“Do I need anything?”
She turned and looked at me through the mirror. Back in my mind I pondered over the same question looking back at myself. What was this experience before me in the mirror.
It was exactly then that the twilight zone hit me, full frontal, in the face with it’s powerful society show. She screamed, taking the hit, she could feel herself tumble to the ground, but she recalled instantly hitting it, waking up and gazing at the last moments of her life, peering at her greatest lover before drifting off into a sleep of molecular dissimilation. All I know is deep down inside I’m bleeding. Superheroes come to feast, and at my table, I have nothing else but roast beast feeding. I’ve magical’d lullabies in to the starry skies and tumbled out lost in time, and lost in space, and meaning…
Who is the narrator? He bestows upon us, revelations almost even to himself, living, breathing knowledge. He knows what will happen, and yet he offers this tale, this case, in earnest, to find meaning in it himself, for he knows there is meaning or merit in presenting it. It has troubled him for years. He studied it even now in his older years. Where had they gone? And who was he exactly?
He is The Storyteller, age old, well dressed, he views himself somewhat above his subject but is no less objective in his observation of the events admitting to his academic tendencies. Even so he recognizes and even sympathizes with those he acknowledges are beyond his power or conception just as he holds their sexuality nearly in contempt. He himself whom prefers a good black leather spanking M&M’s S&M style. He was a potent chocolatier himself…
He was merely B. Major’s extension, trapped in space, he thought, it would explain all the memories. “It’s beyond me, help me mommy!” “Wait! I can explain!” And explain it he did, but they zapped him anyway, a little fly had gone too far, far away. “I’m going home” and he’s standing outside in the rain and he holds a stereo there. “I’ve seen blues skies!” Through the clear, I saw him or was shot, him, me, I, the creation or creator. Perhaps this is all a mad dream I had one night and couldn’t sleep again for pure secret excitement. Nothing that moves through timber like secret sex tweaking through the walls. And then she cried out!
I couldn’t take it, I had nothing but a dream thought he, or was he a he? He looked down to double check, and finding nothing there but flesh, neither man nor woman betwixt the legs, yet looking up found himself a woman looking back at herself in the mirror, and looking down found nothing but a man and up again to man and down to mound, up again to horse and down once more to sores. It quickened to nothing more than bullshit and bippity boppity boo, udder fiddlesticks and fall dee rol and fiddle dee faddle dee foodle. I only just got the memo just now through our transactor desponders.
I’ve accepted a message your majesty on depart of la Da Da Ismo Dee Dee Dot. She had ridden off in a truffula tree like trill. A dandy mcRabby Patton’s hardly bit warblers. A cunning use of all things truffuffulatastic I applauded the use of marimbas and deciding on deciduous based woodwind and string section.
I mumbled things back to them and appeared onstage in a way I think I might have done before and hated myself for succumbing to a wall of mediocrity for the sake of repetition. To laugh was a crime and I could not keep my smile to myself, I wanted to find a way that these people loved the world and cherished it or forgot it everyday. I play out the stops of a king like a child playing games, drinking beer for a good long time, must get off his ass and do at the very least a big event for his son. His only lasting pride and joy. Though awkward he holds a tender place in his heart for all things.
Spectacular, spectacular. A gum drop vision of things to come.