Meeting a small town woman in an undisclosed location, severing my ties with all personal obligations. Wordiness ensues, so I distrust myself to let go of it all. Blue lines across her face, should have expected that. A magnitude of fifteen knots, thirty degrees centigrade my instruments tell me. Battling weakness, gloomy effulgence draws her closer to me. It's thirty two degrees now.
Suddenly, eighteen wheeler comes crashing through the screen, knocks me on my ass. At last, my death mask casting is ready for another dress rehearsal. Mabel will be pleased. Crawling through a ventilator shaft to get through my own security team, secret-spy style, just so the cheques can write themselves. Save all receipts and hand them to Mabelline. The finest menu since Don Parenyetti's. Gather stones, lace them with dynamite, sit on them and let the explosion of the chemical reaction warm your dried up keister.
To keep on keeping on, Buddy looms in the grass waiting for a chance to pounce while Baby is a cake eating wino born in the thirteenth century.
Swampy says, "Seriously, fuck the grass and all its chemical banditry. It'll take your foot casing like a wannabe shoe salesman grown in an effervescent bleach tube. I know because that's how my aunt got here. Up on the kind of noxious omnivorous winterous lascivious pageantry any sensible person without the internet would trade a dozen different worlds for. Cosmic worlds, not just planetary ones.
So then I asked, "Grow'd it like a winter worm, eh Swamp?". No reply.
Turns out I was right.
This is part of an ongoing work of non-erotic autofiction outlining the real life and times of the author.
- Glen Davis
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