The King Of Rainbow Death

In the land where rainbows kill, the man who has the best prism is king. His name is Gumdrop and he sits upon a throne earned in blood, or actually the pink sparkly stuff that serves as a substitute in that land. His hair is blond and long, His build is slight but athletic. His hands are almost effeminate and his southpaw holds the very reigns of the kingdom, a flashlight with the great prism on a chain. How he came to be ruler of a kingdom full of giant ferrets that spoke Esperanto was a story of equal parts insanity and adventure.

Great men can come from anywhere, from the post office to Cyprus. Gumdrop came from The Mojave Desert where he was Greg Lawson, mild mannered dehydration victim. While digging, madly groping at the Earth for water, he found himself a door. It was flush, as if secret. In hopes of water, he crawled down the hole. He belly flopped four feet on to soft, almost muddy ground. The noon sun’s light peaked in through the open door and betrayed a river of lavender something moving slowly.

Greg took deep of the syrup. It tasted sweet and salty, then for a moment of bitter pill dust. It quenched as it fed, and he knew this to be his savior. Once he had his fill of the sustaining stuff, he stared deep into the tunnel as far as he could see. There was a light barely visible beyond a bend upstream. With his flashlight retrieved from his backpack, he quickly began following the river in hopes of reaching this new place.

Ten feet towards the light, he ran out of land. The slowly moving syrup looked challenging and disgusting but he felt something inside him drive him into the riverbed. Waist deep in syrup river, he trudged forwards towards light and hopefully someone who knew where the nearest the road was. The scent was intoxicating and insidious. It entered his pores and his mind, changing him irrevocably. He became Gumdrop, purveyor of havoc and holder of the light.

His pink filled ascent to the throne was at first an accidental refraction as he wanted to get a closer look at a crystal. The light upon the crystal immediately disintegrated a dignitary who was busy playing in an adjacent shrub. His envoy followed him o their poofy graves soon after they failed to destroy Gumdrop with their own prisms. It continued for some time like that until the king finally abdicated his throne and all the ferrets swore fealty to their new king Gumdrop.

All and all, an eventful three hours.

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The Surrond Sound Interfered With Relativity

The movie ended well before you were born. They won their shiny awards and went on with their lives. Hell, most of them died before you were five. Your watching it now and the movie is just beginning. I’m noticing a problem with the signal quality and I think it may be the time space continuum. Silly red and blue glasses be damned, we’re having problems with 4D.

I shouldn’t have bought the Dolby System, pretty sure that’s what sent you over the edge. The surround sound was just too much immersion. I’ll make sure to change the settings to stereo once I get your wave function good and collapsed. I really wish you’d stop fading in and out of existence, it’s giving me a headache.

I guess the first thing I could try is to point out that you’re trying to be in the wrong time period. Yes the movie takes place in World War I, but the it was made in the sixties. Also, it’s fictionalized, these aren’t the events as they happened. Thirdly, oh hell, you’re not even listening. I’m just going to turn off the power.

Last time I watch a David Lean movie with you I swear.

The Long Playing 45 And The Eternal Waltz

To the tune of Am I Blue?, they waltz. Actually, they waltz in spite of the tune. They waltz with the knowledge that they waltz eternal, existing in a set rhythm forever. Twenty pairs shuffle slowly around the floor staring deeply inwards towards their other halves. Entropy and fatigue slowly brake them. They fall and the waltz continues as the fallen are methodically trampled. They die without sound, without emotion.

The old wood floor is getting scraped up in the spins and the somber motions. The old high school is in pretty bad shape all around. The wiring in particularly terrible condition but Wilma had the know how and the patience to get the lights working. The record was harder still to find but it was worth it. She sits next to her small record player and drinks her brandy on the very top of the bleachers.

In front of Wilma is a few members of the Westwood High Class of 1947. She can still recognize Effie, spider veins and all. Lance is a little bit more arthritic and a bit more worse for wear. Sam has still got that stupid grin. These are the great faces of her high school yearbook and people that would never been caught dead with Wilma. Well, obviously that was an overstatement on their part.

The sound stops and the dancers realize that they are dead. They allow themselves to fall, a bitter and short lived mercy. Wilma is quick to move the needle back to the start of the record and the dance starts again. As long as the record plays, they can’t stop and Wilma intends to play this 45 for a long time.

My Love Is Wrong And My Labido Is Worse

It’s alright, I know that I’ve messed up for the last time. I know we’re done you and me but I still want to look at you with your dewy terror riddled eyes. I just had to see you one more time at your most beautiful. I love the way you look right now.

This whole sickness started in the pinto six months ago, when the semi met us on that lonely stretch of highway. Do you remember that look you had. We were slightly tapped by a freight liner and spinning like a dervish full of glass. Your eyes were bursting as if thirsty for a final drink of this Earth. Your mouth quivered and we made love right then and there with the sirens coming.

Deja vu, right? They’re getting close but I don’t think they’re coming for me. We got a bit more time. Ever since that near miss with death, I’ve found it’s the only thing that excites me anymore. You remember the barbecue right? That plate I gave you? The third degree resulting there in? Yeah, I loved that.

Anyways, I wanted to get my last drink too. I don’t think I can be around you anymore. Don’t worry the joints on that chair are pretty weak. Shouldn’t take much more than a few hours to get out. I still love you, but my love ain’t exactly healthy for either of us.

The Shadow Behind Him

Kevin walks in shadow. It’s a loathsome shade of foreboding immensity enveloping him like a fog. In the right angle, with proper focus, you can see it: like rain, like snow. There is something tall following him and everyone knows. None can comprehend it’s nature or form, but you can feel it in every part of you that tells you when there is wrong around.

All things considered Kevin is dong remarkably well. He’s taken to the philosophy that we’re all doomed to die, but it still nips at him. It’s been three years since he could leave the house without a jacket. You could see his breath if you dared to look at him. You wouldn’t dare, because everything is telling you walk away.

If it’s any consolation he wants to leave too. He doesn’t know what’s coming but he knows it’s a good deal worse than a bullet to the head. When he sleeps he can hear it, a low raspy voice resonating beneath the sounds of a mountain top. The words are not our words but the smacking of the lips is unmistakable; it’s hungry.

If a man looks at the right minute of the right hour, in that special angle with proper focus, he might see an eye above Kevin’s head. If he’s real unlucky you might see a fang, or maybe just one of the foot prints, as wide as a man is tall. It’s all the same dread really.

If you do see Kevin and you’re feeling brave, put the poor bastard down would you? This won’t end well and we should all give what mercy we can, while we can.

A Man On The Run From Mint Chocolate

Somewhere in the inky black of night there Dennis knew a woman was crying. Dennis was running with his all but he couldn’t escape her. Deborah needed ice cream and Dennis just couldn’t handle it anymore. That sound, that awful sound, he couldn’t return. It would be hard making a new life for himself but Rusty Harrington wasn’t prone to these sort of problems.

Rusty knew that there was a grocery open that had pints of mint chocolate but he needed that a lifetime ago when he had a girlfriend. Rusty was headed for Mexico, by way of New York. It wasn’t quite clear why he was running east, but he couldn’t stop. Though his chucks were dying and his legs were following Rusty had to keep moving.

As he saw the brilliant neon he realized that his feet had lead him to the grocery. He knew this to be the voodoo of Deborah. She was always playing mind games with him. Truly, there was no crueler puppet master than Ms. Faraday. He would get her ice cream, he would return to the life of Dennis Grant and he would further subjugate himself to the tyranny of love but one day he would break free.

…Two hours earlier Deborah Faraday had said she liked mint chocolate ice cream. Her boyfriend had left promptly for important business. She was sure he was seeing someone else.

Unwarranted Acts Of Beauty

“I’m going to make you pretty or you will die.”

Two hundred fifty pounds of manly muscles, two meters tall came straight for Emily. Crossed over his right shoulder, a full makeup kit bounced back and forth off his left thigh. A .357 Colt Python was in his right hand. Emily had evaded or destroyed the lesser artists but this time, she knew she was going to be made over.

In truth, she wished she had never signed up for the makeover. She thought it was just another sweepstakes, like the Hanson tickets and the free two ton pickup truck before. Then they started coming, ambushing her in the office, twelve at once. They were all in black, a sort of swat chic, with guns and grenades. They proceeded to massacre her whole god damn office.

It wasn’t until the police came that she saw the blush in the bandoleers. Apparently, every other pocket was full of ammunition. The rest was all makeup. She had been accosted by an elite mercenary team of makeup artists and survived. She was the only one that did, her and the fifth of the second unit. He didn’t survive long though, he left his guns in her bedroom. The cops didn’t know about those.

Undeterred by the body count, they kept coming. There was a sniper tea with a highly tuned paint ball guns and something that shot a bit more loudly. Once it was just a guy with an ax, no makeup to be found. One time, it was a guy with a makeup kit, a revolver and two bullets in his center mass. That one proved to be tough.

Emily ducked around an alley way and waited for the big burly man. Within seconds he was turning the corner. Emily’s last bullet missed his head by hairs. It was enough to make the man bleed from the drums but not enough to stop him for reaching for his eyelash brush. Emily stumbled backwards onto the ground. There with a clunk on the ground, she remembered her boot knife.

She quickly found the black plastic knife in her hands and as the bald, quite angry makeup artist got closer she got a good hold on it. As she rose the knife to his throat she saw the handgun still aimed at her. She stabbed into the right arm and moved her knee into his gut. She twisted the knife and for a second he relented. Then a blur, then the sound of sizzling thunder. Her hands shook and the revolver fell to the ground.

The man was dead and Emily had shot him with is own gun. If only they hadn’t came at her with guns and knives. Her mascara was runny and her blouse ruined by blood. She really did need a makeover.

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