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Re:WK 01.8
Date: 2017/09/29 16:19 By: deplancher Status: Admin  
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[DeP's in the corner sitting at her desk gazing up at the mirrorball as though watching some faded hallucinations or just thinking. She's finished reading Monica Strina's Walls and Strangers. She picks up the cap. It's heavy like granite but light, too, like flower petals. An examiner feels good after some goodstuff crosses her desk. She might get to contemplating. Learn something about something or just imagine possibilities.]

I believe that also. I do. Call it foolish but yeah mais oui...I believe in the kindness of strangers. [She turns to the occupants of the room. There are double what once was and that brings variety. A certain beat. A renewed rhythm to the cracked paint in these walls.]

Don't you?

I like this latest cap. Like its poetry...well, I like poetry. Sssshhh. Let Monica Strina's Walls and Strangers through the chute. To the Terminal, let it rise!

[She flicks her fingers in circles and twiddles making like some mystic. Presses 'send' and the deed is done.]

Carol...who plays that song American Jesus? I hear it in my sleep. I hear it all day long.

DeP
A Bluelight Dancer/Not a Pocketbook Romancer
of The Floor
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Re:WK 01.8
Date: 2017/10/02 20:06 By: carol Status: Admin  
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Oh, that's Bad Religion, grrl. Awesome song.

[Carol must have gone through a costume change. She leans back in the pilot's chair and brings up her left knee, slamming her boot heel down on the edge of the cherrywood. She's wearing pony-haired boots with a set of nice spurs, the rowels on her left boot spinning and glittering]

Check my new spurs. Bought 'em off a huffer in Taos, New Mexico. Lots of huffers there. Strange. Thought they were more enlightened there-a-bouts, right?

[She kicks her boot below decks. She leans forward, her elbows on the desktop]

This cap, by the fucking way, Scott Derry's The Distant Rumble of Nye is going overboard, okay? We are tossing this capital to the seas, to the wilds, to the dust beneath our boots.

[She tosses the capital the floor beneath her, and she stomps stomps stomps, a fairy dust of silver rising, whirling]
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Re:WK 01.8
Date: 2017/10/05 19:04 By: Jesus Status: Admin  
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[Jesus alters his weight from one boot to the other, his thumb on the Bose remote control. He taps his thumbtip on the button and Lovesore's Mata Hari shakes the Floor. Jesus remains on the tiles, and he lifts his knees and pushes his hands out and he shakes his hips and he whips his bristly head around, and he spins, and he spins, and spins]
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Re:WK 01.8
Date: 2017/10/05 19:21 By: carol Status: Admin  
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[Carol watches Jesus dance through the Lovesore's catalog. She remains patient, her ass in the pilot's chair, her head bobbing to the beat]

I know Deluxe. He's a mench. We walked the full circle in Dechurchure, and we drank the left side of the drink menu at Cancer's in Gualala. But them's real good memories. Mean the fuck while, Carl Alves Cold Fury did not touch the fucking monkey. So it's gone all Portholed. And I have to say I love the way you free yourself, Christ, the way you just dance. Right?
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Re:WK 01.8
Date: 2017/10/05 19:29 By: Jesus Status: Admin  
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[Jesus lifts his knee, and then he lifts the other knee, and he twirls, and he thrusts his head forward and back and sideways, and as his face lifts to the mirrorball we see a smile on his face and a sparkle in his eye]
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Re:WK 01.8
Date: 2017/10/05 22:23 By: deplancher Status: Admin  
Karma: 14  
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[DeP studies the Jesus and his dance moves. Who could not move, with the walls shaking and Carol's spurs a jingle jangling in the mist? She shimmies a little, but really it's no more than a readjustment of position. She isn't in the mood to dance now. She is in the mood to brood a little. All she can hear is Tom Petty's I Need to Know and All You Can Carry and a bunch of melodic tunes in between. Stuff like that. She shakes her head here though, adjusts her hair and examines her cuticles like maybe they need oiling. Something's got to give. Carry on, some lame voice urges. So she does. She clears her throat, closes her eyes and mind to the morose. Death sucks. But the stomping boot rolls on...]

I feel like I'm dragging one leg behind. You two and Dooms, man. You're much more efficient at this examination process than I. Not that I'm completely lame. Was that me whining just now, looking for sympathy.. Accchhhh and merde. If I were a spitter, I might spit now, that seeming an appropriate gesture and expulsion or means of emphasis. Ahem...oui, Mlle Carol, I dig those spurs. We should take a stroll sometime with or without our horses.

So, insomnia is the partial cause of visions Je pense. I don't want to talk about it though. I'll sleep in another galaxy. I just read this strange little number...oops, apologies...piece of cap. It didn't help with sleep, the content being odd and slightly..er, well. It was vivid and strange. So, blah blah. I do need rest. But here, can we send it by pigeon? Motorbikette by VC Nelson Stanley has been zinged to the Terminal.

DeP
A Bluelight Dancer/Not a Pocketbook Romancer
of The Floor
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Re:WK 01.8
Date: 2017/10/11 19:21 By: Jesus Status: Admin  
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Sweet, girl.

[Jesus pulls a fresh capital from his pants]

Look at this. Damn. Libby Faucette' Low Tide, could be a really great tale. Shall see, eh?
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Re:WK 01.8
Date: 2017/10/12 19:05 By: carol Status: Admin  
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[Carol swivels in her pilot's chair. She thumbs in Teddy Bear on the Bose]

God fuck, I love Elvis to the floor, cousin. So, okay.

[She locks eyes on Jesus]

Before you go off on Faucette's sacrifice...that's weird. Did I just say sacrifice? I meant capital. Hm. So, anyway, before you go all into Low Tide and shit, I'd like to shove John Buckley's The Language of Ghosts up past the mirrorball, and past the rafters hung with cobwebs, and through the second floor squeeking flooring, into the Terminal, where they feast on roast.

[Carol lowers her head, winded. She brings up her fist and slams it down on the cherrywood's desktop repeatedly]

Good fucking job, Buckley. You're in the VIP room, bitch!

[Carol gets to her feet and tosses the capital in question up into the rafters. As the pages rise, they ignite and curl, and they rise further, weightless, free.
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Re:WK 01.8
Date: 2017/10/12 19:19 By: Jesus Status: Admin  
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Okay, girl. Coolness.

[Jesus leans his buttcheeks on the cherrywood's edge, and he looks over the pages he holds in his hands]

Maybe we should order in some Thai food? Looks to be a long night, eh?
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Re:WK 01.8
Date: 2017/10/12 19:55 By: Jesus Status: Admin  
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[Jesus flips over the last page of the current capital onto the cherrywood's desktop. He stands, pushing his ass off the edge of the desk and he breathes in deep]

Okay, Low Tide, by Libby Faucette, has been Portholed.

[Jesus places the current capital upon the desktop. He reaches beneath the desk and comes up with a hatchet, glisteningly sharp. He raises it above his head, and then he brings it down, repeatedly, shreading the capital. After a few beats he pauses, breathes, wavers. And then he goes about chopping the shit out of the capital again. And again. The capital is shreaded, dead. Jesus puts the hatchet in the bottom drawer, and he winks at Carol]

Done. Pretty much.
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