why is it always so wet in the cosmic fields of mental ink! Splashes of color splatter each time your foot stomps the wet ground. You are bearly out the door and the smear of colors has you all distracted and a little irritated...why all the orange and yellow. I fucking hate orange and yellow. I realize it is the sun reflecting off my sombrero...crap I dont hate orange and yellow. I have got to relax. I thought jogging was going to take my mind off of all the violence and death that I keep exposing myself to. I wonder why I don't move out of this county. I feel trapped. I feel like this is the only place I am actually alive. I am alive. I know it. I know it. I know it. I really wonder about these damed drinks. I want to crack open another one. I want to get deeper than I ever have...but I can feel a pain in my back...already.
A graffiti kid spray paints the chain link fench...
Damn kid looked scared as shit. These drinks are messing everyone up...
All I really wanted was a Taco Pop. Even Taco Pop was about drinking blood. These freaks have led us all over time trying to find a cure for this toxin. Ever since Doc died and we found out he was a double agent for the Dewds who killed our lord Christ...the whole stinking count down is taking on medival tones.
This damed knee. I wonder how far I can jog on this knee. I am getting hungry too. I have some chicken on the stove boiled in taco seasonings...have to settle for the solid food since they shut down the North American processing plants.
You stop thinking outloud in your head and start to just look around as your trod through the ink. A few things get noted by a whispy observation voice that you have been listening to lately: Crane beings, pullchains, plant lay with the sponge. Waddle to town. Buss the dreamer.
In the distant Two Titanic Cranes life large oddly shaped loads from a gigantic freighter. The arms seems to swivel and shake like they were dancing. The loads seems to levitate and struggle to break free of the pullchains, twisting in gyrozcopic frenzy.
The path shifts abruptly and takes me away from the bay.
Sitting on a bus stop is a red neck listening to And God made America by Kyle Deerborn Pretty soon you are deep into conversation.
"yes yes, Kyle Deerbone represecents everything that makes America great!", You tell the man. "Hey have you heard his new double live album yet, it kicks ass!".
"No, I've not had the chance yet, do you have it?".
"I sure do, hop on in if you want to hear it". The big redneck hops into your passenger seat and he fishes out a 5th of brandy from his bib over-alls.
"Want a snort?", He asks. The two of you pass the bottle back and forth as you kick out the Deerbone CD from the stereo to put the live one in. The radio kicks in during the laspse of CD in the stereo and the news is vary bad. It seems that last night Kyle Deerbone was shot dead while preforming live onstage. You and the big redneck both turn grey.
"You know that must have been a hit from one of those fuckin Gas Bandits bands!" The big feral redneck says in agony.
"I say it's an eye for a friggin eye", You tell him, "Have you got any guns back home?".
"Of course! I'v got seven of them if you include my rusted up old WW II luger".
"Lets get over to your place, get drunk, get the guns, go find some god damned Gas Bandit friendly band to kill to even the score!".
"Hell yeah!", Feral redneck who is big agrees.