[DeP's soaking her feet in a big basin of cool water and sliced cucumbers. Where did the cucumbers come from? They come from a garden out there over the fence in back and past the field where the grey mare grazes sometimes when Rick, her rider, stops long enough to check again if he can remember where he buried that stash back in 1989. Anyway, cucumbers are good, especially in cool water. They are a rejuvenator for feet and other things. Today, DeP needs foot rejuvenation because dancing for seven hours on glass tiles with Jesus takes its toll. Yes it does. You know it does.]
Doomey, drop a little amber in that go cup with the lid on it, won't you please? Toss it over to me. Don't worry, I can catch. I fear I'm becoming the Rejector Queen. Not that I feel I can do anything about it...oh non. What would Rorschalk say if we lowered the limbo stick? I don't want to know. His language is so difficult to comprehend.
You know I get the subjects. Like reading the caps. I do. But sometimes I wonder if VCs listen to the way real people dialogue. Yeah yeah yeah or Yes yes yes. Hello, Mrs. Brown. Would you like to make love tonight, Mrs. Brown? or Hey, you hot mama...wanna get naked and make it right here under the stars? D'ya?
[She splashes some cucumber water at Rimbaud as he strolls past her on his way to his cushion for another nap. He speeds up, stops for a quick lick of his dampened fur and then disappears. On the tiles next to the basin lay several sheets of the cap she's just read. They are soaked with remnant of cucumber. She reaches down and adds a few dry sheets and watches as the paper absorbs the liquid.]
VC Hohmann's Skin Deep flirts with virtue but sinks when it hits the great big sea.
Where's your rescue girl, Doomey? Still asleep on Jesus's old coats, oblivious to all the shifting of the tides. DeP A Bluelight Dancer/Not a Pocketbook Romancer of The Floor
[doomey peals his ear from the wardrobe. he faces DeP, stretches his spine and stands up straight, his hands busy with patting his body for a pack of cigarettes]
she's still sleeping, sounds like, DeP. lords know, she needs a long fucking sleep. what she's been through. and hey, i beyond love what you were just going on concerning dialogue. dead dialogue in capital kills interest, eh? so many details can kill interest in capital. too much dialogue, too little painting of the surroundings. in my head, the perfect mix becomes the greatest capital, but that mix, i've found, is practically no where to be found.
[doomey moves up close to and plops his ass into the pilot's chair. he scoots up close to the cherrywood]
i've got this to examine.
[he spreads out the current capital]
sent to me from george garnet. a good solid crafter name. george garnet. might be this is - but no. can't suppose what it is. must simply dig in, examine.
what we need is a nice dress, size 6, or maybe a wrap. something nice, a dress that'll make her feel better, make her feel less gutter. she's been in the gutter, and it's our job, our mission, to pull her up and set her down on some solid, positive ground, ground other than landfill.
[doomey lowers his head. he presses his eyelids with his right thumb and forefingertip]
she's tender, cousin. when she wakes, she'll need to bathe, and then she'll need fresh clothes. you can do this, christ?