. Rarely out with a brain most wild. He's magnificent. What are you a super hero? Immanent bold glow kept under wraps. (If I had I wouldn't need then I could give.) Stylos! Stylos! Stylos! Stylos! Short spanned precious emptying after this no more remain and all traces erases. The quest for more credible visual puns. Tattoos. Over that? Remnants. Straggling sessions slowly wriggling down to the wire. Upstanding. Although here his mind is there. The last of the last. I resist being hurried. Dedicated to a life of service. He doesn't feel anything. Thankfully not employed in anything that would bring out the worst in him in any occasion. Not enough to be full and just more than empty. Little reason for breathing. For Macon. Macon does that. Once he expanded the camera of his mind and had a lens pointed in a hundred different directions at the same time and he saw every point he'd been in relation to where he was now as if a scene he was filming and watched the people watched duplicates of himself doing the past. Not literal. No contrivances. Emptying and joining. It's so beautiful. Infinite indescribable. If a chair bumps you it needs to be moved. If a man kills he deserves to be killed. Taking care of his end of the bargain no welching no begging no bullshit. Wideawake. Reach a mode where he can't close his eyes. Stopped at a place to eat where the menu's up before the staff has been hired to cook it. Anti-larceny country-western muzak playing. That ashamed frightened inattention, the world-generalizing blurr too hurried with bringing about the death of some expidition with the best possible haste they can make to stay shielded from being torn apart by the world. Raised his eyes stealthily. Delivery: rehearsed. Sadistic fascist bastards having the sprinklers douse the benches randomly at night so no vagabonds can sleep in the public park. The central natorium bound the community, next to the community youth challenge outreach building, by creating a tension regarding Western values of the body in theopen communal sex-segregated dressing rooms, burning unconsciously in the people who swam regularly as well as those who avoided bringing society there and never set foot inside, because everyone alike carried compulsive anxieties toward what was seen there. Proudly restraint, compliance and objectivity reigned over the mores of every young citizen. He was down to serve filled with just enough fervor on dreary grey days very early when he got up in the morning. Everything but the. Fuck Mazda. I didn't do anything. I'm not a thing-doer. Unrise.


Half felt emotionless complaint fantasy doing a purportedly important act with vanishing chalk piloted by this ring-tone fascinated by the possibilities of total erasure of its own systems turned back into what things need to turn into. Movements of when exactly some light starts to forget itself on profoundly ripple-intensive decay combined.

Taking off. Is the art of. A meeting of special libraries. It was close to time to go to sleep to me. Had an apology lined up. Doing this doesn't have to half of the time see the end of the street if the camera's been turned on. Songs from the median. Sense of space walking away. Turn it back on. Something vindictive and unnecessary. Soldiers shall not know spite. Care and cutting away. Does it feel? Does it sleep? It must. Are you crescent talking about the street or me? Brief instructions to succumb to scuffing include a causal relationship between dancing on the edge time to go or sing some other way a glass shifts language give it all I have or not wanting to see our eucalyptus framed faces set to drift but when Friday Saturday Never. Growing minute by minute no chloroform to umbra shoes my my a monster drags did you lock the back where are we going. Who's smokes? For some reason my shoe hurts nothing to slope defensively against on people lost in the programming guide lined up spells their name from 8 o'clock so selfish as defined sinus keeping kangaroo-pouched-out hands warm is the biggest thing I can see coming up so I have time to kill off some good dough on come and be friendlies in instant rain packets get my pillow fluffed stretch these legs over the exhibition cubicle headed for the basement did you push anything? Cultural drug push off. Legacy of intricate delegations beginning and ending with the center of an atom mural juridical species of swap out the old lint for some comedy. Watching your ghost spelling laughter with two f's. Read as unready slouch debility concomitant terrified to say how it makes itself forgets itself in dying slow sloped imagination not enough colors do you get it please. In fields nothing is loud. Around when I forgot to. Super human. Is there an escape specialist in the dining room? Please him through amnesia always a sum of laughter minus history. Eyes. Supposed to lift your arm off the desk to make a better curl. Lost in it. Everybody fucking knows what this about. Coming back? Yes. Molly said it so I'm taking up a full flight of stairs, special effects, tomorrow's another days away from finding the right way out. Escape specialist take a seat. You're embarrassing me. Did you feel the heat? All animatronics. Mommy. No that's a whole other diving experiment dialogue snippet. Take me swimming with it. Streams. This is a lie told with virtue and the will to matter in the final analysis right next to the uncounted or rather uncountable decisions the moon makes for the sea on the sea's faith in the sea's service. Eye contact as ritual. What's at your house? Why haven't I apologized yet? You weren't paying attention. Music this long. The libraries had something to add. Mommy please love this. All I can make out of a proprietor of spirits swinging doors and ugly sign support windbreaker wires hooked. Dirty shoes and socks and nothing to offer. Why is that in this. Absurd hero's wake. Impersonating what exactly? That get down and bury tables. Furniture outside. Did you ask for a stamp? It's time to go. This is something to marry off life with. It'd get the maiden name. Polished every piece of furniture in an abdomen chamber in lieu of something people take for granted like guts. Let's hold a bazaar stationary for germs-sake. Stories of a price geometry can't make up its mind. Take off the rest of the street. Just him. So male. I can't. Implosion therapy fails. Cracks, cigarette butts, cars. Wish I had enough air. Obsession turns into dust. Dust turns into clocks. One day it'll all be fixed perfect. You'll see this. I'll be a full-fledged castle rock paragraph buzzing so beautiful that all the novas which can and will happen'll blow deaf blossoms. Forgot to stand dizzy. Let's start over. Home and the going get to pay over the meter to stay in the category desired but it makes you defensive bus window drama sour. Begging in the temple has been banned. Loitering is romantic isn't it? Loitering in condescending mode gets you an opaque combination enamel justified no reflection baggage handle three days to find something else to do in the shower enough. Can't stand this island buzzing oversight. Excuse yourself. Why can't I be happy? It's never going to work out. Ever thought of becoming an alley? Or maybe a bookmark? I hear they're taking applications. No benefits, no baggage, no back-up plan, no pond, no numerology, but. Were you comfortable there the whole time? I couldn't really tell. We lit screensavers of the ringtone erasing itself from the spectacle catalogue famine in progress and then something nominal acquired a taste on the walkway and then I got this itch and then it was completely gone before I could be. It was a special moment. They say magnets and resonance are fuckbuddies but whoops. Ever feel the night torn out of your morning? Leaves a mark. Every night hanging in a meatmarket. With that horrible music playing. The music that eats itself a live adaptation of ringtone jesus and his swamp penny government death plural. Night just unhinged from dry bones in a forgotten dock for torture-sake dragged skinless under the table and poked until splinters of disease morning porcupine out the hide and ignite a full buzzing fall from the bedcovers gallop to the fence on skull follies paused on a jury-rigged monitor in a closed quarters microwave set to defungal. If those emotions had a pallet we'd need to hire a hitman. Music to place blame to.

Zeppelin. Pow. It goes N to the K in the air sports. A potential item of conversation both Zeppelin and Jethro noticed was : Christmas box cropped intended to fit in the corner of the window but in compromise to the return slot pushed off so the box terminated in an abstract accidental shape on the chain store competitor across the street lodging a building which was not first intended to be a chainstore but in the future is because everdday is Christmas somewhere in our possessions. It's all zeroes in the reason department dear one time.


God's custom 404 page is a bullet. My nowhere bench has been touched by the sprinkler. So from this non-damp top slat I give the early early early morning breeze my ears and invent the walk-in freezer martial economy. Talking to the box of dumpstered bagels on my lap. A you-less hued drab pathetic crown around my naps. Everyone turns around on the bus to look out the back at once. We're being followed by history. The race for clean clothes. Why're we moving so slow? History stopped in the road. I just don't know. Specializes in being easily dismissed. It's almost as if it didn't happen. This is how you slip off the municipal bus route. That's special. I don't have any idea who broke into my house. Totally forgot what I was going to do with this pile of clothes and meaningless writing. Nobody told me to take a number. Nobody got that.


Zeppelin spread her legs and hung upside down. A wonderful tension coursed in stages through them as fluid filled her crown and the weight of her spiraling body urged them vibrantly downward with ever-increasing speed. She yawned for her ears to open again, please. What follows close then we see is a series of sexual allusions of a half- serious nature. Well fine if that’s what we want. Autonomous death mother or dominated phallic she-grunt? What smells like corn syrup? Corn syrup. Born corrupt, she pulled out the blowgun: the one decorated with cubist Aztec carvings along the shaft and closed her eyes. Marveling at the draft. Zeppelin then called on what she was in the habit of indiffidently calling the ‘quickening’: trickily transient term. this ‘quickening’: osmosed, nascended, reposttoned, reanimated: citing after that Highlander movie she had only newly seen this afternoon it seems, although notably omitted literally ‘cause ad gimmicks’d erased off her mnemonic mix tape so her corridor abyss of reminiscence is on the fritz as far as sitting on the floor before her auntie’s antiquated tube glued to the heat of the vcr screen scar on her first Highlander memories cinema when and what event syntax order slurred synchronically from hereon beyond pondering her fairhaired yet non-blonde cinema genealogical paradox not corroborating clocks flicks lost rendered delete by fleets of prequels profusely unequally distributed liberally digitally through the weekday syndicated goreless overtly mediocre formulaic series limited animated polarized fan-base dynamics censored senselessly by angry televangelist ministries playing practically endlessly with family programming the whole span of the channels reran and secreted needless new zealand and australia filmed trilogy of ridiculously endless possibilities of missions and excursions true and fantastical having zilch actual to do with the first one particularly in the third uncalled for installment hauling on Connery’s involvement using computer augmented stock footage to exhume him through this time-honored digital ledgermain where we learn of how the loan-word she honed was coined on the immortals’ homeworld like a grown girl quickening her quakening with sickening sacredness at a speed that breakneckbones and inflict death on these dicks any which how you wanna flip like switch yet this history of multiple associations to the term was nary a germ nearer to her personal concerns so the reverse dragdown of bulk connotation baggage had mostly the effect of lift since of these ‘big’ events she exists in ignorance. Zeppelin felt invincible. Essentially connotations versus bodyweight inertia. Thinly yolked muscular pulley catapulted up using an astral blast jolt of assassin energy into the unyielding ability to do work fully. Widdling the edges severely off of her barren esoteric privilege of usage as soon as the June 5th re-release nationwide debasing her pride in sharing and so alienated by the erased divide between this unit (girl) and this system (world). When in the midst of her tapping Abraxas’ vast capacities she would experience what was an energy anarchy dark and mind-bending ability feeling that she could do anything. Just short of immortal, but still like the quickening. All hope rode depending on the whether or not Zeppelin can only just hold her breath til then. Wind fell into her upside- down lungs. Heaved out. There was a perceptible electrical hum: screened out. Shadowing-enshrouded panelling indented oxidized-up copper-sided wide and spartan quadrants with no pauses drawn up of a sketchy skeletal inelegantly soft chablis-blush chalk-outlining like unlimited post-modern anime flick dusky-shaded mini robot model painter bottles deco throttle far beyond an ironic horizon keku smau that’s hollowly lit with computer-contradicted extremes of pitch illumination beams looking better from where she loitered unnoticed amidst the teflon-coated double split offset exposed joists oddly incognitoed and ignored near the air conditoning ceiling fixture lighting supports. Dimly the dystopic anonymous metroscape below glows ugly arc mercury vapor viridescence that shows abstracted to pale pixellated electrons on a tapered grid of sectioned frame of double-glazed smoked panes cropped with iron with arrays of fiberop wires playing behind them. Montreal? Sydney? Denver? Johannesburg? Kazakhastan? Hardrockshod precast concrete colonnade of glass and steel pillasters enclose panes pushed further than the range of an observer so disposed starkly up from marqueeing veins of patrol hi-beams spiralling deeper into a point the raised neck can’t strain to survey its entirety occupying or inhabiting the great grey domain of the wild, unchained and highflying imagination. Isolated high within the ceiling upside-down and feeling mostly dissociated separated lingering in the domain where plainly she’d be least suspected. Spinning her weird skill in the fringe of the nook where it’d never occur to some humans to look. Horrible voyeurism imprisoned within the perimeter inert with shocking proximity. The hottest presence hella felt seldom spotted. Bet your granny does, but your desk reference doesn’t tell about it. Forward future ineffable. Dark maneuvers orchestral. Hardly vestigial, like nightmare in the morn. Then muscles composed of crepuscles and cosmic dust and scorn. Zeppelin crept the ceiling feline downsideup. Deathmother discovered a ductdraft and scratched out a path for gnarly nails and necromantic knuckles slipped their grip amid grating. No way in hell and mess her acuminated aluminum press-ons’d be able to budge the screws dead in the threads entombed well fastened in the well clasps tight and not worth her exertion were these bitchin’ nails broke a smidgen elicitin’ a wail for vengeance against what. Note the visual contrivance of the nails. Zeppelin yawned to open her ears. Prominencing ichorrails. Zeppelin would need a screwdriver here. Towards the purpose of fuller visualization as it viewed let’s behave and say that Zeppelin grew fair red hair tediously queued. She doubled back across the ceiling: was it a floor back she remembered seeing a janitorial closet but then not thinking about it. Implausibly maintaining the law that Zepp’s reigning flaw is her disdain for logic in that department in the face of the beartrap pooped out through a trip reversed pace seemed mandatory at all cost to this janitorial closet. For these screws the driver used required them knotted groove to be slotted in their underbellied knurls for deftly loosey lefty twirls. Might pry a pipe to spray cyanide to serenade her swan song AC trapeze platform dustbunnies snuffle when some faucet running rumbles muffled thick. Your ordinary Phillips won’t ameliorate the sitch. Zeppelin wasn’t positive as to the importance of the grate or even if in this case if it were blocking her way. Starting to be upon assessment woke up compulsively invested in however marginally altering the qualities of the environment that she would find herself in when on assignment wherever over the whole world the Clients called for just the best and nothing lesser. The vermicular being of fat ducts traced the ceiling thick and little chains hang loose from their little chute boxes in the walls they umbilicate off of. Off method, Zeppelin hunched and peeped inches under the head of the breezy entrance, or over, depending closer on your perspective of her upon the wall going down it. Point of fact, the adjoining hall had fallen empty and soundless. That meant little. Clinging to this world was critical. Even if deep in heart, roughly the size of her fist, where it always stayed dark, she knew that it didn’t exist. Zeppelin would proceed then to maraud so certain she was alone in this dimension, based off some evidence in this competitive dimension of freelance espionage and covert assassination. Daily devolving hollowly into harrowing devouring hunter hourly prowling on other peoples’ vouchsafe murderously wily perversely maternal maniacally emerging up aluminum surfaces zoom as though only a droning drudge of the consuming persons’ whims and grudges. Remember the limbs she dismembered merely off a Client’s dislike for a label’s design scheme last April? Publicly un-hunched she felt uncomfortable and grumpy a bunch standing stock straight as humans had come to do so used to her inverted feline fear arc mostly listless slumped slightly dangling wrists. Did it matter what they saw, oh altruism-whore? She’d have to go down after just a second split into four too many in order to get on the ceiling on the other side out of the sight of unfriendly personnel. Oh well. She could do it but still what if someone saw her? Would chance, wondrous chance, ever cease to awe her? Zeppelin had to put it all on the gamble. Her heart raced at a brisk strident amble. Zeppelin did umbiegen under umbra to umbringen in umdustert post-industrialist corridors. From the air or an apposite building you could spy the distance-whiddled floors, glare-riddled fixture of her stalkings excel through the trabeation and streamlined classical detail. A thickly tired shipping dolly sits alone holding a large refrigerated canister of nitrogen in liquid form. Zeppelin had the peculiar sensation that her brain was itching and she couldn’t scratch it. A printout was taped to the wall with a digital heading that said ‘MATCH LIST’.` A door labeled spill control. Sliding door next to it more accessible. Physics equations on the whiteboard tightly crammed in blue dry-erase markered kanji diagrams. Breathing fake air. Her forgetfulness negated the surveillance camera there at the far end of the corridor. She started to move. More unsure. It was only in the process of movement that she reminded herself of the obvious protrusion through her view from the periphery of the camera surveying implicitly at the far end of the corridor. Between her two small ears the feral cheer of turbines roared. Zeppelin pulled out a small remote interface device approximating a radio and satellite dish spliced. It dialed touch-tone. That is opposed to a rotary phone of military vintage. The thing that really struck her solid consternation was premised in the possibility of loss of worth outside activities such as these where she asserted hostility in the larger scheme having no confirmed being within the earth-ring sequence of things unlike the sneaky mystique of silencing kings where everything swung thunderous lopsided swing around her primary camera-like dynamic pinwheel-diameter-piercing persona barely holding up as this wobbly realm was in fluid fashious orbit or more or less swooped warped in her woof and the proof was all phenomena required her to start as she’d been in any event the only sentient living thing that her true essence was aware of confined completely snared within her mind which caused her to suppose all other persons were imposters, such as the Seventh Shield, exempli gratia, simply wraiths that pass in impenetrable silence isn’t tenable only half confusing less than illusions for her to choose from to exhume them from this earthen purgatory and restore them to oblivion out the clear blue noon day sky right here and now with the fearsome kerplow whenever she endeavored to do thus with just a shake of her fist bust a spiraling tire-less bikespokes concentrated lightning bolt cat-o-nine fingernail hawkclaw clutch of butcher knife-tails of flailing spikes from the shoulder power pop her elbow with a defiant hydraulic kick fuckin’ ‘em over flashing a laser gash dashing cutting clean blue steel through the atoms of the atmosphere with the sting ether-ringing as the essence exits just less than harmless spectres stressing the karma of superficially wishing to be even as partially physically impalpable as shadows in dreams to her dreamer of substance (such that it was) the sole untouchable subjective universal constant adjusting the tools of change; but for the tiresome toils she wasn’t cool with the jewels of her reign, the spoils of her empire. Zeppelin's desire did not like it here. Can't believe imprint unclear four wheel soar unable to leave these days. Medium press. Caution X-ray jets. Radioactive material. Water return to hear until it cools. Photonics cryogenic research lab in stereo. You couldn't find an x here. Condensate, deionized waste water, spewing sanitary sewer vent. You couldn't x anything here. Ashtray by the elevator. Fire alarm, emergency bell, emergency phone. You who wouldn't and shouldn't dead robot couldn't give a chain of should've-dids, have that ahistorical burned to death think beautiful concept children and sink a fund family whereabouts, and if you could, being the supreme ironic dead mall being here hadn't supplied her with the elusive and obviously stupid picture of truth on a still in the water, and even if acquired likely implausible, knowledge how to dry up, cieling shot. Corroded chemical blue at the stop. Cold water, domestic vacuum, liquid nitrogen, in a steel hose exposed from the cieling. Med press. Acid vent. Security card slots. Hot water return. Chilled water supply and return. Domestic. When she switched it on, she entered the same code she had used and overrode the camera when she had first explored the area this way earlier. Camera? That here now examined was the subtle yet distinctive ceiling bubble of a simonsez along the legacy of implausible infallible logic not too fargone. Trite hacker jargon. Back there. Smack between the air shaft and fax machine. Designed to spot inconsisent movements against a clean file of past usage in the area scanned. Simonsez move. You stopped. I didn't say.... Finger punched the scrunched-in sun-tinged button and after less than a minute or something with prospective pause the collective ahs of an invisible audience agog to figure when the signal would take to jamming aptly engaged and passing an amplified digitized code masquerading as one of many quotidian scenarios no contrary counterintelligent variance amid a normalized atmospheric pre-approved planned maneuvers of every man on the floorplan movements monitored on site under this one roof. Chinchinpuipui. Two seconds too late and not a measurement more, she flipped under the head of the door, and crawled up the otherside of the wall of the quiet adjoining hall, and began quickly to speed across the ceiling of the succeeding room. Acid waste, storm drains, fire protection water, natural gas cold industrial, heating water return all and reused. Ducts, electricity, air. Zeppelin was alone here. Ferromagnetic objects, caution. She, my cold and broken imagination, claw of metallic, I can't wait to turn the tide and could speak back, awfully callous, reach and indeed even contact Abraxas when she closed her cerebral and breathed slow, and even though, skies permitting receive a beeping ring on the cellie earpiece from, or come front to front with, Jethro, upon occasion (unamazing), usually on the pure chance where it for sure stands words turn stranded in disproportionate threat as extended informal conversation was inappropriate, indifference or blood or in an as of yet previously agreed and concocted seized in logical bonds upon rendezvous spot elemental to a splendid finish of a plan, bearing the fact which the STUNTMEN rarely had, except on snooze control button fly wheel for a perfect world an indubiously simple assignment for virtuosos, as to prevent wandering and careless strays into slovenly autonomous con artist follower's jigsaw ways from the job which all the more broad had to get done in spades because they had to get paid, because any other philosophy to procedure would catastrophically delete your forms and edicts which circumstricted and suppressed the naturally conducive flow for famous dispatchers typically in the know and extemporaneous workings in bursting brilliance of freelance espionage and covert assassination. She came to and opened the grate she had gotten through earlier only with Jethro's courteous assistance. Zeppelin looked back and forth. Nobody. Fuck the grate. She started to close the door. Well maybe. She had a job to do. Anyone can do this shit. Zeppelin took herself stealthily backwards.


The security van rocked ceaselessly. The ad on the side of it screeched:
Get specter! When the checkered flag wags, gun it. Crash the catchy slogan: Tonk Model Thirty-One Hunet, fabrique un Sri Lank. Rugged grace sleek. “Ashwin” on the chainframe plates. Nomenclature I thunk. Supersonique spontaneous jaunt beyond the sunset. Comin’ crunk in my tonka trunk, bladder strainin’ diesel: time to drain the weasel. Tomorrow’s driving today. Enliven the way we arriving in steel, ideally; that’s the way it was and really forever will be how we get to Carnegie: John Henry energy fornicate the assembly lingo and it imports to nihongo rolling off a tongue at top velocity costing the consumer who emerges on the bottom of this loveless monopoly on freeway lanes or terrains, always be the same, without or with stain withstand even if the distance is grand prix! We then compute an unusual nuclear family. Can it be fusing a bond to the saddle using a radical alloy? The lateral joyride I don’t trust. Shady automakers stake their claim that it won’t rust as long’s I pay back the money they loaned us, with interest as bonus. Take my word: uninsured you wouldn’t want us alone on the interstate: fender-bender demonstrate, no discussion, crushin’ corollas and camrys on crash pile-ups on concourses, remorseless. Straight line may be the shortest but at the same time creates corpses more descriptive. Corrosion and chip-resistant galvannealed steel sheets, auto-body, covered in envy of other men, and makes my tonka more real to me. My tonka has low flammability in the squish area. Double wishbone chrome carriage can carry the way like a walking paradox. Get on the block and rock blocks of text and pay respects to my tonk, long as they honor my account down in the district, fun and chill, from the hill to atomic funland. Deficit interest rate to yearly is epic, as in epicurious, gorge corpocentric, thirty-one ten percentage, surrounded by pounds of ton-cake, with lox on ‘em. Stocks own him. Shocks groanin’, rollin’ hookie on them off- roads in my hulkie tonkfinder. Let the music tonk you. Fuck who you belong to. Wrong-do. Wrong- minded on safari for one kind of design of corporate corner quarry. Porn centauri. Four-wheel drive. Feel more alive. Handling’s a piece of cake?: this make’s a piece of bakery. Rude awakening. Charged from the flattery bringing the tonk full donut for fuel. The poor workman blames his tool. Calfdozer baby bull. No-one is street illegal for the highway because this is my Friday; matterfact, tomorrow’s Saturday. Last of the battery run out, through fog, through bush, no brakes, new tires, rushin’ up the hill. Some oven substance on the sill of the bungalow. Only ob domicile among those that know life’s a bitch for aristocrats yet a candy store for the poor with a kid all up in. Pins and needles easily switch to tacks as he relays strange exchange far away from a racing track with a sitch of adjacent flats. Hit the pit. Just the facts. Little operation on battery, rattlebucket rattling, rattling. Then, that’s where it’ll have to be, until the future, everything on straight: built so it won’t break. This particular automaker rep reborn through a younger make. How much longer it gonna take it easy as sponge cake. Thunder wake dust cumulus. Only room for just uno. Other wrecks can spew fumaroles. Ain’t nothin wrong to bring back home to frontal public display, glassed-in casing that is placing the trophy snatch; true judges tabulate silver. Survivalist pilfer. Still, a rough trade for the gold, like buffalo, at depot: no disputing with fools over cheddar. Better than shoes. Leather clad so bad that he had to use picture ID state issues. Live life tissue soft, super charmin strength; tonk bend steel spit on wax then the windshield wipe off. Automotive Giant, Pgeenie Milton Dubb and upstart Tonk Klancy in a paradife loft. The strategic engagement of the betroved, just thor thunder showered, stormin’ fort howard with smart bombs down in a gulf wart, suffocate invasive foreign autobodies, applaud me, waged in the ageist canal by big vehulkle take little vehulkle. UN support? We’ll se a sequel, if, we send ‘em in. Pre-millennium funk and wagner’s ain’t certain. Pedophilia brown labelled black, around the tao and back, stealth attack, low-key. Wealth of smokey hursine who roared in the good earth and said “I’m” like Mystikal. Liquid gold don’t trickle down on devils, long as sunshine bake that tropic of skin cancer tattooine level above him like fresh from the oven, lightly breaded, gingering his head in the red goo: new husband? Who’s saner? He who wore his cap well, or woodsie owlbush, man hatted at an added cost. Emission bad. Eco-glitch. Evil bitch. Tail pipe cough, how ‘bout we run out and you don’t you don’t you don’t even try to switch and jump to ultrasonic the hajjdog haulin’ in ‘flage racecar mirage like a laserbeam. Lesser beings can’t even screen my mezzanine. Hobby blockaded in the lobby. Inner lair thought created top market share hard to earn. Turn into a robot, blue with attitude. Topspin sharkfins shattrproof rugged dragster rag-roof tonka get low gunmetal yellow LA colors proud upon it and for the pay-per-view price the automakers beat the supersonics off the first tip like coffee sips and chocolate chip bagels at the crack of day-glo. Morning snacks where foreign bank bricks stack like lego fifty skrillometers on your jackson: workplace ratio dynamics in action, umbilical-tied to my banjee cord, at the hip, texas instrument slip up in the boy toya ta-merry wanderer, turf varies under you. Smurfberry rocketship hypersonic flight numeral alpha roman where noman tango and the sky shudder shango. Eat em up mango tonka tough ford muffin mean and stuff. Super ego mcguffin roar yummers. Heterovore hummers: metaphor tonka-puff lunch the clean-burning cream to steam up the morning, born again from the mountains, tonkas beyond counting, growling constantly, going from tori crowing to lobo howling, ornament profiling, painted flamers in the hood up to no good. Understood? If I was beep- beeping you, ride the back rough in the diamond, turn blindin’and tumble off a high bluff totally intact, but cause a seismic crack fit inside my stomach. You dumptruck! Took him sleeping, mag wheels creeping through roughshot to hell, like a bat out, flat out the gating, no masturbating, meaning the poor can’t. Being inside my automaker’s norplant, first memories, patents extant trojan horse. Effulgent dimmer beams reflect on how he was layin’ on a conveyor belt when they assembled me. Rarefied awareness. In each part. Mineral. Mental data general scatterbrain, so open your car to me, darling, lovebug: nothing indoors and I am offkey-less entry safest of all sonic sentry, since the case is, he who is in parts has nothing to impart: so keep your heart shut. Finnago what? Depart speeding, bucketseat eating butt. Lethal fuel injection seriously rigged to shoot the migs up in my guts ‘cause thrity-one with a nine means forty acres or ounces. Sound system ground-shaker. Listen. My tonka’s train like a monster ‘cause my tonka’s gonna conquer. When you’re so fucking weak it isn’t easy being stronger. Risen off the flat top ziggurat got a light to my city tow, extinguishing, distinguishing twinkie tonkiavelli poison boysenberry jelly mary shelley in my belly because of the progeny of fire, so logically, this is the tale of a whale of a J the I the M the M the end, to be frank, like the mack truck that smashed tank to peace is getting’ higher than wu-tonk in the physicalized monk, billy buddha, true to the yay, no matter what my ba say, what I say goes as good as anything so plug your key inside and let’s start or it’s all in vainglory like some burning man story, non-returning data relay he say he say baby endangered so save me. The species we want isn’t these that ceases to flaunt the stomping ground of Fremont, Piedmont. Presumingly gone to Eastmont. Toy-B-O-D-Y! What a feeling! Bavylon refuse him work. Establishing the mass just from the backdraft whoosh, abrasion to bruise every brittle flake of paint, scratch taint the raindrops back on top of that. Emission pollutes. Collision with suits often goofs and ‘cause driver coffin and vehicle boxed in compactor. The automaker want to try to press charges. I’m just doin’ what the tonka done started. Don’t even try to voyeur my tonka spoiler. If things had just gone the way I wanted them to go there would’ve been much lesser to the contents of the flow. That’s the Herald. Twelve niggas died and one more tried for talking shit like a tractor some treadtalk to tonka in treadlocks knocks hydrant geyser on curb. Eyes observe on red stalks. Spread hustle in mass products. during finding the napkins, some say I need a shammy, it always happens, and I get severely g-routed. Freely strut pouted. Keep your belt fastened. Be ‘bout it front a nut. Wipe my fingers on my wranglers. Give the chase edit cut shit banjee cord umbilical to do what uterine blew the whole new machine funeral in the company of tonkas and kafkas, possibly hostile strangers. Chose this design. Hopeless to find yet loathe to leave unchecked. Satisfactory direct. I am autonchered. Need a longer bed. And it don’t stop. We don’t want cops ‘cause we can’t quit. Don’t call it soviet, ‘cause that shit’s dead. I didn’t see the red! If I’m not eyeballin’, my tonka start stallin’, but lookin’ at the linen I know that’s what’s been goin’ on from the marks, peel-out skids, disembarks, eighteen-wheeler, nihilistic, sorta tore the greasy towels on the floor of the dormant quarters called garage, 2-car, too far and far-er, faster than a raster or a bastard out carolina. Yup! Yup! Big tonkaman, who’s a freight of a dubaliner? beastly tonkanese script: it’s a trip, between the two of us: this double entonk gone bonk’s revenge, fury; was in a hurry, flipped 31 times, somehow evade injury. Still I ride slow. Forever haunt the selfsame trinitrotonkalane, I’m sayin’, despite the bronchial pain. Flammable. Changeable. Goes in one motion when my wheel hit expressway. Excessive gratuity. Two-wheel turn turgid essay. Guess I’d be jacking if I really had to. Thank God they let brothas drive them tonka-cabs, too. Multi-valve salvation. Get-you-home dependability. The only car, I, who gonna drive, is tonka independent truck, you?, alone?; wanna come back home to my bachelor matchbox play-set, baby? Garage bed ain’t made yet. Shit!: sometimes my hotel try to front and put my tonka on embargo, meaning in a second that I’ll have to check wells fargo. Do you wanna be friends, boy, or do you want to ride in my benz? Choices. Decisions. Mercedes? Or fishin’? Still, I see through your huex, subterfuges; wanna watch dukes? Tape it. Shit! My sports car frame avis-rented non-goal oriented in the concrete congo, where, just like gravity, green’s a constant thing: that’s how it has to be, even in autumn. Tonkeydips in ‘Sco-dom!! Tonkeydips in ‘Sco-dom!! Totally fuckin’ awesome; but I won’t lay-away: I get T-O-N-K-A for free though men may pay. Lotta g’s like me rent a tonka when they need it. Usually pay a fee. Wheels take over so their feet quit. No secret. Like when they don’t have one to take them to that spot in proper fashion. Some tonkas act often as they should not. You find one and you really don’t know what you got. If you just happen to get one at a corporate rate you call and speak to a representative to take it out on a certain date. Should your tonka come equipped with handling instructions you’ll have all that’s necessary for emergency service for what can and most likely will arise during your rental; and provisions, limitations and exclusions are clearly drawn out so rest your mental. I consent to a loss/damage waiver lifesaver so: trip, tumble and caper come down and meet a GM or other fine cars from the most diverse and best equipped fleet or see our competition across the street, Mister Under- insured Motorist; sure you don’t wanna go there first since you’re cursin’ our exorbitantly large x-tra day charge? Had to burn that bridge or switch to a barge. Tonka, totalled, go to gnarlsville. Stars spill like water out a showerhead, dead-on and the aforesaid get gone but be back promptly at dawn. Ralowe clocks in early at precisely 7:30. The trucks from last night were washed down but still dirty. Ralowe arrives at Mr Mann’s trucking company and goes to the office and is assigned 8 truckloads of shotcrete this workaday process. First Ralowe drives to the quarry to pick up the shotcrete. The attendant at the quarry marks off her stock-sheet. Shotcrete is refined using cheap mexican labor. His friend Ori operates the excavator. His payload can carry as much as thirty-one elephants. The crane’s clamshell loads cargo fast but without elegance. Twin tires on each side help support the load. Tonka’s too slow for the highway so he takes the back road. He arrives at the building site soon to be one of many new state- funded inner-city sport centers. The person at the gate checks the load as he enters. Ralowe is directed to where they need the shotcrete. This building site was once a parking lot where the citizens held the saturday swapmeet. Ralowe drives carefully over ruts and potholes. Ralowe makes sure not to lose any shotcrete as the truck jostles. His friend Kris is a bricklayer and she helps him guide up. When the truck is ready to dump its load the body tips right up. “Would you like some coffee?” asks a stalwart bricklayer. “I have to deliver another 7 loads before lunch,” he says, “No thanks. Maybe later.” Won’t succumb to empty stomach; maintain beast of prey nature. Untested force. No remorse. Never yielding. Building an under-kingdom at a rate of 2 million cubic yards a month with no blunt but the concussion of a steamshovelpunch. Kerplunk. ‘Cause I can. Mr Panopticon Supremacist gets punkt on the shwervice, dough to dough, boy. Over such ominous terrain, easily unnegotiable by volvo and through broodish weather also riding in my daddy’s big trucks. And my tonka got impounded for circling the blocks too much. She said, “Heeeeeeeeeeey, Deejay Pgeenie!” She tried to say ‘Woof’; I closed my sunroof, to be discreet, beat limo after limo, run them off the road; give my nose a hold as they spontaneously explode: I didn’t do it! Who?! What?! Moldboard for roadkill caught in the backhoe made John Deere a John Doe, turn banks into rainforests. I ain’t payin’ for it. You can’t remain sore then if this is the worst case scenario and you picked it. Don’t owe you dick, kid. Front-end loader buckets dump aquarium pebbles on your punk-ass picnic. Circle A Missionar-ay erect a centennarion megaton redwood in the boardroom right where you liftin’ a spoon playin’ name that tune with my ghetto ruckus. Pass on that cake and take a tonka break. Jake boardmembers jump ship. Ripped up the delicatessen on front street. Where’s your lunch meat? Untested force, testin’. Lessen the incredible burden Adam must work to your advantage. Provide new jobs for your fam repairing damage when my tonka knocked your condo in the barranca. My tonka excavate your brains using ramps and simple cranes for of all the dirt could fill a line of railroad cars stretched around the earth four times at the equator, O loving hater, so despite mudslides and setbacks I’ve decided that before sundown tonka’ll pummel a channel tunnel through your duncecrown that plays a crucial role in, I’m planning, similar to panama linking oceans. Bucket o’ bolts configured to accommodate slopes that bloats ‘Sco travel essay notes for the lay or the maven street knowledge I’m pavin’ is how we usually say when cappin’ oil-well flames and takin’ names that start with “Al-” and end with “zzzz”’s like those snotty clouds blow out; jurassic scoopbucket on your teepee when you’re feeling sleepy. Ask the last kid about the price of the typical tonka after taxes’ll snatch a maximal deficit beyond the CEO at wonka’s, your honor, judge, chairman of chairs, let’s not split hairs if there’s even some common understanding on the matter that my tonka’s fatter than squash court, fuckin’ up your carport. Formicary benchpress ratios. Omlettes mean crushin’ eggshells. Prevent runaways with a slab of sheetrock against the x-type bogies w/ rubber pads to absorb ground shock. More facets than a fractal. More wheels per axel. With courage of their natural drives put to full use like 770 clydesdales in heat pulling zeus. Strongest overcome values that pass judgment. Violent. Abhorrent. Turret swivel the center gudgeon. Snakes set up shop under it’s ground contact area and enjoy the nectar condensation while the system’s cooling, dripping. Carbide-tipped cutter gripping granite ‘cause panic. Tires carve ditches. Busters and snitches rely on these to furnish dr seuss skirmishes with a moral outcome but my tonka won’t be outdone. Never the min always the max the headroom like matt frewer. Do the doer. Get the job done. Trundle through your slum all gung-ho I construct work, work constructs my being, my being works construction or something intonkgeoable makes my non-commodifiable tonka viable economically, but only in the most dangerous sectors of the economy. Most claim to be satisfied with their work, but realistically few are though. O.K. Stop the machines. Let’s go home. More work tomorrow. It’s what I do for a living but not what keeps me alive, feets sore and sweat pourin’ with the nine to five with the rhythm it takes to dance in the face of straight jive. Not too much stuff, but with, I do got, I’ve my Tonka; I danke all the creators in the methyllchlorinospheric layer: yup, I do this freely. Make my tonka pop a wheelie. Although most tonkas lay down cat treads, but now that’s dead, until, I mean, I spent on realignment; then the guys went and so they throw the hood up and started hittin’ on this and that. So many substitute parts my tonka almost turned jap or got pagan with my tonka’s kragen parts, and no fakin’. Now tonka got more speed than a tweaker millionaire. And speakin’ o’ cylinders, the flush an’ fill was unreal and asked them, if it wasn’t too much hassle, would they also grease the axel. They said they was going to do work in my nosecone using a refrigerant that depletes the ozone but I told them not to go on. And checked hoses, changed fluids, adjusted belts. The difference can be felt. They’ll sent the bill to me. Tonka dependability sturdy. Get dirty. Where in god’s name? It’s a shame. Right in my neighbor’s garage. Heat mirage, other side of the fence. Leaving little hints of peeling rubber in pansy beds. What can be said? Still my tonka pick-up never fails. I hear it out-do competition in sales. Clean livin’ prevails. Clean air is a must. Tonka come faulty, I got tokens for the bus. In kindergarten we share tonkas ‘cause of anti-trust. Tonka’s tonkens on the toychest, ten leo three taurus, where I horde the motrin. Take ‘em to town in one motion. No motivation, chasin’ fellatio. I know you hate when my pen produce pollution. Noise celebration. Extreme maximum tonkage crashin’ causin’ john cage concerto for twisted metal in annoying frenzy on some soundstage performed by einsturzende neubaten. You’ve gotten cruiser- friendly with the moob-cit-cit-citizens on petrol, written in the ghetto, blue slash yellow two-tonic paint job on the conveyance, fully deploy stick of joy. Destroy. Destroy. Boys will be boys. Word convoy turn into traffic as if daytona chrome flash as he run the tactic. Everybody loves the sunshine, but damn, getting’ hot! We burnin’ up! Caught inside a tonka traffic jam and jelly. Tonka fumes smelly. In the middle, one tonka rubbed against me, no defenses. One bumper tag me in the rear so I bumper tag another and his brother and his twin: doesn’t end: crack the air so I can breathe a breath, meet with death, side-impact collidin’ while tryin’ to get to decidin’ who ridin’, who drivin’ the co-pilot…?:god- like silence. Tidal wave violence, tonka, vroom! vroom!, non-stop in my room; if mommy kicks me out of the garage, I’m driving you to the moon. Hope you’re up to it; if not I’ma shoe it. Don’t do it. Once thought I lost my for good and ‘bout to put a wet fork in the socket, sat on the floor with my butt and had that nigga in my pocket. Damn. That whole time. Forever mine. Mmmm good! Like salty chicken noodle. Here a tonka. There a tonka. Inspire Reuben’s doodle. Now, this gonna sound gay: One day I was just straight rovin’, sorta trudgin’, through a crevice when this flash had me open like glass catchin’ sun then throwing it back at its ass, damn! I spazzed on the spot: I found a tonka in the trash, god! I washed it with spit and did a jig in a puddle like a nut, open-shut case. I save face. I know my place. Naw. I don’t wanna race. Wait. Turn it again? That grill get ill. My tonka grin! I tap that chin. What? You can’t see? I’ll bet you see. When my tonka turn three, ‘cause I found when looked that my tonka had such symmetry, unbound, off the hook, and could seemingly do anything. Puto? Blow me. Talkin’ about Tomy told me my talk t’ain’t all that. Flip that. I’m not Tomy, but, to me, it’s, I say, my tonka is so damn cute and my tonka don’t want my loot: no skrilla down and his bumper-to-bumper is still around; but I was out some cash when my tonka lost the stash: yo!: after school in the alley, fool. Call it tour de la rally. Send you home to your moms askin’ to change your name to Sally, cryin’. Ainnolyin’, folks. Whither wandereth if ever doth it roll? Just like a lightning bolt on crisco from frisco to hoboken, to yonkers to santa monica, to the congo formerly zaire to right here, burn rubber like incense before you finish a sentence. No slack for ambulances. You’ll have to take your chances. Trademark kicks it burnt in the monitor when I make the jump to warp, out-running UV waves before the trail knows where to blaze right. Buckaroo Banzai. Not even a mess o’ mesa bluffs thwar. But then I have the homecourt gang a wolfpack of driveseat backers cheerleading thuggish actors plus a number of natural factors shames the jeans off machines for whom mobility isn’t an issue. Audience clap despite aftermath because the backdraft leaves ‘em blissful. It has cleansing powers. Soulfood for thought. Hydraulic collard greens. Never the same since hull type frame replaced the I-beams. Second prize for you guys is just a red-eye gleam. Trintirotoluene don’t specialize in visines. Left you fubar like a pole wrapped around a new car (or a barbecue in dachau). My tonka is a knockout. Stuffed his glove. He was tough to love. So keep it real. Don’t fall asleep at the wheel. Made for the ave, but not for the avg., so if your ass can’t drive, then my tonka ain’t havin’ it. Clarity of direction. Direction of clarity. Get unstickershook. Transcend win-lose disparity. So, what? I whipped your tail? Musta been elves. Oh what the hell. Values de-value themselves. Competition are ants in the rearview. I’ll never steer you wrong; better said, no bronco-bull, tonka, you’ll want to pull over and comply. Surprise! like flashcards. Leave chrome blonde bimbos on the splashguards dirtier than some Patel slumlords. Power-forward. Often the man harass because I give broken signals. Left his tail- lights red, tailgate banging loud, stuff all hanging out; paranoia in my mental: you seein’ me play tonkas in my window with drapes cracked?: get the optional privacy glass luxury to hold the suckafree screened out. When it get too much to me, flee a spell, my own room. Push a little button, and my tonka go boom. And, just like police exist solely for the concerns of capital, my tonka exists solely to secure me and I it ‘cause we’re compatible. Design and driver. Form and function. Ergonomics. Precison engineering aiming to astonish, so, open your turnk to me, tonka, ‘cause you are my tonk and ankh is the key. My tonka is the contents of the mantra plus a box of chocolate songbirds. Mostly coasting, cruise controlling, rolling coach beyond reproach. Power outlet excepts anything 12-volt. Ain’t no new v-dub bourgsie buggy, but a true revolution hooptie. Sounds goofy, but my master’s in love with a monster truck that gogoboterotictock. My tonka does what it takes. My tonka does not for the sake of doing but zoomin’ shit for tomorrow’s make. My tonka establishes a path in its wake. But, sometime the car refuses to obey the driver, so I switched on the legacy of black romance upon the radio with a survivor talkin’ about, “I’m lovin’ the tonka when we meet on a tet a tet. I don’t care if your man is a victim of neglect so we can parlay. I gotta say you don’t know my mother raised a savage that is ret to ho in a minute. Sugar. Cinnamon. Spice. Child sit down so I can move the tree and hang dice off the rearview. Service with a grunt. We don’t want no curfew. I’ll cuff you if I have to but I don’t think that that’s you. Leave you in idle, I go to check my mail. Let’s put the pedal to the metal. Watch these busters bail. Tonka chasin’ skinheads out the yay I hail. Calculate a game program, offroader soldier play position, plus a subtraction in additon when I get reuniters with all you bitch riders on the opposite siders for that homophobic epithet and exploded your set.” K-NOT swings continuous. Lookin’ out on while the venue just peep hella-long on the spin huckin’ cement no matter whither we drift we take our tonka with on over tax dollar improvements ‘til the sky turns translucent. Punch the V-6 9-liter, go zero to 60 in 9 seconds and kill a mindreader before he knows you wanna kill him. Chillin’ 4301 Cali after school. Shall we pick you up for the finale? Together crrep streets, up for the down stroke valley of the jeep beats, spun it on the hunet-disc in-dash changer. Four-doored vessel of internalized anger. I would hang around if I wasn’t such a stranger to the urban entertainment destination next exit, where we tend to end up for like ten bucks, although he dreads it, plus another 3 bones because my tonka’s not unleaded just to let the bumpy tracks snap your head until your neck split; but can’t take my tonka out the club because the club is in my tonka. No-commital. Non-commercial. Non-communicative. Because my tonka’s gotta tonka how my tonka will live. Somebody feel futless just ‘cause I got the beautiful chrome lugnuts inside my clutches, but you can drink the tongza if you want to like you was born to, mister ravin’ registration-wavin’ hatin’ beefin’ previous owner. Bring it to me. Oncoming drama. ‘Fuck!’ karma alarms says capt. sav-a-tonk. Flavor junk your shamrock shrunk and your behavior flunked, so, first they your hubs, now they my hubs. Come up the coins from narrow pockets and page crocket and tubbs. Gnash teeth or nash bridges. Sorry, hash- eatin’ bitches. You peep my melanin in every post office you bailin’ in mailin’ them rubberchecks, come to expect torment since warrants still to answer for unpaid dancefloor ponderosa parking tickets, oranchinal hoss to the rescue just wanna be my cowpoke offa coke and vodka? Dumptruck! Don’t you see my tonka? Special verboten. No loading on the dancehall tile at all while the ball spins sparkles in remarkable fashion. Fabulous reaction. Deejay beat-matchin’. For the love of Ashwin. Never comin’ lax when tonality travels with not too much triviality, for salary, or hourly, flowery, more miles to the unleaded droplet. Ain’t spotted a cop yet. ‘Keep on truckin’’ written in glitter in the middle of your built like a tank top rank. Persisted past the vista till the yellow moon sank. I stood in long lines just to have my way with tonka. They even took a picture because a picture last longer. I took a copy to my tonka and he carries it with him and we cruise around the streets so that we can pick up men. We waste no time and we chare ‘em by the mile increments. We take ‘em there and leave them with a smile. Most can’t humanly understand, still zoomin’ in the crosswalk. Jumpin’ out the woolworths, crash the window into gottschalks. You honestly need to be a bionic beast to keep up with. My tonka pees antifreeze and it was a-tellin’ me to speed up after I told him to hold it, but it exploded on the roadtrip, so overloaded. Drip on the pavement. Norin Radakovich enslavement to Galactonk. Never slack a fraction. Don’t let your aspirations front street like you want the whole action and then keep turnin’ over so’s I can’t get traction. Just commit to road-huggin’ response and be like every bit my tonka gets my tonka wants. Play in the dirt and pretend it don’t hurt, four-doored lord of transmission into a new condition of exhaust emissions fade resistant stops amidst the desiderata that barely fits on la strada. More tons than holds the suns in place and 8 trillion times hotter. Get in the habit where I gotta white rabbit koko kara soko made pronto. Roadrageous rep for durabilit. Continentally known from tiretracks in red zones from Angola to Rome as long as all roaming leads to roads or where we’re going we don’t need; there are no turnpikes tonka’s turnbine turnin’ tonka treads won’t lead despite sever frontal collision when some midget sideswipe pulverized to pristine, is you listening?, tonka christines back to life. Not the one. Not diminished. I done it. Run and hit indiscriminate. Future feminists sending, I’m convinced, mothers through my timeline to kill my tonka gobot; this whole plot, but, I’m not the ho, understand?, I gotta go on the 1-10 exit leg and arm a leg fit out suspension unreal invention, on my head,on my hand, son, undead, gunnin’ go-ahead on lead foot scenic route lane, unfold the frame, the road’s the same the road’s the same the road’s the same [Puck to my pancake. Thirteen cannot hurt me. Tonka flip-flopped. Fuck a chop shop. Cannot be stopped.].
Judging from the look of the security van which becomes so crucial to the story here, one can guess, since you came into the theater under darkness, or rather one gets the feeling, that there must have been a lengthy living opening credit title sequence, probably accompanied by snazzy keyboard themes, featuring a detailed and continuous shoot depicting the equipping of the van and its preparation for the job when it was rolled to here, to look seriously. The security van had an eight foot breadth train and a twelve foot high clearance. The security van was the full-size model. The security van seated 14, that is, if the seats had not been removed and filled with equipment and file cabinets. The security van is carrying contraband chemicals in addition. The security van has dual airbags. The roof of the security van was aluminum mixed with titanium. The walls of the security van were ceramic and impenetrable to all and any willing ballistics. The wheels of the security van were made of plastic. The tires were not rubber. The tires were white. The security van has rear-wheel drive equipped with some mean-ass ABS. The entirety of the van could be white, but at night, the metal and polymer surface gave the appearance of space blackness, reflecting the parkinglots and the night, both of which were conveniently hosed down. The van could also be orange with sodium, or green with mercury. The way the van's reflective chromic ceramic reflected the pale orange night illumination in its tension folds near the bolt connections in the van's frame was a sight to behold. The security van being reinherited by way of a cautious euphemism has a side loosely covered by a peeling sans-serif logo depicting the dry matter of corporate identity that has so corrupted as to make sans serif roman letters flawlessly in place in this english-speaking environment seem intentionally alien emphasizing in its shreds the raw materials of arcs, crossbars and other shapes that are recognized with the characters they corelate to in an orthodox setting looking almost like katakana. The windshield and door windows of the van were tinted violet, covered with orange foil on the inside, and braced with security cages of machine-wielded chainlink mesh. The lightbar did not revolve but held its lights fixed at ecclectic attitudes as if the whole hulk had paused midaction for reflection. The security van has daytime running lights. The back doors of the van were tinted violet, covered with orange foil from the inside and protected with machine-wielded cages. There are no door handles visible anywhere on the vehicle. The security van has a keyless entry system. This van has no panel. Suddenly the van stopped rocking and the backdoors opened and Jethro and Zeppelin fell out.
The security van departed, doors swinging closed on the beeps of a modudemodu off the hook by the one person out of place on the van who doesn't know what he should and shouldn't be touching, its rear bucking the bumper nearer to Zeppelin's elbow, with a slam the security van deftly accelerated into white noise and the glare of ionized glass reflecting sodium arc nighttime illumination.
Jethro and Zeppelin lie sprawled on the pavement and asphalt and cement, bruised and worn with injury. Jethro cursed. Zeppelin rolled over.
Jethro sat up and looked around him. Zeppelin got on her hands and knees coughing.
Jethro nearly passed out having lifted his head to a new height.
Zeppelin felt hungry.
Jethro felt a burst of energy, hungry, nervous, and fought through his dizziness onto his feet and gave Zeppelin a hand up.
Zeppelin fell against Jethro's shoulder and he propped her up.
Zeppelin felt as if she could walk on her own.
Zeppelin felt as if she could walk on her own and told Jethro this. Jethro put her on own. Zeppelin pushed away before Jethro put her on her own.
Here we are trying to get everything together. Zeppelin and Jethro shambled the anonymous night through the ghostinstant of the autoartery in tatters shredded by radiation. "'C' series," Zeppelin looked up and gasped, readjusting to the changes in pressure. The Everard Eutaxicron building listed down from high in the sky. Green tingedness all around. How was it that their little operation which dealt primarily with professional manual data retrieval got caught up in the middle of a bidding jihad between two competing Japan(home of the most advanced urinals)ese aerospace firms, one of which headed by the Mogul from Moxico who himself observed the interrogation and obligatory beating on a viewscreen that permitted only low resolution? The world is a crazy fucking place. The trees rang with cyclesuffused worldthemes. The Mogul of Moxico needed to wait until his culture modernized, adopting the legitimatizing ways of the glorious West. Zeppelin and Jethro staggered through the nocturnally abandoned, postindustrially deserted commercial district with its sodium luneaura coldness, glass, steel and concrete, so disoccidented they irreparably out of sight of any hope whatsoever only further amuckered the sitch prambling a million klicks ahead long distance, concrete labyrinth of commercial buildings and parking structures/lots. The walk was at least well foliated with little bushy trees that gave inappropriately low pedestrian clearance; but look: the fucking walkway was way the fuck over there! Sodium dispersal units scattering the light from its quadruple hooded rim.
ON A SPEED LIMIT SIGN (:5000 kph): "Faster and faster until the thrill of SPEED cancels- out/overcomes/terminates the fear of DEATH;" maxim of a mildly melted transparent aluminum decal which Zeppelin recognized because she had picked up a handful back at her place of residence (, intershuffled among a group slightly under a handful that read in antique modeled foreshortened letters: STUNTMEN).

Zeppelin balanced herself on her removed pumps as she changed her stockings so that her feet wouldn't have to touch the icky bus station mensroom floor. Zeppelin propped the creeky window open with a little trash dispenser which kept on slipping on the sill extra slow trying to fall out and she had to shove it in good every ten seconds but it wouldn't stay. Any second some horny man is going to come in here see her legs and want to drag her into one of the stalls. Zeppelin locked blades into the wrist cartridge, tightened the monomer coils, fastened the safety on the flex sensitive trigger pad. Zeppelin tapped the pipe and found the flush reservoir. Zeppelin drilled through the pipe with her fingernail. Zeppelin injected the syringe of nanoscale robots into the pipe. Zeppelin filled the syringe with toilet water. Xico stormed the mens restroom. To late. Her stockings had changed. Zeppelin held the syringe threateningly. Xico found a window and forced the syringe from Zeppelin's hands and it broke in the gutter and the toilet water spilled through the grill and Xico gasped with horror, helpless. Xico scanned the puddle with a microscope having through Zeppelin to the floor. Xico couldn't find anything. Xico picked up the glass and examined it. Xico looked at Zeppelin and grabbed her up waving a piece of the needle then through her back down heading for a stall. Zeppelin went to the door. Xico searched the toilets. Zeppelin heard a flush. Xico ran from the bathroom looking for Zeppelin. Xico got shot in the chest and his microscanner fell off his head. Zeppelin crawled in from the window. Zeppelin flushes the toilet. Zeppelin scans grabbing the microscanner off the floor. Jethro hands her a syringe. Zeppelin sucks the nanoscale drones out of the toilet. Jethro gives her a pound and waits for the syncopated reciprocal tap. Jethro yanks the plug from the wall and the spark lights his cigarette. Zeppelin holds a plastic bag over his mouth. Jethro exhales. Zeppelin zips up the bag sticking out her tongue because she doesn't smoke. Zeppelin opens the plastic bag over the sensor and the sprinklers come on.

Greenglass of the chrome handled doors of shatterproof inches. Reflect. Turn around. The sea shimmered in the sky, seen through the canopy of flyovers beneath which the resort was constructed. In the clutches of an abstract mechanical hand skeleton with servos and hydros a blue car passed on its side through the slide tube of the automated parking structure adjacent. Jethro observed with heroin-induced wonder a blue car launch onto the onramp down the road. A war more powerful than any drug. A drug more powerful than any love.
Zeppelin had diarrhea---she spoke through the surgical mask with no echo or life or reverberation or soul, and something splattered under her crouch after she regurgitated a bomb the size of a basketball the two large pizzas, ovenbaked, stillburnt, soaked in phlegm and smelling of bio-altered month-old pig semen. "...Aw...did you?!...did you?!..." As his intestine emptied of his hole to the bowl from his guts in a splashy plop, splattering chunks of snail muddy pitch asteroids, she saw that the stool proper itself was the tumescent swollen lower, wormglistening, and she saw the fuselage peeling to reveal under its fat skin another layer of freshly forming.

Move town move something like this jet had had my bad nuff said in my head onetime heard him said you're the dookie amid rich eyelid twitch samurai suzuki motionless frozen stress the sky hangin high suspending the hated bending braided curl of grrrlzoom over the porta-bathroom surrounded by a ground based bold faced stampede of amply violent buffalo anabolicked wicked soylent testtube buffalo with all this stuff below abra had he labratwah creatin ptah don't let his brain thaw nimbly through the port disassembling some sort of bomb in a self-flushing toilet inchmeal rushing a cinch steel nerve under mastery upstairs jet's blaster be takin out drama from oceans of motions of brahma runnin up funnin up gunnin up fattened ribcages lakes of poison blood blazes through the sluicegate to floor rising more and more hence hon's suspension necessitate turtle style she pack the midas tactile point being joint freeing clumsy maneuvers the sensor recommend her careful who'd dare pull this off thus behooves her phallusthreat marionette wit her monofil connected tools adroitly fools the electronic eye (so perhaps they won't die) his with spy the said guy a was you wish I dead instead.

Zeppelin stepped in something foul can't fake a smile everything stored in comes out mordant can't believe you didn't notice road scholar thought he showed us it doesn't work you're such a jerk why did they blame me they can't name me lonely absurdist must've overheard us signed delivered lined in silver slips from her fingers like dream you and me black leather queen let's make a team never have her generation's acceptance not easy walking in Zeppelin's not her style oh and could you try to smile get a jumper cable maintaining something stable for any length wouldn't suspect such strength not really all that helpless three when she first felt this kind of makes you choke ego needs that stroke inequal resources unnatural forces what makes it more lame was how cool he was about it inside that head it must really get crowded drinks it black down to just a pack so much energy reveals herself gingerly bet he tastes like coffee always such a softie knew where to prick me change your mind quickly stronger at the bottom awesome like autumn don't like to say fall reminds me of it all ability manage some civility working towards once more dealing with the sun never said that I was done filled with vulcan emotion work this out by the ocean drink me slowly get to know me distrust face value lack the guile to keep it from going bad something I never had aimed at nothing so it loses control forget what was the goal think keep it going for an hour then my feelings sour think I'd be the last one to want to be an assassin but I just couldn't figure out what else to do when it became obvious that I would never get to get close to you spend time thinking how nothing is real better off now unable to feel now I don't want you not trying to taunt you finally beyond you I can bleach my hair blonde too try to strike up sips soon psyche up can't see down eyes so brown he went on and on not gonna respond try to stay above that's the meaning of love enough spoonfuls to make it stay away finally came back with something to say how he reacted something he lacked it you make me feel good I always said I would I remember certain streets sometimes I hear the ring of your cleats your hand in my pocket read the weekly bumping butts I'm not what I was and that eats at my guts it stops now the cracked door shuts take effect not as talented inside I'm really all that ended maze of respectfulness gets you killed my wakefulness keeps that in check confidence wrecked consonnance fingers get cold start to grow mold mommy your baby's a monster you couldn't be blonder do whatever you want stir up the stew honest I promise nothing I see around me works looking for something to worship with no ethnic quirks little in common the two of us sit solemn nightvisions keep me going I keep a piece of everyone I'm owing somehow never quite where I'm where when you're not there Zeppelin was alone as much as Z is isolated from A wouldn't take much why do you touch? you look kind of funny there here I walked all this way and you don't work today I'm staying here so much prestige here little did she know she'd only missed him by a hare have no fear this here without you no place to be wanted there with you remaining pensive common sense will wall us in til taking its time call no place home humming a hymn that don't rhyme it stays slim when it slams let the stamina expand less and less it expends wearing tims short for timberlands watch the embers wind picks up she sticks up her head to inhale some smog mnemotechnical clog suspected wrongly one and only correspondence in the shredder I'm getting better please be patient oupost stationed skybased eye traced running by some offworld power saw his smile sour in the don't touch the glass nice calf mass fuck off I'm working on it rape your remembrance in a rap shape your substance in a sonnet push to failure on a nautilus reflection caught all this don't rightly remember Zeppelin's limber wakefulness wanna stake all this spilled my guts it offended got on knees and then sucked it up looking forward all day to this phonecall but look I fucked it up you could do so much better that's why I'm shredding in the shredder do you wish you had her only because she despises you I know you say that because it characterizes you lacking a center that's what makes our gentler natures naughty I have no ties why don't I just kill everybody lunatic like what pulls the tidals intensely personal pictures of idols look so blank singing she sank thinking she stank freed from the tank perfect her evil thinks of her people in Zyacinth bass burger side of synth maybe one day I'll tell you my real name ceaselessly searching the world with no real aim the world is crazy only I make sense tried to tell me but my skull is too dense burn your gut like java acid lava blasted all a sudden really thought this boy's god's gift to me but he wasn't all I got is what he gave me memories enslave me smells better than it tastes higher than ace look at you now I told you to bow but you weren't supposed to bow small hello gave elbow a scratch tampered with the balance on his converse wait it gets worse everything he do is artificial her wish'll be you see following the lingo singlehandedly granted she had this shit from way back on him burning got him done in pants half off smirk laugh cough where there's smoke there's desire aces never higher touring different places curing while in a stasis had a little fly ass bitch with me switch hit me feels like a chopper chase aggressive topper through her favorite neighborhood maybe a braver sabre could mark her deeper crazy crazy crazy caffeine creeper unthinking being fiend to be a sleeper put those thangs on how does she just hangs on like it ain't going faint knowing saint did that right not by sight nobody like me liquefied psyche burn going down sky getting more brown credit card lipstick gathers up the tip quick unlivably difficult womanly grooming slam the door back physically flawed stood there awed nothing more lacked copy how he act balanced the purse on her knee and there's only me cooling down to dubs made out the library wary to let the vibe vary finish your sentences so well bet I can converse without you hell let's kill the pretenses no sweat really can't do worse without you just get you inside me just get ghost with the tithing would you like to drink from my pain or would you like to transplant my brain boring spectacle of cloud formation pouring debacle drench the imitation a little dreary as we start again I mean seriously sleep with one eye open hows ya copin' caught up in this stuff never loud enough scared to blink worried of what you'd think earshot hear me so fear me living present but it isn't and it hasn't so it can't kill exert pant I'm bitterly indifferent make you wonder why the gift went and finally it clicks in the nick of time like action flicks who else should I be thinking of impossibly sinks above saying something plaything tumbling awake from confusion in a maze of herself plays with herself whichever way she's choosing to take tangled web we have sewn her clothes smell of his cologne we didn't seriously think you were and you heard the cieling purr tip included firmly rooted suddenly she knew what I was raise a fuss just because rationed out monitored she had a chronic slur observe the flirtacious demeanor no creamer years since he's seen her true smile with casual musicality let's take a holiday lemon dissolve inthe liquid considering all this time by now you'd be sick with still had till one thirty think the way you hold your hands is nerdy leave it at that know I'd never rat that's without pension hold your attention one of your skanks fill in the blanks always a hassle click on the lasso cessile betwixt get that fixed dream deffered notice you defer when around fib op downed no thank you sir from word one absurd nothing occurred this what you've been killing yourself for it's sort of selfish I miss your shelter want some of the fresh insane thoughts made flesh what's so crazy proofing delays me recognize the tread what else you think I said no motive never know if you're serious and you appear to kiss lucidly excruciated ill-fated over-rated represent shift matter I'm on the ceiling we're not going to make it I can't really do this I hate you so powerful time is endless feel it in your bones blam blam the phones around the neck hit the deck er let him see what you feel because it has seen its dream before and felt as you feel but was destroyed when the feeling was mocked because nothing ever works out just right so he wants your feeling also to be mocked to prove that nothing is the only absolute which means that he wants to destroy you so you can never let him in because you don't want that. Even though he is everything you always wanted.

Worst you want to do. Following the worse case scenario of things to do which will impress your first introduction. Jethro started with a question and you should never interrogate your first introduction. Luckily Zeppelin never heard it because Jethro never said it. Zeppelin's hygiene was poor but it's excused because in a calm setting where no nerves were frazzled so was Jethro's having come out of that jungle on the redeye and getting nearly mugged and involved in a car chase on his way to Leonardo's favorite ristorante in Taiwan a genuine authentic taste of the old country which nobody really believed he drew any ancestry from. Never ignore the subject of introduction by showing undue fascination for a non-subject of introduction as Jethro doid the imposing statuary I don't know if you know but that's considered rude. Lights in their eyes. Luckily Leonardo smoothes it over by controlling the situation. His hands smelled really nice that hot afternoon. These are the rules as they are explained in the antiquated Japanese journals read mainly by the shogunate itself. Leonardo studied these discourses on protocol plus some are taken from Roman diplomacy practices which he personally appreciated highly being ethnocentric and all. According to the Roman manual, each diplomat introduces themself giving a brief sketchy bio, but no questions are asked on either side regarding personal background as knowing the personal information is utterly irrelevant. They were intended to focus on the business at hand.

Next week on Stuntmen nothing new will happen. In the future only the bad guys win because come on. Next week on Stuntmen Jethro must uncover the secret of the algol star that hurtles from the videogame into our planet in the future. Jethro he already knows that it is controlled by math and he knows who controls the math but we aren't telling. Zeppelin and Jethro both learned already from Abraxas that math controls everything and that this deterministic organism is instinctively manipulating itself and that we are all part of it because the universe forms its flesh. Abraxas met up with this creature before called math when he was trying to stop Dexter Sinsisi from destroying the moon using math. Fortunately Alex who was on the moon through virtual reality in simulator form set up interference using a fequency that reversed the current which should have sent the earth hurtling into the moon but got reversed by Abraxas who inadvertantly caused the earth to move away because he hit the wrong thing which generated the field that should have propelled the moon to the earth because Dexter Sinisi wanted to trick Abraxas so that he would have to deal with the sorrow of having killed so many people the world over and wiped out all life on the world. Dexter Sinisi after the failure of this plan inexplicably escapes and Abraxas spent the greater part of an hour attempting to locate him in a dark room with suspiciously flashing lights but while Dexter Sinisi wickedly resurfaces elsewhere in a subterranean locale that is ironically in the penthouse of a skyscraper in Egypt to introduce new characters who come in to mess all that up. Next week on Stuntmen the cure for loneliness is found. Next week on Stuntmen Abraxas discovers Dexter Sinisi's hide out on the net and the splash page showed them bursting through a wall and capturing Dexter Sinisi and all the fake men revealed in the subterranean highrise but all these are just holograms again. Jethro looks at Zeppelin yelling what the hell is wrong to Abraxas who looks back with a smile because he is impressed by the cleverness of their adversary. Jethro then finds out what Abraxas really thinks about him using the special machine they still have hooked up there for them as part of a trap all but not truly real trap really like he did that it was just planned to come out that way on accident. Using math. No this has nothing to do with math. This time the Stuntmen themselves set if off and it probes their minds. Next week on Stuntmen we find out the birth of the intensely problematic and implausible psychic bond between them. Something about the psychic bond starts messing up TV sets and the FCC sends this assassin to kill them inside of Dexter Sinisi's hide out. The weird thing is that when the FCC finds them their they see all the stuff belonging to Dexter Sinisi and conclude that they caused it. A self destruct mechanism is triggered and all must get out of there. All badguys always have one. The shockwave from the explosion sets off a disturbance in math. Next week on Stuntmen the disturbance causes ancient buildings to crumble all around the world and they run to fix it. Dexter Sinisi all the while is hatching another evil take back with the fakemen who are characters I don't particularly care for elsewhere. Next week on Stuntmen their powers are augmented to the point where they can feel each other and discover that they have this vibe where they can practically come near to accomlish anything really fast. Next week on Stuntmen the Stuntmen catch up to Dexter Sinisi and they spose to duke it out in a frequency. Everybody in the world watches but nobody learns. For a short while anyone can. Next week on Stuntmen we find out. New sound. Brave headfirst. World class. Next week on Stuntmen Abraxas believes that he has finally seen the last of Dexter Sinisi but it turns out that he takes on a broader world shape in the face of a billion net-connected fans stronger who develop a incredible hate for the Stuntmen. It's not Dexter Sinisi but what he stood for has infiltrated the fiber of all things on the atomic level. Next week on Stuntmen literally everything in the world is against them. Cross pollination. Next week on Stuntmen Abraxas is busy at work in his perfection simulator trying to even out all the wrinkles in the rug of this funny thing called math in a last ditch effort to make the world a better place for us all. Next week on Stuntmen Abraxas leads us into triumph. Look over your shoulder.

Knots of muscle in places along his interlaced ribbons of steel. Superhuman force to bash back loneliness. Everything you always wanted. Been through many battles, won against many foes. Being scary. If you feel good enough about something, it doesn't need to be right. Less and less can understand me. I should control myself. Pay closer attention to details. Try to adapt to people's initial impressions of horror when I enter. These trials of terror complete the transformation into machine. With each visit she improves me when she removes the organs which I was born with and replaces them with an enhanced mechanical equivalent. She doesn't do it to hurt me. She doesn't understand me. This is a confusing metaphor. I amuse her. She loves me. One of the improvements to Jethro was the inability to act unless in imitation. The things she'd do to him were lethal. Lindsay referred to it as making Jethro more delicious. She was in the middle clearly early on of something great. She would be in his life just long enough to make an impression which would stick. She increased his lethality kill ratio figure. She gave him life direction. I know you're not involving me in your shit but she also made him into this absolutely magnificent game prize of manmeat through an injection here and an injection there which Jethro had no morbid phobia of needles to shield him from this all done as always under the aegis of love the true. Lindsay got Jethro into jazz. Sometimes from the side as he'd be there talking to somebody she'd see his nose and to her it'd seem wider than it was at other times. Jethro's irises were bigger than the opening his lids made for them and so brown that nothing could escape them. Jethro brushed the locks back from his face. He liked doing that. He had something he had to be doing but he didn't need to do it she noticed once the first time before she introduced herself formally albeit unconventionally around the back of where she sat obviously only to get a glance of this white girl and give things a chance for this white girl. He seemed to be trying to find someting to do. There wasn't enough to do. First she figured that Jethro was security in the taqueira, but then she became quite sure that he was actually backing up another african american who was the actual security out of lack of recreational or business alternatives at this hour. It all ended when Jethro had to do something which required leaving the building to go get it.

Too old and exhausted. The world gets worse as it progressively gets better and better. Pain of losing all the familiar posts of solace to shake out sanity from beneath the tangle of chaos. Fortify his sanity. Find something new. Watching for another view. He hated time. He didn't trust tomorrow. Relentless. Relentlessly watching for someone else. Hungry for the nothingness sometimes. Seems to be more work being put into avoiding than dealing with. Duan Hon struggled to recall the former associate's name (now dead) who'd turned him on to the idea of being comfortable being an example of the most obvious absurdity. A sign that he might be changing was the casual acceptance of obviously conflicting behavior in others. In order to deal with Duan Hon's things running through his head you have to look at each thing as something which is of itself a thing which gets the benefit of the doubt. Nobody deserves what they get these days. Like that. This is something that doesn't mean anything. It despite its complete lack of worth comprises the total impression of what we mean here by Duan Hon. Duan Hon is well adjusted, an effective element of his community, but sad. He only needed to help others. Why was he changing? He made circles around his eyes describing the lenses to the assistant. He had mirrors to help him. It was becoming too much work to communicate. He couldn't smile anymore. Duan Hon showed the determination of Donald Duck. His assistant was insurance now having finally become a chef today and having an incredible interest in food. He insisted on cooking for Duan Hon. Little things like that persisted to make him feel old and feel exhaustion. It's so hard finding someone whom you can ever actually trust. There were all the choices before him. Things might be better tonight. The food was excellent although showing the academic lack of lover's exuberance. Duan Hon said something of a comment and then turned to walk the other way which was wrong that he'd actually forget what he was doing so much to say something. Gradually fought his nervousness around his assistant. Duan Hon was chronically nervous. He felt that his generation was destined to see the end of everything, so he was one of the many clients Leonardo had to put up with drawn to the desperate action of his services and were terribly frightened of tomorrow and controlling it rather well. Crab apples & coush- coush. Hamantoaschen for dessert. A good chef sees into the back of your mind and then returns to you precisely what you want to ear without having pronounced it as such.
The name of Duan Hon's assistant was Sinzero. Caught his reflection in the mirror. He seemed a little bit surprised to see him. Didn't seem to know exactly what to say. Made up something walking toward him trying not to accidentally take things too far with an employer who clearly was capable of sexual intimidation in no immodest way so it was then the choice of throwing his job away or walking that dubious insinuating tightrope. He postponed it for this time knowing that in this high-speed culture postponement equals negation. He had enough of waht it took to handle Duan Hon. Afterwards he thought of all the things he could've said. He needed toget over being shy otherwise he'd never get anywhere. He never thought he'd be the one to finally connect Duan Hon to people. He took a breath after the first cynical comment of the day had passed, aware of what it meant in terms of foreshadowing like comments to follow, unaware that things were destined to get worse. Sinzero's pupils were too big for the slits God had made for him. Looking and trying not to. Mix of the two. He walks and watches all come near with whatvever they want or whatever they maybe looking for for whatever trifling reason a detriment to his time in this look here look there at the same exact time manner that is designed to draw you into a false sense of dominance when he skewers you eyewise with a killer smile you can never meet with however uncomplicated a request. You're aware of the author of the ploy. He moves through half-mangled miasms of maneuvers to poke his weapon free into your tenderest part with a predator's practiced efficacy. Quick sharp tender. Sinzero you want him. Devious child. Hair not quite write for this kind of work. You want him. Not the one you want to talk to about that actually he's write over there. Sinzero is such a shitty writer. He gets everything he feels down but it's never with any style. It's almost as if the man was scared of living a little.

Future structure. Female ability to take on anything. Cold and falling. Where the eye goes. Faster than cognition. Sit back and enjoy. Concrete covered with dried blood. Touching it. Ought to work but doesn't. She had to change things. Just a cloud: nothing more. Not on drugs. Landed perfectly. It's war. That's the second one. Her favorite. What was she going to do now? It's on. Bored. Bored. Bored. No place to hide. Who cares. Block the sun. There could be no forgiveness. Higher and higher still. Can't hear anything down below. Wall goes on and on. Just before it goes. That's what I want to hear. She's too high up. That was a waste. Let it go. It's all on her now. Never finished up there. Probably won't use the rest. She couldn't see why. Feels like old times. Moving too fast. Why was she thinking about him again? Forever like the concrete. I want you near me. His mysterious name. What are you? The texture of sand. Why did you touch me? Hard on her hands.

Well now I'm a little happy. Slide card again you worthless shit. He walked through the door dragging the printout between his feet as a matter of course after the bar slid in a releasing fashion through the chamber followed by another bolt swiping through the lock in like manner. He saw his number and crawled insectlike into the control room. He was having a reaction to the chemical already. He didn't want to be the fool again. Laughing with the gangster shit. He liked it so much and soon forgot that he was in a control room as it saturated his awareness. A videotape hit the floor behind him and he whipped thirty degrees to face front something which moved out the side of where he was looking. On the label of the videotape someone had tried to slip in an L between the O and the D in GOD. On the counter someone had left a headphone cable hanging in back of some tapes standing upright back to back. He fixed everything the right way sat down again soon forgetting where he was once more. Concerns should have caught his attention such as appetite. Several hours passed in the control box darkness. The operation finished in silence. For some time he had noticed that he was perspiring but put it out of his mind. He pushed his chair in. He pushed the door closed.

Jethro the restless radical tactical in the shiny steel surface strictly surface expressly for the purpose Jethro from the get quivery automaton delivery somewhat fond of assault weaponry never let a giant step on me so hasty if you got the balls waste me didn't even say excuse me considering the uzi as the universal social implement to vent the temples with a simple trigger pull cool rigor fold the flag over your hole Jethro had a goal compromise the accuracy of dental records my neck my neck hurts absurdly facts are messy but deservedly the bomb disguised as the black male won't let you put your hands on me smash your fantasy broke the choke smash your mouth delete some teeth sensitive gums when you eat if you ever eat again lashing out danceable never act civil animosity animal philosophy his actions damn that cat runs he's bad he's just so unbelievable don't play sablestreak like a bullet knock you into next week next month next year bring on the next peer who wants some.

Jethro and Zeppelin drive up in their satanic car and kick through the front main entrance. Jethro shoots and his tracts ache of a weary life of too many fried chicken jokes. Jethro and Zeppelin climb through the holographic sculpture in the lobby. Feels so good crawling into this holographic structure on pride. He cancels me out rythm dance chills me out heals with him near blznrr blizzard sugar fredrick kruger on my text hexedecimal can't find his number bassheavy slumbertime summer summer the inscription reads in three different color-based languages of numbers reading backward. But all that doesn't exist anymore. What Zeppelin and Jethro run through changes every second. They seem to be going up further down deeper into something of ponderous size. You make the machine mess up. Want to try again? It goes through this time. Jethro and Zeppelin were pursuing the key which had fallen into the sculpture from the helicopter. The helicopter needs the key so that the propeller keeps spinning. When it accidentally fell out because of a ricocheting bullet what is interesting is that the helicopter did not drop out of the sky automatically but glided as the lift slowly abandoned the spinning prop onto its skids kicking up a little dust. The guide was still on the ground waving flashlights. A lot of helicopters take off from this lobby. Duan Hon handed Jethro the packet with several key numbers circled. Jethro gave the packet to Zeppelin and frowned. The packet now was on the floor of the lobby somewhere. Something like a breaking of seemingly solid virtual matter ripped from the moving floor which was pitching with dreamlike flux and hurtled at them as they ran forcing Jethro to hike over it and Zeppelin to slither underneath it. Maintainence had replaced the doors they had kicked in so there would be no wind to blow the packet away. If you don't enjoy what you're doing for a living then what's the point? The music in the lobby was of a piano intentionally playing offkey, which could be heard from inside the sculpture. Duan Hon knelt and picked up the packet. He looked back at the helicopter which could not fly until the key was returned. The prop spun slowly. There was a slight gust. Duan Hon walked over to Jethro and Zeppelin's demonic vehicle. The windows were dirty. He wrote the name of the corporation. As they progressed they gradually forgot how to do things. Leonardo snuck next to the dirty windows of Jethro and Zeppelin's car and wrote in plain english underneath the name of the corporation Duan Hon had put there something clever which read owns your soul. Why do people do things at all? Jethro and Zeppelin rounded an overhanging embankment of undulating colorful energy. The packet for the most part should pretty much be back where they left it. If someone decides to move it then it is no longer really their responisiblity because the packet is not really all that important. For a second there Zeppelin and Jethro were walking on the ceiling. A ways further which was of exaggerated length because they had been in there for an hour at least and the last leg of the twisting terrain was nearly two hours to traverse they arrived to a chamber in the center of which stood the key glimmering and complete. They claimed the key and quickly returned. Leonardo applauded and did a dance when they got back which made his hat fly away in the wind of the front main entrance as the newly installed plate glass fell out and shattered into a thousand little pieces all over the lobby floor. Jethro stepped to the demonic car and it drove off on its own as Zeppelin handed Duan Hon the key. It was clear that Leonardo was going to become rude and just stare at the both of them as they got on their way to recover the photographs of Duan Hon's stepdaughter when he was his stepson from the pirate child pornographer located somewhere down in the Philipines probably in an underwater chemical laboratory. I don't think he knows how to use that thing. Zeppelin and Jethro went out front and waited for the next bus. Duan Hon inserted the key into the helicopter and it flew away.
Zeppelin had the courage to stick with Jethro through anything. Jethro started to shout comments that were of a critically disparaging nature to the bus driver. Obviously there was something wrong with the bus but it wasn't the driver's fault. Couldn't Jethro see that? It went on and on. Finally, Zeppelin felt compelled to check her partner otherwise he would only become worse and eventually say something which would get them both in really big trouble. Just as she started to say something the bus driver stopped the bus right in the middle of the road where it rolled and walked over to them where they sat using the rails. Through the magic of science the bus driver sounded to Jethro llike the marine sargent he'd had to put up with back in the former soviet union saying last through winter the splinter faction driven to desperate action bust back so Jethro had to take her hostage he had a plan but he lost it panther nerves frosted never grow exhausted hey listen our problem solver don't even fuckin call here don't involve her obscenities in the reciever he didn't grieve her all he had was his gat and his satanic tats evil but moreso around his torso depicting a dragon and the devil of course hoes he knows names page after page on each piece of his ribcage. What this amounted to was two creatures relating in the most ignorant sense imaginable. IT was Zeppelin's worst nightmare. Her divine christian feminine light of reason was what was obviously necessary to divide them at this point and she shed a little. Afterwards they rode in relative peace. Someone's clothes which had been hanging from the overhead rail twisted loose as the bus worked over a grade's sunny crest with impossible velocity causing a bondage-style garter to be revealed in the fallen pile upon the aisleway. Everyone saw it. They older woman to whom they belonged to balanced against the shifting bus and managed to bundle them into her lap leveling her body with decorum. Everyone pretended not to see it afterward for the rest of the duration of their ride. Zeppelin hated the bus and everyone on it and deeply desired to waste it and everyone on it.
Jethro the only obvious black criminal and Zeppelin the only obvious white psycho bitch couldn't though they tried and worked hard at it make everything come out correctly like a computer and this was something the clients wouldn't stand for considering what the average one demanded especially in this age. They'd have to get repairs on their vehicle because the mechanism within in it had acquired the peculiarity of driving away from where they had parked it at random. When it was gone where it seemed to be going to was some home or fixed location but this was always relative to where they were at but they figured it ahd to be within the local hub mapped road system which their system was all paid up to do. One time it came back carrying a load of carrots in the front cabin. Raw carrots fresh picked were falling from the windows. It must have been some kind of prank. It most certainly was probably some sort of joke as no other explanation would do. The craft would go back with little small things always wrong with it. Once it rolled home with a strange noise that wouldn't shut off until Zeppelin wiped some excrement off the hood with her bare hand. Jethro looked at her suspiciously but Zeppelin only sneered at him and went to wash her hands in a faucet. As far as Zeppelin was concerned she'd better enjoy the vehicle as much as she could because it was obvious that with each long trip around they were only biding their time until it got to be the accidental target of Jethro's erring friendly fire in the form of a rocket crashing meteorically through its chassis in the battlefield because such automated antics weren't to be tolerated by professionals. There were so many different ways of moving that you couldn't imagine not having it happen finally.

Jethro like a machine like night black so black death-daunted feeling no thought killed triggersqueeze ejaculation blow a hole till blood spilled. Jethro fall apart man neighborhood of old hatefilled scorned by the world in turns and turns from black night to white daytime lifethrilled sniped back rolling on the floor knowing he'd never get to talk to this man again. Girls are icky touch me Jethro-hater shatter melon drop bust back bust back tracers hit home screamers catchin head. Cordite sweet cordite. Needs to be tightened. End of the chain it fell to the palm end of arm an extension godlike rattling polished eases in and locks. Jethro metal taste in your mouth legs extended resting on the crossbar sweating trembles and I saw you never thought I'd see you. Jethro too slow and lost spasms bang bang bang a third time taking the top off and setting it back crushed the ribs before you get me bitch. Jethro once it gets going as before one last time and that's it too late saw just in time him too much the next battle object of my mortal enmity contemptingly leered making sure to catch. Jethro oh god what is it (I HATE YOU!) for so long felt nothing distinct something so big as numinous shadow beclouding the soldierbornspirit battle broken making a ratchet sound pumped the rod until he was out. There's no such thing as a talking walking robot.

Dinosaurian throb under his little space of corner along the wall.

Some beefy carniverous hunkilicious met through a female third party like Paolos pinches his nipples and paralyzes one side of your body. Block jaw rock chin dagger eyes. Reflection of Cadmus the bold most charming. Jethro couldn't tell being inside Cadmus and all. Asked Jethro what he did. The big story. How did you feel about the encounter, Jethro? Like I want to do it again. Let's do it again. On another day. Come to L.A. What tai chi does to your body. It did to his.

Jethro underwent a hyper cataclysmic epiphany of anger. Dark energy drummed his temples and he emitted a flamelick of negative aura. The steel machine he was cursed ever being born. Wet black leather harder than tartarus. Jethro was having nightmares of being John Wayne's trick. Gentle like you I can never be. Left burning inside. Remanipulations of covetedness. Left burning inside by the inertia drawing to a head. You're mean. I think you're talking about me. Watching me bleed. Are you seething again? So easy to set him off. Beefing with me. Phoenix palm tree with intermittent pulses of energy as it becomes an icon in the sunglass icon of Jethro's grill icon click out of shells. Hollywood lushness left-right all round. Green even in the support matrix of billboard presentation systems. Verdent stain on the knees of his khakis or his cammies when he scuffs. Twelve gauge no words. You couldn't hurt me. You're no risk to my real estate. Jethro spends time hunting these nobodys who may have a weapon who shit when they hear the sound that taks off barn door at business-end clicketyclack pure America holemaking says that somebody's here. Jethro: as American as USDA dogshit. Hollywood in the city where I used to chill. Where my blood froze. Where my father got his. Where exploitation got biz. Where no man will get mine. Point blank on the man on the man I draw the line. Be a dick to stay alive.
I wish that was a guy said the spy with his eye. Touch my celluloid again it gives me jitters. You should come out to the West Coast. It's exaggerated evil here. Jethro can't take it apparently. Making fun of my favorite genres of music. Everyone's given an opportunity to misbehave. Solidly offensive enigma of modernity inflamed. Unarmed identity just sippin the tea. Not somebody's servant. Why did you think I'd need to?
And it wasn't the absence of Zeppelin that had him thinking the sexual world was made newly available to him. Because Jethro wanted it. No he didn't. Jethro was sanctified in the luxurious objectification. Jethro got rooted. Zeppelin got better still. This spy. There's something the matter why Jethro didn't kill him. Creeping under the window in a standard movie behavior. I'm not making this up. Well it was dark and gloomy. There was music all of a sudden. Where people move like zombies. Almost a blessing if she hadn't been there. Zeppelin'd been there once. Don't ever let men affect you. Not that I'd ever say something like that and mean it. You're strong. Zeppelin isn't like that. Zeppelin isn't like her old self. Jethro should have killed him on the grounds of the attraction alone because he isn't likely to come up with anything better. Mobile expressions we seem to share lack the amount of anything solid to make it last. Everyone says I want you. Everyone says I want you. Everyone like myself owns images they demand all kinds of ways to see.

Slow fast elevator, the, speed cruising on its last newly formed & installed pulleys on up, decrepit. Zeppelin's limbs lock into place resisting that killer, Gravity, drifting fro their non-commital postures to form that godshitter so named (Zeppelin). Sound tight doors shut off to the rock hit jangling, proof against all audible things this floor, strangling. Her figures exits on cue slicing through space deftly deadly.
Modernity inflammed. Seduced by modernity. Young man!

Cut to Jethro still in alley dripping wet with slimy condensation and rusty runoff sights so therefore barrel trained on the passenger tinted window rolled up hershey skin trembling vitality thinking no one has not evaded dealing with no love or feeling it or rather its absence inside natural as it seemed. It's happened before more frequently than any sin. Kneeling position to squatting position to one-knee position. Rifle resting rusty no-rust dumpster lid caked with paint and grime poorly painted as this future poorly constructed. A person, a black (italicize 'black') person, might flag. Eyes roll of. Head tilt teasing sleep but still see things to the end. Jethro showed none of these signs and was determined to see things to the end. New sight. New ammo. Somebody gonna take a loss. Black people see things to the end. Black people stick to it. Black people have and will continue to.
Limo innocuous to the side tinted windows appearing less than nothing and setting the peaceful tempo.
Bitches were the dominant program on Jethro's mind. Even though he was not actively thinking about them. More efficiently, the phenomenon of bitches in his presently active social life were what kept him from being fully there in that alley in any honorable way. It was what his mind would reluctantly return to. It was what he woke up thinking about, and every other important situation got knocked down into a secondary ranking. It set off at an odd angle the alphabet block stack of thoughts. Stupid things would drift in to upset the work of a normal mortal as a hopeless detractor to this task right here such as the perception of the music through the brick will through the closed window which lasted for a long while barely sounding like real music at all inching into the time along the sustained event of a possible assassination making him think once again of how sweet life could be if you could hear all the latest music along whatever you were into really into and how that if nothing else must be what Americans his age really go in for and what is considered genuinely American that is the array of all the things technology gives us to please the senses. Something was really good at the bottom of the idea of the American Jethro became certain because end the all that mattered really were the details because the central substance of the events of our lives was a dead motif looping all through history. After all the only thing that distinguishes one human being from another is a bunch of details. Without details we were all the same. Understanding that similarity was like looking at a featureless white wall. The uniformity of all things was a simple as that. Jethro was black in the alley with a gun. Jethro was wet. Jethro was in contact with the potentially harmful metal corroding agent of rust. Jethro was preparing to shoot a car.
Jethro shot the car. The informer went into the building. Jethro blows up the baby. Jethro saves the baby. There's a baby in the back seat of the limosine. Jethro gets next to the window. There's a baby inside. Jethro blows up the baby in the car. Jethro escapes with baby.

Preapocalyptic fever essential to any productive society found our spunky grunt-to-be sweaty with underdog spitfire and a hero to others with a contrived broil of negative tragical narrative lying before him predicated by these moves now every last embellished by a quagmire of quotidian inter-racial intrapersonal misudnerstanding and misinterpretation as Jethro the wholly innocent ghetto child fresh from the federal penitentary and imbued with a radiant maleness complicated by a process of perception derived from African ancestry yet despite this specialization did not exclude an affinity for the members of the proximate society essential to history fell in a brooding sporadic quiet outsider uncomplicated beyond devices largely ignorant of the things which wuld endear him to colleagues unable to compete broken in youth witness to outrageous melodramatic sights of direst horror to run him thin through adolescence standing on his own two here a thing reborn exceptional and unusual highly functional quick and effective complete and entire sharp as the plate glass in John McClane's feet with the relexes of a sex player on tenor to the anarchic experimental more modernist rythms of an over-reaching drummer to hold the improv piece together against the instinctual forces of chaos. Jethro held down his end against the fuck me now gazes his brooding quiet youth saturated with photoabsorbent and shiny blackness encountered with in the tense special secret covert marine training services barracks finding a way to make his work reflect a positive outlook without in some internal way turning into a complacent ugly defeat by harnessing a special ferocity as defense against the harsh reality that just because he gave he should not expect something in return. Jethro frightened people and came to love the pain bundled in the gift of intimidation from geneaology. It's anybody's guess how Jethro would behave would his bitterness created logically from what was around were to make its presence.

His father had even named it thus without ever having fully known it. His father knew precisely where he was. Everybody else was comfortable living with it just as his father had believed it to be. He was in a place his father knew about but would never be. He was finally away from his father. His father would never be where he was at, and he somehow probably would have been better for him if he was somehow. Did his father understand what there was to be understood about the geography better than all teh view of the city would reveal? Could he fall thousands of stories? Did a building need all that on the roof in order to exist as a building?

Zeppelin and Jethro were all evil. Zeppelin wanted to see it fall, Jethro wanted to see it fall. When she turns over in the light you could see the little pentagrams in her eyes. Jethro wanted to get an enormous tattoo of the christ on the cross as a crucifix crucified inverted pointing down oops up the side of his back to represent his opposition to the nonphenome of reason. Each moonlit step put them further away from the new superbookstore built in North Africa. They were one force seeking fulfilment in the obvious incongruous masochist quest away from the superbookstore apparently under the assumption that no knowledge is attainable through academic vicarious means. They seemed to thrive for the same things.

Exposed in the wastes, Zeppelin's followed the horizon as it went through buildings and back around the world. Around the world the horizon came back again through all the buildings where the two were stationed. Zeppelin understood that among women the most often victims of homicide are the owners of their own weapons. She knew that Jethro would eventually shoot her so this wouldn't last long whatever this was. Jethro was behaving uncomfortably around Zeppelin's presence again. She just had to wait for him to say it. It was unnatural and their whole relatinship began to take on a whole new meaning. The incongruity is dangerous and not for the better. Zeppelin cut the buildings low with her finger. The damage was somewhere around the thirtieth to fiftieth floors. She watched them fall. Jethro asked her what she was doing. Zeppelin explained that she did not love the buildings because they were old even though recently built. Jethro found it difficult to follow her rationale. He turned toward where the horizon should be and discovering that it was unfindable began to feel his raunchy savagery belting from his upset stomach and he winced at the sun and tried to explain to Zeppelin that there was nothing wrong with the buildings and she at least pretended to understand. Zeppelin still felt that there were too many buildings. She clipped the antennas off the top and crushed the flashing red warning lights in her teeth with the force coming down like a thousand psis. Jethro chose instead to distance himself from this whole scene, proceeding to crawl into himself eyes red and apparently not wanting to weep over his solitude because what he was was designed to terrify and he knew his place and stayed their. Zeppelin even looked beautiful when eating. Zeppelin could eat anything. Jethro wasn't feeling this; there coiuld be no attraction at all. She would have to make the first move. Jethro's personage was not one that would try to lie or try to be funny when someone's misery became obvious. You couldn't not doubt the collective strength of their energy and determination. Zeppelin had managed to devour the skyline in broad daylight and that was pretty damn impressive. The end unfolded nicely. Had come a long old fucking way. He nothing on her light. She no where his night. Eternal don't you know that? It was all put up on him: he was a robot for them to hate. He made something she could live off of, which is in itself a reward, which in itself is something. Why did she not care and he cared so much. One is perplexed by the beautiful warfare of opposites provided one is not initially frightened about what that reveals about ourselves whatever we think we are. Zeppelin and Jethro indulged in the secret celebration of the world's pain from a place that would probably never arrive.

They went all the way across the world to get here hoping that it would be better and when they got here it wasn't. As if to be so stupid to guess that one place in the world could be different ultimately than any other. No matter where you take yourself in the world you are still yourself. Then once there, having the audacity to complain that you're upset. Never realising why.
Jethro and Zeppelin couldn't just straight out go into the room where their member was and see him. This required some unexpected stuntwork. Zeppelin clung upside-down in the window to Abraxas' room in holographic camouflage, and got some choice footage of the morguemen pulling Abraxas' corpse out in a wheeled cart. Jethro walked straight past Leonardo's room, nonchalant, peering sideglances through the plastic. Jethro knew that he couldn't do that. But a shot put him in an undersestimating mood. There was Leonardo.
Now there isn't shit that they could do. There was just the four of them. If one got killed, all bets were off. Jethro contemplated the lengths to which Leonardo had gone through to make shit look as if they were this big underground organization, but the fact of the matter is, you can't put that shit past the real underground.
Zeppelin and Jethro were alone now. The big money was on that Leonardo's mafia connections had soured and were behind this. They made their moves, descending on a crusade of vengeance into the crime world.

Paolos Saldivar sat reading some non-fiction on drug addictions. Jethro didn't even need to use the heroine patches doctors perscribed to recovering junkies.
Jethro's hands were never once cold when he touched Paolos' body it just so happens. Jethro another ego- part writes his masterpieces drawing on his retina while he does pushups.

Ready. The morning was clear for once this December. Jethro Antigones Thorp fingered the guntube of his Kalashnickelove semiautomatic with his good hand. Got weaponup thiopyric blaster beam super. Press and hold for 3 sec. Round 360 final. And press while holding up. Next: Auto. Rest 0036. Perfect. Miss 0000. Time 12:00 AM. Best: 0'00"12. Damage 0.00% 0072 wins. Paolos Apt Stage. Credit 00. Blaster select. Self worth -360. Right, down, left, up, right, down, left, up. Fuel 00. Speed 0mph. Alt 000024ft. Shield 720. Health 73512/99999. Hi 99,999,999,999,999. Nin 150000. Left Jethro __*__ 03. 3 hit up. Got weaponup super thermonuclear bit. Take it easy. Rank
Supreme seal commander 20XX. Indradeth. Jethro got weaponup. Gunup. Killup. Kills 99,999,999,999. New hi. Kill bonus. Hidden round special Latiqua w. stage. Equip. Which? On whom? Jethro is equipped with that. Jethro gunup sneakup. "You better think twice, Jethro." Success rate 360%. Failed! Difficulty level Expert. Jethro expert equipped with napalm death launcher. Disassemble. Save and quit? Jethro OK. I feel there is something special with this sidearm. There it is again! Somehow I feel there is something some how special with this sidearm that somebody seems to have left there. I feel somehow that this must be a trap, Jethro! It is not that I can believe totally the special nature the sidearm is capable of. Jethro expert equipped with indradeth infrared incinerator emitter. Jethro expert equipped ionic displacer rifle. Jethro expert equipped de-crystalizer cannon. Jethro expert equipped high-energy plasma pulse gun. Jethro expert equipped heat-seeking concussion missle launcher deluxe. Jethro expert equipped vibro-axe. Jethro expert equipped electro-disrupter low-yield microwave amplification rocketlauncher. Jethro expert equipped evil groundwave bass megaton direct current photon eliminator. Jethro expert equipped null ray. Jethro expert equipped magnetic inducer shell rifle. Jethro expert equipped gyro inhibitor. Jethro expert equipped automatic incendiary gun. Jethro expert equipped supercooled corrosive alcohol pulsar belcher. Jethro expert equipped small caliber thermo magnesium phosphor cyclone pistol. There it is! A feeling! Yet, do you really believe somehow that those who would try to kill an assassin for hire would trifle with such bothersome details all just in order to do that job? ?? Jethro? ... ...Jethro... ?? ... ...Jethro!? Gone again. I now must hurry on and won't stop until I have seen Jethro back found again so I know his whereabouts. I'm making it the next stop. I'm going to go the distance. I must not fail. The kingdom's peace depends on me to be safe and sound once more. It is from here beyond far too difficult for you to travel any further than this. You better stay here and rest for me until I come back, okay? in a while just a little bit. Take it easy and be careful, Jethro! The fate of the kingdom is counting on you! You better remember how to use the secrets of the ancients against Agammenon's armored henchmen. They move in absolute silence because of his evil black magic enchantments, so be sure to equip the proxvoxbox in the item screen before you leave through the gate just over there to face them. Remember that one beep means that a henchman is long range, two beeps is medium range, three beeps is closer range, four beeps and you are history. Beeps come together at a time in intermittent rythmic pulses. Good luck! Jethro! I am so glad you made it back here without getting hurt again. I finished the __ and it's all ready for you to use in comabt now. Try it out. Jethro got __! Gained _! Level up! Gun up! I barely made it back. Jethro! I am so glad you made it back here again in one piece. I completed the __. Oh, I see your hands are full. I'll just hold this for you here in safekeeping then until your bag gets empty a little more with room enough in it to take with you later, OK? Who is that mysterious stranger from the hinterlands city who came asking for me? Hey! Wait up! Who do you think you are, Mister? Why do I have that curious feeling about him? I know nothing. Where do I know you from? The assassin's past is shrouded in mystery. Why does your face seem familiar? Gasp!! It's the Chosen One!! You are mistaken. The STUNTMEN have lost their honor and now resort to torture on their intended captured war victims. I'm out of work. I guess I'll return back home to my village on the fifth island to the south of here. It all started with Agammenon Prime came here. I hate him! You can't go beyond this point without his permission. You need to go beyond this point in order to get to his room. Maybe if Agammenon Prime was defeated we could stock the big guns like the __. Top of the line. State of the art. Agammenon's forces have surround the North Ump Towerland. IF we could use the __, THEN we'd be able to breach his weakness, which nothing ELSE seems to even dent! Agammenon Prime must be at North Ump Towerland. If we had the __ we could cross to him over the north bridge. Why do men fight wars? Enter the secret door over there on the wall and you'll be in Agammenon Prime's room. Found __! I've been waiting for you, Jethro. PREPARE TO DIE!! Jethro finish. Jethro levelup.
Paolos unmoistened her flowery girlflesh in the scgraggly machinewash Brasilian cotton beachtowel. The skin absorbed, drinking.
Open to blue pacific. As if they were over the middle of the sea. Monolithic postmodern space age architecture. The great and narrow canyon between the dark balconies. The toaster slit of the habitation as exposed noonday sky above with sunlight directed twinkling the biggest floors just barely, like a spotbeam testing the subtle concrete.
This movie was giving Zeppelin the shakes as she reconnitered. Stephen King and Stanley Kubrick came through again. The tale of the officer whooshing to base in the convertible while the decorated corp general grizzled barks these crude stories. Touching some deep dooming level of her unconscious. First, it posed methodical epistemological questions. She wanted to know what they were going to do with the kid. Zeppelin was starving for some popcorn. In fact, she almost screwed up the trace and blew her cover standing in line trying to get a 30 nuevopeso bag. She thought it was nuevopesos. All she had in her bag were nuevopesos. This end of LA only took nuyuan. She skipped out of line, pushed through the crowd in the wastefully oversized lobby of filing otreku and saiberuponki, on a filmgrimmage to mecha. She sprinted into the night through the glass hatch of doors from the lobby and into the parking structure. The man had a cigarette lighter. Steel polished. The general gave it to him. You flip the top, flick the flint, flame zips about a mile, and you are smokin. It clipped shut. Shameless evocation of Lynch. You squeeze this part here, you need to press hard, and the two halves of the lighter crack a little almost like a scarab, and the garage door opens. The officer took the lighter. She had to get to her harness beneath Leech's car before he got there and drove off. She did this faster than she should have. The general barked on as the convertible slipped down the road so fast, and the car hit stealth and zoomed through the night windshields, through the driver's faces and out the back. Long lean coastal road. Then it started to flash sprinkle acid from the LA skies. LA really was not as dirty as she once was years and years ago. The Liberals had seen to that. But they had not seen to the clean air of the cities below the one-time American border where lay countries still needing sound economic structure.
The terrible sound of the universe at the night when things should have been completely normal, all the sounds full terror as the night shreiked it's intense sorrowful hush. Charging up and down the modeled convectional grid. The polygonal twists and warps. Heteromorphous dissimilar of vertical erratic geodesica. Striations and bends. Jungle of furrowed bands, gridded streaks, wrought into mammoth larval dimensions. Irregular geodynamics. Ever unmelting waves of warped grid. Techno-organic tissue of the inspired habitations.
This theatre put her in the remembrance of the Matinee above Nueva in France, next to Juan Claud Neuf. It was horrible what the general told him. There was some kind of creature beneath the base. It had an anthropomorphic body put together of tangled dead weeds wound around an undead alien organism in it's upper abdomen stemming into the head, which constantly dripped blood on the floor as it walked. This wasn't well done, because there was always a fresh track of blood wherever the thing went.
The officer pulled up to his garage. The general got out and started walking through the government condos, saying something piggish through his toothpick, snarling a kittenstrangling affectation something like pleasure, she imagined. The officer clicked the lighter. The garage door opened. Things went normal. Normal for a long fucking time. It was a wondrous misery. So artfully mundane. So well written. The officer had his wife and his kid on the base. Looking to raise him there. The wife developed a reporre with the computer voice in her house, which she didn't have to clean. Kubrick had her read a lot of books. Do basically nothing. In fact, we see very little of her. Then that thing came out of a sewer, and started taking bodies away. Leech never came out of the theater. Zeppelin found him hit by a car, but his character was unimportant so we won't talk about him anyway. Zeppelin left the theatre, and the incidental themes by William Orbit were aweinspiring.
"It is a telling display."
Zeppelin looked at herself. Eyes meeting the viewer. TV's effect on how we talk to one another and how we percieve a good conversation should go.
Zeppelin looked at Jethro. Sunlight reflected off tinted ion car windows as the door slams shut bringing out the towering bookshelves on the walls of green glass where the traffic floods the interchange and the citizens flood the walkway. Saw a book so deep you shrink away. "Are you in pain?" he asked her (Japanese psychobitch), dredbeads rattling.
"Only when I think about the future. I remember when I was little I'd walk home from school and look in the houses wishing that I could float inside like a ghost and become involved with them, get to know them, lose myself in the lives of others. I wanted to just go into their houses and see what I wanted to see. Fantasies. Not real, I guess. Abraxas helped me feel that way. I scared that I might never feel that way again. I think...."
"I can still smell him. Across the void. It's a telling display that I don't miss Abraxas, and I can't ever shake myself or find forgiveness for it. I don't care if Abraxas dies or not. Who cares. I can't nobody learns."
As a great white to the smell of human red liquid, "That's no fucking excuse. What, is my loyalty outmoded? Cloak the anciently genetic behavior in a fancy euphemism...neologism. Same song. Fuck it all. I'm staying loyal because it's harder than being disloyal. Fuck all that 'out to get yours' shit. What you want to get which you think should be yours ain't ever even really worth it. Takes a man to say that. With experience."
"Shut up." Deflating. "Poor baby." Further deflating.
"Fuck you."
"Jesus."
"I'm cool."
Jethro was whispering breathlessly lids furled and light glinting in his dusky browns. Sheltering those veiny midnight rust hands of athletic size in the unlikely shelter of her ghost parchment skinned spiderleg fingers with those bitchin nails making them languidly balletic. Jethro's legs length'd for edgeattainment perpoises, face in book.
"He's not in your skull anymore."
"For my four years with ya'll, I never got used to that."
And then Zeppelin was saying, "If you don't care about him, I won't either."
Couldn't digest anymore. Stomach no longer could secrete the acids that broke down -- but Jethro hadn't eaten this afternoon at all.
"You bitch."
"That's right. Compliments welcome here, see." Zeppelin tipped the nail file and filed down Jethro's uncut ends. "See, we can go work for Corleone."
Jethro wasn't saying anything. He was getting distant.
"We need the money." A faint powder of nail spread over the mochatone formica. "Did I ever tell you about when I first started..." And then shit got real damn funny. At least Jethro was grinning a little.
"What?"
"What would you call what we do?"
Long ago assassins tried to keep a low profile. Solid synonyms, God and Jethro were in his mind, disregarding all arguments otherwise. Kill when I want who I want. (You never see me coming even after I done came.) Jethro cut loose some thunderclaps from his belly and Zeppelin had to reign him under. "What do I do?" Jethro shook the table laughing, alive, insane. The nail file slipped from Zeppelin's fingers and she almost caught it, and then Jethro almost caught it, and then Zeppelin got that shit by the edge, flipped it and stashed it in her palm like a nickle from heaven.
"Control."
"Control," Jethro repeated and found control. Jethro unbunched his nuts. "Smell."
Pinning the stinky hand Zeppelin looked at it and decided to catch a whiff.

Worlds beyond this world. No place to turn. Delicatessen was just so much different from Zeppelin with her in-school activism and her affairs with teacher's assistants and her grant and her unimaginable state of unimaginable prettierness somewhere in Future London or some shit to that effect and simply amazing GPA and veganism and taoism. Zeppelin needed to be Delicatessen but there was just no fucking chance. Zeppelin had this picture in her mind of how Delicatessen was. The picture was probably inaccurate but it served its purpose in disciplining Zeppelin's nonwork prerogative toward something more closely resembling model morality than the fetid anarchy that had her chomping fast food burgers without a moment's relent. Zeppelin couldn't be made to care as she prepared in her own anarchic mind whether she would shoplift the clothing she raked through or pay for it thinking of the blouse she knew Delicatessen wore because it made Delicatessen's breasts look even bigger than how they usually looked which was big enough probably to fuck the answers out of some pop waif victim while real girls preferred astronauts which she borrowed because she had seen it worn before and the fit was perfect and she was pretty sure that it did make her breasts look bigger and she remembered her long nails fitting in the ridiculously tight button holes that allowed the perfect fit and she remembered perhaps at one part getting into a bit of an altercation with the garment while trying to fit into it and could see her sister discovering the widened holes while taking a sip from the cup which had blackish red lip marks around the brim proof of an existence. Or her magnet pump forever frowning from the solid steel ceiling of the cafeteria. Zeppelin missed her magnet pumps. Night would come and Zeppelin would revert. There was no chronological development of her attitudes. It was sometimes as if her actions were to prove that if the hand were not quicker than the eye it was at least quicker than light. Zeppelin needed to stay awake because the proverbial beast in the proverbial cage was no longer in the proverbial cage and there really was no telling where it had got to. She wondered if her sugar intake had any responsibilty for her sudden hyperactivity. Zeppelin sparkled like a diamond. Zeppelin started kissing and when it got down to no condom and she knew she had her own except for this one time but if she really wanted it really really wanted it she knew that she would find it hard to resist which is why she avoided eye contact. She thought to herself, 'Those fuckers,' and scratched her nipples only because of an unconscious compulsive desire to make herself miserable by compounding her presently increasing irritation with shame. Zeppelin had a lot of work to do. For Zeppelin, sex with the Devil turned out to be something that gratified her because the Devil was ashamed of his body and so tended to put the locus of desire in her temple which seemed to suit her rather well. Perhaps once, now no longer.

177848 41! 611713! 143 637 823 247 843! 851 817 15117600 177! 111 855 119! 111 855 119! 701212. 614203. Zeppelin copied down the numbers etched into the tile of the elevator jacuzzi. Zeppelin spent longer in the bathroom of the elevator than was necessary as she lost herself in the moment before the full length self consciousness into curious vanity into narcissism as she found herself pulling up her shirt to see her tummy seeing her bellyring and ribs then pulling down her skirt to see how in turning her spine narrowed down further the curve widened at her hips then a sound! a door! no! it was the automated airfreshener discharging its contents in a sensor-activated burst like a door opening if someone had seen her then oh! her heart started and she rushed to cover herself, realized the game, paused to look the see on her face before the glass becoming mesmerized by the lights in her eyes staring beautiful sea nymph color all pure then the door! no! the sound again pumped her heart filled her with flight or fights highs over and over until she became positively drunk of herself.
Thunder flowering under the floor as the turbine still as a statue soars. Hypersexuality. The passage became a vaccuum tunnel: doors tricky to open. Open!: this is the landing where Leonardo landed thumbs in beltloops second two from the fly (Jethro got the door). Jethro, who got the door, and Leonardo, who then let in, and afterwards strode evenly, as Jethro, leaning on the door, fumbled his caramel sundae. He got a headache just as the turbine rose to shock volumes. Jethro could see padding ripple. He slid off the door and it smoothed into a steady slam. Damn this was good damn ice cream. He spooned without pause headache and all, the turbine trembling the whole level beneath, a vibration encouraging a mean stiffy, he spooned.
Zeppelin loved it here. Leonardo handed the man a series of sheets to sign. The man signed the series of sheets with a dynamic electric blue ink pencil. Zeppelin had apologized to the Client, a one Mr Duan Hon, da Marxist, robotic fuck slave and erotica novelist, crossgendered and selftitled, and accepted a cruise to the Caimans, baby. Blunt penile numb insensitivity of the experienced asian porn stud. Zeppelin for once in her whole life, got into the doors, but only because Elabgelo had convinced her to. There he was, saying, "Come on! Come on! You'll feel like a teenager." Although within the presence of Elabgelo, whom she found attractive, a fact of Elabgelo's understanding, her thoughts went over to O'Doyly, the soccer playing astronaut. Elevators under modernization. ELEVATOR TAKE ME TO THE BASEMENT. Car call. Door ding. Zeppelin jumped herself through the closing doors in time to her floor. Maximum capacity 3000 lbs. Weak constitution. Descent velocity. Cruise altitude. Sweaty palms. Remembering the impact. On a vicious monorail accident. Stratocirrus stylized into warped icons in the ionglas.
Let us not get into how exactly unhappy Our Leonardo was at the loss of money. Leonaro maybe thought that Mr Hon maybe leaving wasn't bad, but for Jethro and Zeppeln it wasn't good, because Jethro and Zeppelin love to kill. Don't let him just walk away. We need something to do. they like espionage too, but not as much as they love killing. Killing is visceral. Espionage, too intellectual. Patience-depleting. Besides any secrets that existed wouldn't be secrets for long, if the secrecy hadn't already been breeched by somebody small time already. Good Lord, I hate little fuckers like that. Don Huan did to, which is why they were in his employ. Leonardo frowned with satisfaction, looking impotently furious. It is only when you ride the elevator, your entire body put in total peril, there being only one possible axis of movement, the simple fact of accelerating the body beyond a speed which was intended, the taxing of the spatial orientation, the metaphor for the apotheosistic ascension to the seven heavens, or condemnific descension into the depths of the other, the feeling of the insides moving at different speeds, the pull of opposing gravities, the G forces. Zeppelin knelt as the elevator went down, and we here think that she once again came through in her attempt to actually mount and be driven through by the G forces. The sudden stop. Rumble rumble rumble swoon. All that forces piles on top of that force. Anticipating the stop. A full 200 floors. Empty business day. No random cab calls to interrupt the speedy descent, breaking deceleration. Nothing to stop her flesh from being fucked by gravity amplified into the unnatural, the ungodly. As you can see, Zeppelin experiences a lot of guilt from this. Unexpected stop of the inertia jolt fullwise. She got off where the door opens. She looked through the window and saw that she was still three floors up. The flashing sensor. But descending in the wide narrow express lift again like magic. Elabgelo works for the Yakuza! Elabgelo rafiki yangu. Elabgelo: the very personification of animalistic urban afro monglodread, wolfishly psycho mannered, with an unpareiled epistemological appetite. Aethnioptica.
Vista rimming violet smog rising to consume the last quadrant of speckle stelliferous marine pudding. She got out on a floor which wasn't hers. She was still a couple of floors up. View from the balcony of the dirty air, a moment to sneak up on Elabgelo, his back to her, lovely peeling black elbows, elbows chalked with titanium dioxide, exposed to her. Gaseous niji liquid in slick condensated railtubes circling the balcony to tile being refitted by absent masons. Zeppelin would ask him about her oxymicrofilaments. You know he's dying to touch your exposed waist. The yupscale phantasmagoura splitlevels deep. Glide point cursor. Pressure sensitive. Piezoelectric input device. Explaining to her, "The root of the madness of eurocentric patriarchal societies in its treatment of its soldiers which stand up for its principles." Her thoughts exactly.
Zeppelin became disinterested when it became clear Elabgelo wasn't being objective. Elabgelo laboring away toward a truth process for quite some time now, set to transform the world with the light of the ankobia. Rennovated over the existing architecture. Conflicting styles, post modern economical gray stone Aztec and Disneyesque pastel deco. Construction marks chalked on the concrete prefab pillars. Architectural schizophrenia. She went to a door labelled 'Robot Programming'. It was locked. Net console. Sunfaded projection screen on a news schematic with talking head and other pertinent data images. She sat in a PVC safe wicker chair.
Redwood bundled joists. While the ceiling hung JBLs played alternative oldies. His favortite game sqeezed behind a valve cage. The mounted evacuation plan. Plants in black pots on top of cement blocks. Kitchen. Pushed the door lock on the handle. Little button. Lock drawers. Workers busying back and forth with buckets. Mops and vacuums. Inspecting the ceiling. Wandering surveyor and apprentice. Painters. Workers tiling the stairs. Scuff marks on the fresh paint. ATM kiosk. Additional construction to the functioning facilities. Transmitting from the clock tower. The key to deactivate access to the observation level. Wheel chair ramp twisting rectilinearly. Bike racks.
Elabgelo smells like metallic cologne, electronics and old socks.
What didja want, what'dja expect, what did ya think? Unsnarling like dragons from the uncomfortable positions back into fully functional fuckover mode. The definition of lines of the world were still in conflict. It was now day/night. Enough of the tree was being told in order to reveal things such as the units of the tree were eliminated. What the tree was about; of the minutest pieces that composed the whole and did nothing else it was left to the experienced or the imaginative. And the land was cold. The machines rang in their plastic hardcases, the facility wasn't serving any bodies; something of the cold was surely situationally warm devices and hardware.
Zeppelin kept the numbers on papers. If she was really to crack down get to business stop goofing off make some headway on the found numbers, this was but the neatest time to go about it. Zeppelin observed the rising body of Elabgelo busy and turning swigging fruits in a bottle with the connection of Jethro on the cellie for all of him to hear and got caught in moving in concert to his relocation to different equipment ostensibly out to squeeze faster performance from an identical clone with a better short term history she guessed she might have guessed. So numbercracking was crunching the color of unattractive according to her fakey sidestepping and dissolution of dedication and dissipation of focus, so that cracking numbers lost focus in her head. Zeppelin redirected her feet from the friendly buzzing facility and made her way uncertainly downthe quieter hall next to windows that let in light from where the ocean was supposed to be. There was supposed to be waves crashing into the rocks, but the budget must have run out. Instead, the sea is suggested, and rather poorly at that, through the thick glass. Occasionally a muffled crash struck the poignant chord of distinction through the heavy silence, occasionally the waters receding under the rocks back into itself in a wealth of fizz spent time in the tightlipped stillness of the impressive breathable corridor. Zeppelin slung her bag around giving her unbraided dangling red strands a toot from a chimneyed lower lip to give her eye the room to supervise the ekeing out of the numbered napkins with her angry fingers. Snotnose. Snoot in to a ball. Jumper threepointer. Score at thiry yards. Shit. The slipped into nasal ring prolonged for as long as you own your computer re-entered her ear canals on the reconnoiter as she stomped back to the disengaged seat from the desk and lowered her arm inside the trashcan losing Elabgelo behind a range of offwhite bulk in her stoop and with the bump around the sides the safety orange "USED" sticker neatly came off all by itself with the snagging of the intended. Zeppelin was being ungirled by the temperature and cursed her chilly fingers in the course of the careful napkin stuff in her brassiere for being numbered nicely in eyebrow pencil. Waxy black around her fingertips from it even though a while back because the color's so potent. She saw herself walking up the elevated flight. She saw herself stooping on the apex observational deck and squinting into the starlit concrete and shifting through her pockets to remove one of those taken in bundles from the fastfood chain to clear her out of the muke build up causing such a scene in public in front of people on purpose for attentiongeting. Found the pen in her purse where she kept cosmetics and shit. She saw herself scribbling lightly so as not to destroy the dewdappled perspiration endamped domestic stock with the hard wax stick of fortified grease.
The screen jittered like electric water together with sprayed light. Underneath the mother came on like a bow slowfucking an acoustic bass string in an attempt to affect great sadness, great meaninglessness, great poignancy as boards filled up to their little ends with life electricity topfull. Elabgelo drummed his fingers on the offwhite shell and dared another swig. Zeppelin pretended to be interested for as long as hs ecould before leaving the room keeping the whole prospect of numbers getting cracked under the elastic woven nylon and cotton correcting her breasts along the line of conformity pleasing to the eye calming to the culture as she stepped away from all the buzz to see some trees coming through loud and clear or at least trying to back to back with the ghosty layout of neutrality and chill. She leaned her leathered arm on the case fo the display bending her wrist to her stretching mouth muscles to do a nutrient enriched diet twinkie some broken service contemplating this environmental creep to kodachrome geographic national. Zeppelin was in the rude face of an actual global earth location and the switchover was all horrorshow initially and the longer she lingered on it; which was unavoidable becasue she had twinkie to chew best chewn in loungistic postures to savour the yellow flavour. Green details were standing right there beneath the ghostly offwhite windowed. Not surprising the twinkie was good and twinked her body good and tweaked her desultory constructive creative nonactivity into a lower gear at cruising altitude she buzzed and rolled a cushion for her booty into position plucking the garbagewilted napkin numbered in black on to the desktop and concentrated on cracking in an uptight position which was very proper. Elabgelo left the room with a big smile sailing a long printout.
The numbers cracked themselves, forsaking an impossible to read description, and Zeppelin felt confirmed glow undercut by the knowledge that this wouldn't last running the other direction. Zeppelin can be said to have did this pretty quick and emptied the machine of all its twinkies down the hall, because Elabgelo ends up with one inside his mouth with no more fruity fun to wash it down to. Zeppelin reached another level.

(Time has stopped: do you see? No time has progressed by the computing of years and the telling of months sinced the beginning of this century, and slowly the populace has lolled into the darkest of human ages.... The universe is wireless, but we still keep them around anyway.)
Zeppelin was re-reading A Room of One's Own when Jethro snuck up behind her and pinched her lovehandle. Before you can see Jethro, you must be told precisely as he looks, and Zeppelin, too. Now we meet our bounty wanderers, the last souls in all infinity, as they move through this world, and we'll follow their progression as best we can without straying off to the side. This world is far ahead just around the corner. These people are the most and least important. Submitted for your approval. They are Zeppelin and Jethro.
Jethro was an ex-EMS chief, ex-con, a man of pulverizing stature, dimensions of invincible physical meanness, all conditions adjusted, leanly ultrahypertrophied, pumped of unmingled glowing blueblack hamsblood, bagged all up in cannabis-leaf fatigues of grey and black designed to blend into the concrete of the urban jungle, a robotical protection-looking slugproof with utility stash-pits buttoned and stuffed with heroin, bonecrushing timbos and a meticulously ordered web of dredlike braids in beads that sprouted canvass-style from the cornrowed dome in roots like a holy crown of octopus ink. Jethro means Jet Hero, and Zeppelin means Zoftig Ever Pushing Perpendicularly Ever Ladylike Into Nothingness. Zeppelin was a pale cypress-statured wispy mutie of ballerina slendiferocity with the witchinest greenybrowny narci-gaze of giddy-spree generous rosebud mouth from upstart NY here decked down in dickiehood of inflated plastic from which here hair went blam!, embroidered wrapped skirt and neoprene pants (she looks good!) in reading glasses, bowbrowed lightninglashed. Jethro violated the sanctity of the Original Digital Bibliotheque with his blackness, blackness repressed and manifest. On afternoons such as this, Jethro looks as if he took someone's arbitrary suggestion to get braids as a permanent solution to a neverending dilemma.
"Abraxas is sick."
"Yes I know."
Zeppelin ran through the particulars, which Jethro did not find particularly interesting, which was not in effect a telling display of his selfish apathy toward Abraxas' condition. Jethro felt moribund as he sipped his cappucino slowly and NWA played subliminally around his neck, near his throat. Thoughts of crazy sex pumped into his log, occurring to him as he looked at Zeppelin read her book with those glasses on, the light of the soft watts high overhead reflected onto the page and making her lips, which were painted vulvachrome, seem phosphorous. Again these thoughts were allayed by respect. Zeppelin was somehow Jethro's spiritual twin. Zeppelin looked up from her book and smiled at him. There was grease all through Jethro's hair, in those latitudinal cornrows exposing a scalp of rich Indian red.
"Did you grease your cornrolls?" she asked with emphasis on the 'zeez.' Zeppelin, in just the reverse, remembered seeing Jethro himself reading at a table alone in the ODB, and coming upon him so obviously alone yet so perceivably busy attending to the unseen ministers storming over him in a troubling aura of glassily distorted vex, and venom, although he sat still, gathered and peacefully alone.
"Exactimundo."
"It's nice."
Jaw shaped like a basketball shaped like an egg making a cowleather pouch stretch under a powerful weight bouncing as if swishing liquid contents that can never settle with the front of the skull turned upward the shiny skin in the light in a solid reflection on the open pores breathing tearing a fierce wake at the altitude of six feet from his swollen toes shelled in real steel a cranium bulging attached to a neckbone clocked in sinew fiber bundles rendered pattern purple vines and chocolate coating. Dawdling long duet of wheat stalks pink gold brushing alternately and alternately brushing the knees but hollows and swells of a perfect spherical unit of interlocking plate-shaped disks controlled by shifting bolts between them so that on into activation unexpectedly and invigoratingly clicks.
Stealfily, Zeppelin cleaned the lock of mucus and saliva from the gully of her top gun plate with a napkin under her upper lip, so that each vowel was accompanied with a smile. She made her spit diagram on the table of the Everard Eutaxicron building, playing out poetical variations of tacticals in her mental. Jethro's numinous shadow cold over it.
"Let's go check Abraxas."
And they did, following bumpers through traffic, perchance to race, catching themselves in irreverence past the numerous efforts to stop the seaward drift of the dirtslope palisade into the peaceful drink. It is an irreconcilable defect in the species, you see. When they got to the hospital, Abraxas was dead. Leonardo was paralyzed.
"Oooo! Let's see Kazakhastan!"
"Huh? What? Sure?"
"Yess! This is where Strider came from! Remember!? My scansorial soulmate! Lifting from tower to tower! Exxxxxotica! Errrrrotica!"
"Is that who you're talking about?"
"Ohhayoooo, Konbanwaaaa, et Konnichiwa!"
"What up, foo'?"
"Ichijirushii!! Chotto-chotto, ah, dono yo na, ah, sumimasen, chotto, ah, naninani, yeah, hey?"
"Death launcher."
"Diskarmer."
"Vibro-katana! Ha ha ha aha ahahhha! Oy!"
"What's that?"
"Oy! Inazuma o ikioi o mune no naka ni!! Ha ha aha!!"
"Ouch! Son of a bitch! That hoirt!"
"Sumimasen."
"Daijobu na des'."
"Say Strider: Hey Hiryu..."
"Hai!"
"...have you seen Xico Matic?"
"Hai!" Ushering off to his right, "Kashikomarimashita!" Hiryu steps to and back revealing the previously up to this point obstructed Xico Matic. He hefted a sword. Xico was deceptively dangerous and very lean to the point of anorexia. To be perfectly honest and say so in cutandry terms he was blamelessly still exhausted. Gankhska lien sweatdipt in green with a tedious buzz hefting an enormous loud cobalt douffle covered in supersubtle eyetwisting striping suggestive of sports metaphors. Strap sunbill turntarount and inverted like a spoiler corona. If I do it all now, where will I go? Scary enough still further. Jethro spoke to Xico to recount exactly how he got down those 49 flights with all him mights. Strider and Zeppelin are listening. Jethro says something much to the effect of, 'How did I get down those stairs? How did I get down those stairs? Do you want to know?', to which Xico is obliged to respond much over to the effect of 'One-tenth?', and Jethro came back to state freely adaptedly, 'Yes. All the way down with a single pulse, a single beat and brace my legs on the first flight, then I jumped down the second flight, then I braced to jump down the third, the fourth, the fifth, and by the sixth flight it occured to me that I was probably going about this whole thing the wrong way, so I stopped and stooped for a fraction of a second and then I plowed down the steps like charging into the grade down the seventh [Strider Hiryu, odin setsu of the manaicky kill ninja, bounds upon a roof and re-enacts for the benefit of Zeppelin precisely how one would charge down a grade] and there are exactly, did I tell you, did you know that there was exactly ten steps on each flight: so I'm thinking that this is perfect, right?: and then I charged down the ninth in full swing, then I have a full stride down the tenth [Strider Hiryu demonstrates for Zeppelin's benefit precisely what that stride would have been had she had been there to so what it really and truly was] and then I get into this rhythm on the eleventh, I can feel my veins coming on twelve and I'm charging and throttling Jesus so demonic and dynamic into thirteen, I'm this marvelous sexual machine on thirteen and I'm trippin because you know and I know that I'm not triskelaphobic, but still: know what I'm sayin man?: and then I punch into fourteen and I feel like I've doubled and then I punch fifteen and my heart is like a positron collider in heat and it's gotten so I don't feel my feet just wheels or wings or rocketships, and then I punch warp down lightning bolt crazy sexy sixteen, pummel the steel corrugated steel amalgamated steel into seventeen, my heart is like a nova and my sides are like nylons on a longleggedlady on eighteen at which point the lean of the stride is becoming a vortex as I'm zipping toward the center of the stairs and so into nineteen my head is swimming and I feel fully like some machine kicking and slicing the air down the steps and my head is like a pool of acid into twenty and then my chest is on fire at twenty-one and then I notice that I could conceivably go on running forever, because I'm not feeling any pain so I pedal down to twenty-two, and as I warp down to twenty-three it's as if my quads could press a Volvo and my ass is like a vat of nitroglycerin [Strider squeezes Zeppelin's ass] as I get ahead of myself at twenty-four and my murta is coiling like a dyno-orbital immortal as I maneuver skanlessly unto twenty-five and the dynamite nitro superpools through my veins into twenty-six and I can imagine my chi behind me a mile back on eighteen as I go through to twenty-seven and I can see the lights below me so I begin to peddle faster and faster, leaping down the steps as meaninglessly as they could ever seem at when the time um I see I think I saw twenty-eight zip past me and then I can finally hear the echoes of the footfalls that I made a second ago when I was on fourteen as I go to twenty-nine slicing into thirty as the center of my belly is alight with a zoe glimmer unlike any I had felt before and then suddenly I can feel myself starting to break down as I get into thirty, and the pain in my side becomes more noticeable and then pierces me sharply into thirty-one to what point I notice that I can't possibly continue this stride as I hit thirty-two, and I get this sudden itch of vertigo at thirty-three and then I detect the feeling of being watched at thirty-three and my groin slips when I make it touchdown to thirty-four, and I catch my second wind at thirty-five to the point that I miraculously recover my stride just as I sense my chi started to buckle in the sound of my echoing footfalls above and below my head at thirty-six I bump into the rail at twenty-seven and don't feel it until thirty-seven and this distracts me to the point that I miss a step at thirty-eight and stumble landing my feet giant, heavy and awkward like the wind at thirty-nine and then I jump down to forty: I go ahead sleek and utterly unstoppable by these racing errors at forty-one, feel like a young possessed one reaching his peak as I plow to the lowest of places at forty-two, slice the steel at forty-three, pull the spring in my calve to raise my ankle a little loftier at forty-four, use the rail to swing around on forty-five, and this works for me helping me to skip an extra step at forty-six, which helps me get down even faster the level forty-seven, and I let go to charge with a fuller arm swing and deeper into the incline recklessly through forty-seven, I notice that I've started to perspire down my chest at forty-eight, I remember that I'm Jethro again as the world swims and my body drifts away and I realize that I've got enough for the next forty as I punch through to forty-nine and hit a door!: I was like "What the fuck?!", and then I was through a door that I couldn't even see coming and I was at that light that I saw only glimmers of from above the stairs, and it was a fire light that came out of my soul and was just bouncing off the swinging door and I'm outside and then...well. I kept going. But I know it's going to kill me later. I'm still fucked up. I shouldn't even be talking right now. You see what I'm saying? I kept going. My head hurt. Then it caught up to me. I got to my car and when I stopped, it caught up to me.'
"Jethro, why are you writing this? I mean really."
Jethro as somebody who should've known better shot dead in his own home by law enforcement officers the morning. That recreation of identity bullet. Woo a doozy. Figuring out what the fuck he was going to be and not having the schedule properly written down. Zeppelin has a schedule. Zeppelin Zeppelin Zeppelin. Always competing with Zeppelin. This closed suburb drama. Something in the morning. Foodless timeless mornings.
World's largest pencil drawings. World's largest ballpoint drawings. Jethro here turning on the morning something Inka Essenhigh said. There are these huge shield-shaped canvas squares that convex thirty feet over the entrance facing the intersection of the main drag and unimportant side-street. Locked scooter into point of tangent at the end (and doesn't even ride really) of a graceful geometrical curve in cartesian planar space cage we're locked in poor terms diegetic delta swivel our life in movies from main drag to tangent side-street of no importance. Jethro's scooter doesn't talk anymore. Climate. Outside of the body. Self conscious independent cinema: what a revelation! What's on the outside of Jethro's body? JETHRO: air. This loathing in the morning awaking that every day what language was built on your lore the whole creation of it bottoms out breathing looking up at sculpture. Breathing in front of glasses. Trembling trays of magazines.
"Uh-unh."
"Ooooh."
There's this secret entrance. Watch siblings. Everything had been up to that point put together by people who didn't really want to get up and do it and there you have it.
Masturbating in chainstores. Every dirty denim time I need to be dead is a polluted lynch fantasy. Jethro observing the nauseated red-faced white hip hop evil choked with an affected frustration in his big unrealistic dictionary eyes.
Forgot everything for my life that I had totally figured out when I woke up this morning. Sometimes, pow!, the city just opens up. King of the road mold video. Photons sans backbone. Spent the rest of the day trying to remember what I had totally figure out this morning.
Well not the city seems completely soundless to being fully open. We can't forget that.
Zeppelin kind of had nothing to say just then.

The story of Jethro and Zeppelin, flesh and blood characters you can grasp onto and forget if necessary cut into the unwieldy and timehonored surface of the pink plastic bag. Slaves, idle. Bricks stretched on precise gold-seeming grid wilderness for as far seemed scientifically necessary and convenient. And they’re playing oldies. Here’s a rap song by Ralowe called: ‘This Was Supposed To Be A Song About My Undying Love For You But Wound Up Being About My Cellphone Because Everytime My Fucking Leg Vibrates It Scares The Shit Out Of Me Like All My Anxieties Focussed Into A Sharpened Metal Bore Right Through My Ribcage Or La La La Complete Lack Of Ice Build Up.sun?
Bareback Lack Of Imagination Buildup Quieted's Name. Reflection Of The Street Singing (DELUXE SIDEWALK SPAN OVERRATED REM SLEEP OF IT WHEN ITS JUST THE IT) At Which Point JETHRO Looked Over To ZEPPELIN And Began To Sleep: