Saturday, June 14, 2014

Knives in Air: The Rise of the Impossible

Forward. Backward. Shoot him in the head during a botched game of William Tell. Flee to Mexico. Does wonders for your writing.

Song to a bird.

Below street level, Saint Tittie von Teasealot regards her newest client with dispassionate curiosity, coated as he is in synthetic amniotic fluid, ball gagged, weeping. This man, chauffeured through the city behind shaded, bullet-resistant glass, this man, a man who routinely condemned unpronounceable villages to death with a swipe of his tablet, this man, pleading with her to cover him in feces and attach the electrodes. She wasn't in a giving mood.


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