[The Rorschalk stands up from the toilet and ponderously turns around in regards to surveying the glory that he has wrought ... only to be dismayed by the David Lynchian mindfuck that he is faced with, not the titanic turds he was expecting ... so seeing, the broken-inside edifice that still wanders around claiming TQR, drops to his knees and hugs the porcelain god like a sorority girl from What Cheer after undergoing her first bender...]
They went and did it ... Damn you! Damn you! You had to go and do it! The foooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooolzzzzz! The rest is endochrine systems and divination of will to power. Alas, do not say that I am mad!
[So saying, he presses himself to his feet and stumbles about like a vagabond on aquadavit before, with much antipathy, decides upon the nuclear option and leans forward to depend the flusher... wherein the placid water resolves into a sucking maelstrom]
It is the east! Boil, boil! Tis a churn not fit for man nor Boligard, not to mention the angelic Deplancher. Alack, I knew them well!
[Jesus has dressed down. He's got his military sunglasses on, a rolled-sleeved paisley shirt, unbuttoned to mid-chest, some grungy jeans, his good old sandles. He sits cross-legged on a lawn chair he'd pulled from the cleaning closet. His hair and beard are a mess, tilted to the side, and he's examining a copy of Jim Harrison's A Good Day To Die. He sucks on a nice Java, tapping ashes to the tiles now and then. The lawn chair is set beside the somewhat hidden stairs that lead up to the toilet. He hears a flushing. He sets the novel upon his knee, looks over at Carol who's taken over the cherrywood. She's tightened her look. A t-shirt that reads, Lester Bangs is God, a couple inches of silver braclets, and rosemary oil wetting her long black hair. Her head is hung, her eyes closed. She's practicing coin palms and shuffles with both hands, her head nodding slightly to the beat of the Bose, Public Enemy's Rebel Without a Pause]
The boss has...oh, tranced.
[Jesus looks around the Floor, sees Boligard leaning against the wardrobe, dressed in his clothes again, thank the Gods, head tilted up to the mirrorball, sucking the life out of a pall mall]
Boligard. The boss just flushed something unholy down the toilet upstairs.
[He brings the tip of the Java to his lips and take a good long pull]
[doomey exhales, streams a fine spear of sweet purple smoke toward the mirrorball, and then he turns his gaze to Jesus, moving his body not half an inch]
godamn that bastard. we, as a tribe, could have have raised that little devil-spawn proper. shit. why'd he flush it. damn it.
[doomey shoves himself off the wardrobe]
meanwhile, we've tripped across another goodstuff, and it's going up to the Terminal, gods bless its soul. Patrick Baker's The Shadow Knights has gone Terminal. and this is something a bit ego-twisted. the Terminali will throw this capital to the deluge. but i love the James Bondish tilt on military workings. and...
[doomey leans against the cherrywood, sucks what's left of his cigarette, and then he shoves it into the mess in the gigantoid marble triangular ashtray set cornerward on the cherrywood's desktop]
those Terminali are going to buttfuck this capital. but i feel its punch.
[doomey reaches out and smoothes back Carol's hair. he brings his hand to his nose, sniffs]
[doomey steps out onto the tiles]
oh. and steve rodgers'extreme retirement planning ain't going nowhere but porthole, people. just so you know.
[doomey grips the back of the pilot's chair, the pall mall teetering betwixt his lips]
what you hold there, Christ, is one of the best capitals ever crafted.
[doomey sucks smoke, exhales. he focuses on the playing field before him. on the desktop lay a couple capitals, one face up, one face down. he taps Carol on the shoulder]
[Carol nods. doomey stands and struts out onto the tiles]
Okay. Mark Jones's Vacuuming has been tossed out the Porthole, people. And David Landrum's Blodeuwedd has been tossed up to the Terminal.
[doomey does a spin on the tiles, and one capital sparks and dies in flames on the cherrywood while the other capital levitates up and up and up and up...and up and up and up and disappears in the rafters, raptured]
Carol has spoke, bitches!
[doomey looks around the Floor, his heels scuttling across the glass tiles]
[doomey's given up on waiting for his fellow actors to walk upon the stage, he's gotten down to some thorough examination of kyle owens's chasing pebbles in the wind. he has the capital spread out before him on the tiles. he sighs. he gathers up the cap, gets to his feet, leans against the cherrywood, winks at Carol, and then he addresses the imaginary camera that only he can see]
chasing pebbles in the wind, a godawful title, is going upward. it's a capital crafted in verbal faceoffs, confrontation torn to its core; characters talking to characters. i wouldn't like this as much as i do if i'd seen it done prior. but i am stupid, it's prob been done prior. but this is planet doomey, so...
[he taps out a smoke, swan vestas it, sucks in some sweet smoke. he tosses the current capital up to the mirrorball, and the capital orbits the mirrorball for a few seconds before being pulled in by its gravity. science]
goddamn, i love the way that works.
[doomey watches the turning, sparkling mirrorball. he starts swaying to the beat of Bill Withers's Who Is He?, which Carol just thumbed into the Bose remote]