I'd rather not see you drinking
while you do it but I must admit to enjoying, nay, basking in that glimmer in
your eye as the fat, fortuitous details come spewing out through the ears, nose
and throat of your local GP from Mars Market Square. You know the place, the
glorified puddle at the end of the sarcophagus, the one where all the pissy
policemen retire to when their opinions get shacked up with farthing
principality and the marriage remains somewhat shaky. You know you secretly
enjoy going to that place to hear the shoes squeak, the cans explode and even
the fat Filipinos sort his prestigious shoe horn collection in the middle of
the gutter, just off centre and only slightly off-key. It's just the way you
usually like it and I know how you like the things you like to be distinctly
off-white. It turns them into the things you love and resist all negative
criticism of them. It would break you down to a nub.
And of course we have the leotards ready and
the health emptied and divided accordingly so that you can continue your unearthly,
ungodly hopscotch tournament with the other Queens of Dung Heaps. Everyone on staff
just loves to see you all crammed into the official jeep, circling the block
with your tin pots on and your happy alarm's blaring. It wouldn't be a party
otherwise. Meanwhile we on staff are thoroughly content to keep to our usual
duties of security camera surveillance and recording cheap, tacky rap remixes.
We on staff have jewels to polish and plosives to misconstrue in our polite but
concrete conversion conversations. We're halfway to ruling the borderline with
all planks on board and talk-talk-talking about the latest brick fashions. It
takes a short while before we convince them that such matters are impure and
not worthy of prospective members of the Yellow Rucksack Deviation Society.
It's a closed off community but we like it and like it for you in the dictated
way.
I see we are having a 'human-shield-off'
now. The 'scapegoat' game doesn't get a look-in these days and it really is a
crying pity to not see all the fresh, young faces you usually exploit during
such activities. The blood is the part I enjoy most. It makes Marty the
chauffeur all hot and bothered and that turns him into yet another reckless
passage of time. Just watch his dyspeptic cheeks: they go all bright red and
squeamish and then a little purple at the centre. He really should treat his
skin better. You score and the bronze clock of his vision is yours, to put it
very plainly. Since we saw the replay, my mind keeps going to surprising places
and twirls in ballistic recruitment patterns, dips for a while and then debases
itself.
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