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Blue Hands

Mimi (what else?) was now quickly getting into costume and beckoning a small audience. Lane wracked his brain for a plan. He saw a small boy jettison half a corndog and lunged for it, then headed for Fabio. Halfway across the square he began to feel funny. Things didn’t seem like they were moving at the right speed. His feet were shuffling but it wasn’t an act anymore. Audio textures changed. This was getting scary. All Lane could see were the two wet brown eyes of Fabio, staring right at him. Lane knew he’d had a plan to betray Fabio using the corndog somehow. But reality had started to slide and Lane was losing control of his thoughts. You ever have the feeling you were about to experience something that would forever alter your perception of everything? Like your whole life had been building to this moment but you weren’t exactly sure of the outcome? It seems to Lane like Fabio’s trying to put thoughts in his mind. Then the dog spoke, enunciating quite distinctly. It said, ‘Have you lost the path, traveler? Why do you forsake me?’ Lane let the corndog slip from his fingers. Fabio approached with a cautious semi-crouch, all the while staring intensely at Lane. When the terrier got to Lane’s feet, it carefully picked up the corndog with its teeth, stood up on his hind legs and returned the food to Lane. Again Lane’s mind heard the dog’s voice, ‘Go! Leave at once… doggone it!’ Lane thought, ‘Begone yourself, hound of Satan!’ but stood paralyzed. From somewhere far away a child asked its mommy if the man was a clown too. Then Lane heard the voice of an angel. He looked up and saw Mimi smiling at him. Everything was in slomo. She was tying her hair in a ponytail, her clean and perfect white armpits exposed to him. Her eyes were inhumanly blue, lovelasers of Ice Blue Aqua Velva. She said, lips not moving of course, ‘I feel we are two special people. We understand each other don’t we?’ Lane’s gaze drifted down to her breasts. Her nipples became erect before his very eyes, straining against the form fitting white tuxedo shirt. Time stood still. Mimi’s nipples were exquisitely large and seemed to be begging to be licked, flicked, nibbled, bitten, pinched, tongue-whipped, or otherwise tweaked in every conceivable manner. He imagined them in extreme close-up in the style of stark hyperrealism. Tiny crying mouths appeared in the craters of these nipples. They spoke to his mind and said, ‘Traveler! Do you require nourishment? We need to be sucked… Suck us, Please! It is Our Pleasure To Serve You!’ Lane had at last achieved that state known in courtrooms throughout America as temporary insanity.

    What then filled Lane’s brain was a Pink Floyd Opera of an Ecstasy Sequence, initiated by the singing of a heavenly choir and all the colors going gold and melty. He sees an impossibly vast grassy plain. Superimpositions of a tanned and virile Lane chasing Mimi nude in slow motion, her breasts and ass bobbing delightfully. She mock pretends to be afraid of him, Mr. Scary Satyr Man. Her bush is incredibly thick and hairy. They romp through sylvan glades and splash in virgin waterfalls. Lying on her back under a tree, Mimi squeals with glee as Lane crushes fresh blueberries on her firm squirming body. The two innocents smear each other blue with their passion. In the amber glow of sunset they gaze into each other’s eyes meaningfully and kiss, their auras merging into one. Their glow becomes more intense as their bodies begin to disappear. When they are completely invisible (or consumed) the light drips through the night air, collecting on the dark surface of a babbling brook, there reconstituting the outlines of their magical embrace. A small school of minnows dash to the surface and gobble up the last glimmering memory of Lane and Mimi. Could this be love?

    Pain. Blackness with gross orange-magenta pulsations. Unrelenting skull splitting agony. Lane debated God, then summoned his reserves of courage to crack open an eye. Familiar faces came into view. He was back at camp, the foul faithful of the river peering down at him. Popeye, Mousie, Doc Weaver and the others. “Wha happen?” Lane croaked. “Baseball bat up backa yuh head, psycho! Shiskerbob fuck clocked ya good, he’s a mean sumbitch!” grinned Popeye. “You wint awf, holmes,” spat Mousie, “bout ripped the clothes off dat lil’ clown ho bitch!” Lane grimaced. It felt like someone had used his head to paint the center line in the freeway - at 70 mph. “If Doc Weaver warn’t on his way for more juice… who knows?” concluded Popeye philosophically. Satisfied that Lane would live, the group became instantly disinterested and moved on. Lane felt a shadow on the corner of his eye. A small figure stood at his shoulder, a Pakistani boy of about eight. Lane had not seen him before. He wore only Addidas shorts and sandals and had big brown eyes just like Fabio. Lane got a weird vibe from him. The boy turned and began to scribble something on the Big Board, unnoticed by the others. Lane struggled to focus:

      Men Who N d Tc e Helped &  Whv

          LANE             PSYCHIC

    Lane’s hand lashed out and grabbed the child’s arm like a rattlesnake at the peak of its career. “Who are you, kid?” he rasped. Those big wet eyes remained as serene as a Buddhist monk’s. Then the child spoke for the first time, “One who knows.” Lane’s heart skipped a beat. “Knows what? Don’t talk to me in riddles, boy!” The boy bent down and placed his hand on Lane’s brow. Instantly Lane felt calm, soothed as if caressed by the Saints. The next sentence entered Lane’s brain without passing through the boy’s mouth or Lane’s ears.“Knows that you are The One prophesied by my people. My path is to care for you.”

    No one saw Lane for about six weeks. When he emerged in mid September, as Manhattan busied itself with the new fall season, few noticed. He seemed profoundly weak. He resembled a trendy 90’s Baudelaire down on his luck. Young Habib was always at his side. Lane spent most of his time prone on a section of cardboard, stationed somewhere on lower Broadway. It’s really amazing how much comfort can be derived from inserting just one eighth of an inch of cardboard between your ass and the concrete. Lane had renewed his oath of silence while in hiding and would shuffle along mute, his right hand resting on Habib’s shoulder. Together they made a pitiful but unique sight, and in the city where originality is everything, business was brisk.

Posted at 1am on 03/08/2005 | comments are closed Filed Under: Fiction

"The sleep of reason
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