Tycoonery pt. 4

“They should write a song about this town,” Wilson said as he wiped and wiped and wiped his shoes on the doormat, “a real heavy tragic number. With a chorus of ululating chicks. And a stupidly epic sorrowful sax solo.” 

He walked down the hallway and apparently guiding ME, he stepped into the living room.

“Like the tapis,” he said as he walked by a tie dyed handkerchief my dearly departed sister had tacked up on the wall.

I didn’t want to argue. But I hated it. But also my sister. But also my house. But also family first. But also art sux. But also memories of the beloved dead. But and but and but and but and but. And thus was and is—the universe.

“Buck!” Wilson snapped. I blunk out of my conflubulation.

“Sorry,” I murmured, “something I ate.”

“I told that limo that joint looked like a cheap poisoners supply hut,” he said and shrugged, “I apologize. But cars these days—what’re you gonna do? Anyways no grand tour. I wanna juice my eyegeese on that device of yours.”

I shuddered because I knew there was gonna be a big but at the end of this one.

There always was.

I took him led him down the stairs to the basement where I maintained my workshop. For a time I had tried to refer to it as a laboratory but I never really felt confident enough to rally make it so. Thus, workshop. Did that make me more of a hobbyist than any kind of  true creator or inventor or whatyallcaller? Probably, but I couldn’t let that get–

“These stairs creak more than a rheumatoid arthritic trying to wipe his butt with a sandy towel,” he said.

That lost me so I stayed silent and sipped through the dark feeling up with practiced fingers for the string that hung from the fluorescent bulbs on the ceiling. I pulled it down and the room was set aglow in clean, white light.

I stood there.

And he gasped.


Ridin’ dirty in the Tumbrel of Life


Long story short.

I’m cruisin’ like a neon worm. Squiggling through the electric soil. Atomic manure bleeding radioactive small particles picking at my fluorescent flesh like so many diesel-powered mosquitoes. bzzzzzzz-bzzzzzzzzzz-bzzzzzzzzz. I’m gonna need some balm, rub it on sweet because this future fresh picnic is purring along like a candy-cane motorbike–whoa, sorry I’ve got a bad case of the metaphors. Probably was those gas-station tamales, they give me the psychedelic mind runs something fierce. Can anyone recommend a good brain firmer? I’ve used  Bayer’s SolidThought (both regular and x-tra strength (both x and xx but not xxx)) and had reasonable results but it still had my mentalities hanging lambent and loose in the wind all razzle this and dazzle that and freaking the crap out of everybody. So I’d appreciate any help.