Another chapter from Sagittarian Conflict. Its been a long time, yeah?
It was a row of three small wooden houses all open for a huge gathering type party. Two motorcycle gangs, a heavy metal band, midgets playing technicolor cowboys & indians, strippers, and I had a toy pistol that shot fire and foam, mud everywhere, a bearded man who told me, "In the 60s I was in Mexico. In the 70s I was in Latin America." He walked off. A Husker Du documentary played in one of the rooms at full blast. I think it was the middle house. Mike and I went to see comedy starring lame duck actors. Two girls from high school that I don’t remember that well were there too. I overheard them talking about NYC, etc. - it was quite bizarre – Famine’s car, my favorite flavor cherry red, girls together outrageous the bullshit cliché kind of arrested outside the Snappy Saves Con Store. Where the hell was he going? 10 p.m. with a bag of ice flooding the trunk. The Texas summer was-a-melting everything in sight and sound. This will keep the amputee comfortable. Yelling into a pay phone. How do I? Oh. Paper cup exit. The con store was empty save for a lone Philander by the name of Finish. More cups, I need more cups, possibly thirty. Do you think that is enough? Famine needed change. The obnoxious rings buzzer bell clang of the pay phone outside the con store awoke Famine. Do I dare answer? Of course, it was for him. Famine’s head ear situation to female voice giggle hello from the other half and yes I’m quite lost. I need better directions. I’m at the snappy end of the street where the trees play. The vacuum’s rage suck up the spirit dust collected dander drift, Famine sits with Walker. Electrical restoration this morning in the octagonal room dome topped. Ms. Disco is downstairs doubled over in pain. What a life this is. The tired feet sore and mysterious stomach fires twist. Prescription fiction. Almost three years had passed since Famine was elbow deep in dish water half eaten garbage discard. His life was like a poorly written TV series. Teenagers waiting to become horny academic university suckers. Sucker punch the backdrop was green a table made of catfish. Fishing might make killer’s coast. Wave off the love sick dudes drill for gold in the teeth of tomorrow’s hounded jaw. SCENE: The Blandytown Mausoleum. Famine felt like a pedestrian’s ghost staring out the large windows as Johnny Kinghandlebar and Pancho raced snail’s time. He couldn’t grasp the significance of living deep in the central heart of downtown off the poseur’s nob and within the confines of the conceptual intercourse. My watch never has the right time leave behind Monday paint job for out of here t-shirts. A ransom object playing the Handy Herman Harp whilst in the tunnel ‘neath Phase II. Famine thought his sidekick Ms. Disco was hiding something important in her very close veins. It turns out he was wrong “Sister Morphine” was playing on the stereo. Since arriving in Blandytown, Famine had, in fact, shed his skin. Gone were the visible Claire scars. The spiral chronicled in Part I of this tomb, now seemed ancient ruins to the McCoy boy. [Banners of the German language] A nude descending staircase. What ya git in the gotcha bag? Sonny y dildo asshole ride for free. Dump the pump, ouch! Lower gas prices Shirley Fischer Price. Temple of the Dog going hungry like the wolf. In Wolf City, Wyoming cavefish the swim adult poles have mercy on Kid Kelley. Remember my vision of Ida Lupino? The paintings of Helen Frankenthaler jumped on to the red wagon of sin city and asked for a code green escape plan (das eist besser). The ever-rattling key chain. Famine was reminded of the chain gang he had left behind in G-vine block. Oopla! The supervisor lost her larynx in a card game. The steaks were raised. The next more knee zing up the ante stuck family elevator shaft big dummy short story lost his mouth running off the winged mammal theme. The wiring in the place is 95% up and sparks. Fouled fly everything. Supervisor opens his cranium. Red and green wires are to be cut accordingly. According to the stars. Astrological foreplay aside, the ass eyed midget ate my lunch. I gave him twenty six dollars for the sweet piece of ass only to be dreamed of by one family across the bridge. Three tears. To roll down his cheek after that night he played the blues until 4:30 a.m. Then he went to sleep. Woke up the next morning feeling like a refreshed sea lion after a kill.