“Not my face.”
Grab the bottle. Take a swig.
Steady the nerves.
Slowly put bandages back on face.
“Am I really who I am?” Milo’s mind is set ablaze. Whiskey
burns down his throat; liquid fire coursing everywhere else, who the hell is
the man underneath the series of the wrappings? The greatest joke ever played the dis-figuration of a disgrace that is in fact not a dis-figuration but a physical
reconfiguration capable shattering the mind but it can’t shatter something that wasn't entirely there in the first place.
Milo Denton feels sick in a good way… or is it good
in a sick way? Goodbye to the old life?
Hello to something new? Paying for the hell of vintage wrath in a never-ending
cycle of torment contained in a flaming bullet-train, full of screaming
retarded children and blaring horrific electronic dance music. Something like
breakfast, which is really just phlegm laced with uranium infused tobacco,
stomach lining and whiskey hits the immaculate white toilet.
Bonnie keeps the place as clean as one of those old
1950’s sitcom settings. She’s a real mothering type, despite the slight indiscretion
years ago it was like a mother and son relationship but Bonnie just wasn't missing her son and Milo wasn't just missing his mother and needed something
more than nurture for his carnal nature. She was just as carnal as well but
when all was said and done, nothing was ever uttered or hinted at again and
both liked it that way and Milo entered high school that year as a man or was
it the piano that actually raised him and took him to the glowing celestial
skull altar where he knelt to vomit and weep with leather belts lashing at his
back?
FG-5 alters perceptions. Creates memories and
implants what you don’t want because it is secretly what you want and where you
need to be in order to push the boundaries of intellect and body, which is what
FG-5 does or what drug allows the user to do. You don’t like the drug but the
drug likes you because you are the in itself the drug.
Knock. Knocking at the bathroom door, a gentle
rapping, Denton, get the head out of your sickness. Cock the hammer. Don’t wait
and pull trigger. Slugs chew through wood and paint in order to devour the meat
on the other side.
Never expect company when on the way to suicide.
Kick the door off the hinges, gun points left and
right. Look down. Two men dead, not
leaving the world any poorer; young men, yellow smiley-face masks, baseball
bats, one sawed off shot to the side, black leather jackets. Smiley-Face Kids,
local gang thinks they can create a new reality through building a chaotic
empire out of crime while constantly operating on FG-5.
This is bad. Hell is coming, as if Hell itself wasn't bursting through the payment and not stopping; a portal is opening up and
swallowing the lives of everyone on this street and soon the whole damn city.
Don’t overreact. Go see the gypsy woman at the back
of Blue Angel.
Boots stomping up the stairs, office door is swings
open and there’s a hulking mass built like a mountain pretending to be a man in
a gorilla suit. It’s not funny. The gorilla suited maniac grunts, and pulls a samurai
sword out of its sheath.
Click. Click. The gun is empty. Death wears combat boots, a gorilla suit and
wields a samurai sword. Milo Denton considers the other side of eternity.
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