Total Pageviews

Saturday, March 27, 2010

ordinary lil' fauntleroys

After my body was scanned, my bag gutted for contraband and my person patted down; after baboons with badges cornered, tricked and questioned me, I was released with all my effects into the arrivals hall where lil' lord fauntleroys waved balloons on sticks and mothers heaved their heavy breasts looking flustered at all and sundry. After I’d woven through this crowd of luckies and the row of drivers behind them – J.R. Dental; Pierce Longsword; Hopkinson Smith on their placards – after I’d trolleyed my bag into the clear, after the waving, beaming faction was behind me, I realized – good heavens – how happy I was to be home.

I thought about the French fries I would thrust down my throat, the Doobie Brothers that soon would blast symphonic across my quarters; I thought on the joys of Mica’s calves, cheeks and bellybutton; I thought – Yes! – without shame or reservation– what a joyous, wondrous day.

And so I pardoned with a wave of the hand the fiddling fauntleroys for being such little twerps, and I forgave their bovine mothers too for being so flustered at all and sundry. And I thought to myself, let me resume my life here among you with a kind-hearted gesture.

After the fries had gone in a dozen a pop, after the quart of ginger-ale and the clutch of toffees at the duty free; after satisfying my most commanding Earthly needs, I ventured down into the bowels of Amsterdam International Airport and waited on the platform with the ordinary-Man, the pig in uniform, the hack in a suit. I waited for the bullet-train back to Rotterdam City.

Understand, dear reader, this may seem utterly ordinary to you, but understand that “ordinary” - for me - had just been stripped and skinny dipped into a tub of vitriol. Recall the eyeless gentlemen, recall the stack of biscuits breakfast-lunch-and-dinner, recall the sheer horror of wall-crossings and telekinesis. So forgive me if I enjoyed (more than is appropriate) the chocolate skinned starlets who sat across from me in the bullet-train home. Forgive the rapt expression on my face as I beheld the gold amulets at the foot of their heaving breasts – Shantala, Serena – in bubbly golden script. Indeed, forgive me all these heaving breasts, but I was beside myself with joy in this bullet-train, on this day, in the bowels of Amsterdam International Airport.

Sunday, March 21, 2010

letter from the vortex

LISTEN CLOSELY.

I am served by two eyeless gentlemen – the same stack of biscuits, breakfast, lunch and dinner – and since my stunt the other night I’ve been observed by two other gentlemen, also eyeless. In truth, JK, I am also observing myself because my stunt – I crossed a solid wall of brick– was not deliberate and by no means expected. I am – praise all things holy! – shaken, JK.

In case you haven’t figured it out, it’s me, it’s Lui. And in case you are asking yourself where the hell I am, carry on because I can’t tell you, I have no fucking clue. Excuse my language JK – I know where you stand on obscenities – but I am uncomfortable here in every way conceivable. Forget the biscuits and eyeless gentlemen, this place – will you believe it – is stranger even than your evaporation chamber, your plasma tank, it is stranger, JK, than any locale or contraption you have ever conceived. I ask you, I beg you, JK, command one of your machines, materialize me, rub together your magnetizers, do what you do, but do it!

JK, I write to you because you are best versed in these matters. If I were trying to get laid I would seek counsel with Brendan Benchpress; if I were merely irked or vexed, I would turn to my heart, my Mica Spirelli, but as it happens, JK, I am out of Time – literally out of time – so it is your help I seek.

Something happened when I last awoke. Usually Time rolls out its carpet for me as a matter of course– flap flap flap – the days shines, twilights and then goes dark and my life transpires like clockwork. But on this day, JK, it’s as if the carpet did not fully unfurl, and I tripped over the fucking thing, tripped and found myself here. Found myself thus, JK.

I have been told a number of things, but all in a language as yet unintelligible, so forgive me if I omit to relay some critical details. I have not seen a single ray of natural light since my arrival, and all food has been, as I said, biscuits. But I have been informed by these gentlemen that all is well and that I needn’t worry about a single solitary thing.

HAHAHAHAHA HAAAAAAAAAAAA HAHAHAHHAAAA HAHAHAHAHAAAAAA HAAAAAAAAAAAA HAHAHA HAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA HAAA HA!

Excuse me if I find some of this amusing, but if you don’t mind – as a substitute for the terrific grief that rips through me – I laugh with all my teeth, all my tongue, until my gut is purged, and then I laugh again:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA AHAHAAAAA AHAAHA HAHAAAAAAAAAAAA HAHAH AAHA HAHA

And when I’ve had quite enough I become angry, terrifically angry and vent forth as follows:

Listen, you eyeless TURDS! My name is Lui Labas. Allies beyond this shithole will cast terror upon your hairless skulls – I wage my life on it – but that aside, think a moment on this: if I can cross partitions and walls of brick without a scratch, what barrier of any consequence can you erect? THINK for a moment!

But to you JK, I confide: I have crossed all walls but one, the last wall, not even the biggest nor thickest, but I am terrified, JK … for God only knows what lies behind it! God only knows!

Yours,

Lui Labas

Ps- I send this, as agreed, by emergency protocol, but my mind is jittery and unstable so the words above may reach you diminished of sense or perhaps altered completely. Make of them what you can, JK. What you can. Lastly…

Sunday, March 14, 2010

...

…red or dark red, sir. It’s a fluid, sir. They’re full of this fluid. Anything happens to them – you rough them up, sir, and they spill this fluid from their skin and orifices. It’s very messy, sir.

So they say… so who do we have here?

His name is Lui Labas, sir. We picked him up off the street. There was a big tall guy with him too, a big hairy guy, but he looked irregular; we thought he’d be too much trouble, sir.

What’s he doing now?

He’s pacing up and down, sir.

Has he eaten anything?

Sir, he said today was “toosdae” sir, and on “toosdae” he says he’s supposed to have “waffls” with his sister, sir.

That does not answer my question.

No, sir.

Well get him some of those blasted “waffls” then.

He won’t eat them, sir.

And why the hell not!?

Sir, his sister, sir, Bee Labas. He won’t –

Shut up! Enough. You’re dismissed! Get out my sight.

Sir, one more thing, sir.

Quickly.

Sir, we found him in the hall last night, sir. He was –

Which one of you God-blasted incompetents forgot to lock his door?

Sir, that’s just it, sir… Sir, his door was locked, sir.