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Cancer is tough, Ma lost a breast to it in '93. Dad says
since then, Ma hasn't been the same... Dad says he dosn't
want mom's breast back, just her. I told him I felt the same
way, but was lying. I want back mom's tit.
-Silver Surfer
ÜÜ ÜÜ
ÚÄÝÛÝ ÜßÜÜÞÞþ ÜÝß ÜÝß ÜßÜÜÞÞþ ÞÛÞÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
³ ÝÛÝ ÝÝ Þ ÞÞ ÞÞ ÝÝ Þ ÞÛÞ ³
³ ÝÛÝ Üþ ßÛ ßÛ Üþ ÞÛÞ Unrequited Love ³
³ ÝÛÝ ÜÝß ÞÞ ÞÞ ÜÝß ÞÛÞ ³
ÀÄÝÛÝ ÜÝÝÝÜÜÜÝÝÜÝÝÜ ÜÝÝÜ ÜÝÝÝÜÜÜÝÝ ÞÛÞÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ
ßß ßß Volume II,File VIIIXX [051195]
Writer: Mephistopheles
Nathan swerves onto the exit and passes the place where
everybody makes a 90 degree turn immediately from the
freeway, crossing two lanes of traffic into a parking lot,
risking their lives to avoid a light and save 30 seconds.
Nate would have risked his life, but he forgot about that
place.
He jerked to a stop behind a pastel purple Geo something.
He hadn't yet mastered the smooth stop, and every brake still
resulted in a delay as equilibrium was regained, soon
followed the collective 'uh' as everyone hit their chest belt.
Traffic seemed not very trafficky today, but the light didn't
seem to care, and just sat and sat and sat, forgetting all
about Nate, whose hail-damaged, dented, dust-choked Dodge
desperately needed freon, the installation of which would
kill Nate when tried to do it himself. It would crystallize
in his lungs and, in a way, he'd drown.
It's a secret, kind of. Everyone really dies of drowning.
While the traffic light sat, Nate spasmodically slapped the
hair from his face, on the verge of sweating. He has a bench
seat in the front, which is strange. It sometimes tempts him
to try to drive lying down, though he knew he'd have to
remove the door so he could stick his head out and see.
Nate would never do it, of course. He didn't know where his
father's tools were.
Actually, they were under the rust-covered tetanus-guaranteed
weights in his garage, but Nate was scared of his garage and
never went in there.
Nothing bad had ever happened in the garage, but it reminded
him of the shed at Leo's house where a spider had crawled on
his head while Leo's little sister laughed and laughed. You
couldn't walk in the shed - it was dark, and full of toys.
Toys and games, rotted and mouldering, the plastic fraying in
the strange way plastic has a tendancy to fray and the
cardboard game boards bloated and peeling, creating a strong,
humid smell of decay.
Nate hated that little girl. First of all, she was named
Toni. Toni sounded like Tony, which just didn't look like
Toni, and Nate simply didn't need confusion like that. Second,
her voice was annoying. It was old-slut hoarse, and even if
there were such a thing as young-slut hoarse, Toni was still
too young. She could be really-young-slut hoarse, he
supposed, and she was kind of cute in a way that made him
want to hit her or go through her underwear drawer.
He didn't mind her as long as she didn't talk and he didn't
remember her name.
So every time he went to the garage, he felt spiders in his
hair and wanted to find Toni and put spiders in her mouth and
up her nose, and maybe in her eyelids if he could stretch
them out far enough. Then he wanted to make her climb a tree
and fall, flat on her back, because when you do that, you
can't feel anything, not even spiders in your eyes.
But Toni was gone, so Nate sat up when he drove.
He dimly perceived himself going sort of weightless in the
brain, and blamed it on the Perrier. He regarded the bottle,
and somewhere in the recesses of his mind saw that it was
phallic. At least, more so than his 44oz refill cup. If
they only gave 44oz Perrier refills, he reflected, then he'd
be a lot happier. But Perrier was already so bubbly that the
idea of it cascading over ice from a fountain was mildly
disquieting. It would bubble and foam and eventually engulf
him, he knew, dying in a tide of citrus twist, or maybe plain.
A horn sounded, and Nate checked the light. He couldn't tell
what color it was, but he had gotten comfortable anyway.
He heard a wide sound. Some sounds are just wide.
It was a train, passing him in the center lane, its pistons
pumping like mad. Nate admired their perfect, asynchronous
motion as the engines roared by, screeching and heaving. The
antique cast to it evoked some television-age nostalgia in
him, so he leaned far out the window, seeing clearly the
white-faced women dining within the passing cars, or children
looking out, or babies sleeping, or mustached men puffing on
pipes and reading mounds of newspapers. The vacuum created
by the train was pretty strong, so Nate got sucked in and
mangled under the massive, stained wheels as it bounced over
the tracks at the intersection, just splashing him everywhere.
The guy who sold roses had seen the whole thing, and he got
into Nate's car and drove away, flipping off the air
conditioner as he got on the highway.
(\___ ___ ___/)
ÚÄ\___ ___/ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄ¿
³ \\__\ /__// TNH BBS. [2112] WHQ. NUP: Woodstock. 817.346.3370. ³
³ \__\ /__/ SysOp: Mephistopheles CoSysOps: Delirium, Sputnik. ³
ÀÄÄÄÄ\_____/ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÙ
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