38...
Way back in a close den, within the dense branches of a stunted cypress tree, in a matted hole in the plant life that smelled of cheap liquor and piss, a large and thin man lay on dried fir needles with one sickly green eye open.
Many homeless people had used this hole before, as had many junkies. It carried a sense of desperation that drove back any feeling of nurturing that the plant life vainly attempted to throw out. The very air within was a thick and dank, fetid affair that birthed tumors of sadness, hopelessness and lost ways; it drove away images of purity like a cold wind eradicating smoke. In many ways it was the perfect place for Uncle Eddie to catch a few winks.
Uncle Eddie lay on his left side, curled with his knees towards his chest so his body made a spindly G. That one open eye turned slowly in its socket as though it were a machine, a quick, reptilian blink however, broke that illusion.
He had sensed the biker’s anger from a mile away, literally. He could feel it coming through the air, vibrating his body like a rabbity and spastic bass beat. He could smell it, like a strong and long wisp of burned toast. He had tasted it as this foul air fell in over his teeth and it had been the flavor of steel and chlorine, and something sweet; the taste of untouchable desires.
That is what had snapped him awake like an alarm bell ringing, this pulsing and delicious anger. He didn’t move, he had much better control than that. He sat and determined just where this beacon was coming from and after a moment, he slowly opened his eye.
At that same moment, Uncle Eddie felt that knot of anger ramp up into a snapping fear. This was something even more fabulous than the anger that had preceded it. Fear was the properly aged Bordeaux to anger’s piss bottled wino wine. Fear made Uncle Eddie’s cock stand up and take notice.
Once the biker was away, Uncle Eddie flared his nostrils, trying to pull up all that the biker gave. He lost the scent somewhere about the time the biker reached the ocean.
He closed that murky eye and turned his mind to dark fantasies that pulsed with an almost reptilian consciousness. Down in that moaning darkness there writhed beasts never named. These were fantasies that, visited on a normal man, would break minds like a hammer through dinnerware.
Uncle Eddie faded back into sleep, his wiry arm wrapped around the mangled carcass of a large raccoon as though it were a teddy bear.
Many homeless people had used this hole before, as had many junkies. It carried a sense of desperation that drove back any feeling of nurturing that the plant life vainly attempted to throw out. The very air within was a thick and dank, fetid affair that birthed tumors of sadness, hopelessness and lost ways; it drove away images of purity like a cold wind eradicating smoke. In many ways it was the perfect place for Uncle Eddie to catch a few winks.
Uncle Eddie lay on his left side, curled with his knees towards his chest so his body made a spindly G. That one open eye turned slowly in its socket as though it were a machine, a quick, reptilian blink however, broke that illusion.
He had sensed the biker’s anger from a mile away, literally. He could feel it coming through the air, vibrating his body like a rabbity and spastic bass beat. He could smell it, like a strong and long wisp of burned toast. He had tasted it as this foul air fell in over his teeth and it had been the flavor of steel and chlorine, and something sweet; the taste of untouchable desires.
That is what had snapped him awake like an alarm bell ringing, this pulsing and delicious anger. He didn’t move, he had much better control than that. He sat and determined just where this beacon was coming from and after a moment, he slowly opened his eye.
At that same moment, Uncle Eddie felt that knot of anger ramp up into a snapping fear. This was something even more fabulous than the anger that had preceded it. Fear was the properly aged Bordeaux to anger’s piss bottled wino wine. Fear made Uncle Eddie’s cock stand up and take notice.
Once the biker was away, Uncle Eddie flared his nostrils, trying to pull up all that the biker gave. He lost the scent somewhere about the time the biker reached the ocean.
He closed that murky eye and turned his mind to dark fantasies that pulsed with an almost reptilian consciousness. Down in that moaning darkness there writhed beasts never named. These were fantasies that, visited on a normal man, would break minds like a hammer through dinnerware.
Uncle Eddie faded back into sleep, his wiry arm wrapped around the mangled carcass of a large raccoon as though it were a teddy bear.
posted by P. B. Nomer | 5:06 PM
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