21/07/2013 - ULTIMATELY THE PERPETRATOR

Ultimately the perpetrator was duped with deep holes and fantastic progression. Eventide came in dribs and drabs of ineptitude and deficiency and other fish oils. They came to hunt the perpetrator with their mealy-mouthed gusts of rectal integrity, their shunting obsessions with railway disasters and their layers upon layers of computational elephantine powder. The perpetrator jukes and jives around these temporary pains and flows down the curtains of his own spirit of adventure; he becomes a malformed transcendental ball of sprockets and wisteria. The trail of course turns cold and shatters its own paving stones with eerie precognitions of direct hits and solid effort. The clouds ahead stir up the musicality of this dank moment, choosing the form of an angered policeman with a truncheon at the ready but in the background. The perpetrator winds up his karate chop function and lashes out at the mirage whilst humming a tuneless theme song for window shopping. He rips up thousands of brown weeds with a pinch of his toes and scatters them in his hazy stride. His behemoth moniker weapon blows the mystery down in one fell swoop which he then goes on to sweep under the impending rock slide. His wife returns home and chastises him for not defending the children in their Polish Nightmare Schools. He squabbles with her about the distinct lack of butter in the fridge and shuts the door on his own dart collection to emphasise the point of his anger. She just laughs at him and carries out the promises of her father to burn down every bookstore in the local area so that it might slash the perpetrator in two, leaving only a purple thing and a traitor to divulge the universe and the contents of his heavy luggage. She takes the traitor away to see the doctor and leaves him in adequate company. The traitor kowtows to all the medical equipment and even a few of the doctor’s pristine pickled nurses, set high atop his chalky shelves. This professional is a psychopath with lemon grafted to his every sensitive pore, he is a troubled carton of short-fused equations and lycanthropic synapses. The traitor promises the doctor that he will trap his wife for future reference and bring her best bits back to the doctor, namely her thighs and eyebrows. The doctor grins but brandishes a bladed stethoscope anyway. The traitor calls out for the purple thing and the purple thing comes crashing through the wall bars bearing the insignia of The Woeful Chicken Soup. They slice the doctor from armpit to cockpit and remove his capability to digest food without the aid of pork scratching crisps. They leave with eleven children.

The purple thing and the traitor walk out and it’s Eventide again. The purple thing promises to stick only to the crowded areas of the city while the traitor makes a vow never to steal sneakers without strict permission from God. One leaps into the air, the other slithers. They never touch again.