Week 9 of what, I wonder? Time seems to stretch and squeeze in this fetid purgatory known as The Floor.
How're you doing Doomey, Carol? We seem to have had a flood of capital after rather a long dry spell. Refreshing, ain't it.
One of the cool things about having two caps at once is that even if they're both really good you can weigh them up against each other and only send up the very best. But it wasn't quite like that for me, this time. The scales were very firmly biased on one side only. So, Dollar Hedge is goin' UP; and Captain's Log: Little Armored One is goin' DOWN.
[Satisfied, Sturgeon burps loudly, causing a stream of bubbles to rise through the murky water of the tank. He picks his nose with a misshapen appendage and swims over to a book discarded on the sandy floor. Bulgakov's The Master and Margarita. He picks it up and starts reading.]
[doomey taps the tank with his fingertip. he has a pall mall in one hand, a tumbler of amber in the other. he stumbles away from the fish tank]
first off, this is not a flood of capital. there's been times, ago, when VCs submitted tons of capital, so much capital we were knee deep, okay, fucker. knee deep. second, doobie, if you have two capital in front of you and they're both fucking awesome, you really need to Terminalize them both, not just one because one slightly outweighs the other. and so, I feel bad, harry pauff's For Your Future Pain and Suffering, has been shoved to the gutter outside on the streets where the dogs for some reason can't seem to stop barking frantically. and the bandits smile from coffee tables.
[doomey throws the capital to the floor and rolls over it with the pilot chair's wheels, rolls over it again and again until it's no more]
[Carol grabs up the current capital and she taps it straight on DePlancher's desktop]
Yeah, fucking no, bitches. First off, Christian Miles is bleached and worn. Right? I totals understand why a fella might sit down and craft himself a really good looking book, or a story, or an instant. But Christian crafted a pot of nasty stew. Couple pages in I was really not liking the mood. Funny how some capitalists can craft and some can the fuck not.
[Carol tosses the current capital to the mirror ball, and it grinds against the glass shards adhered to the mirror ball and the ill-crafted tale disappears. mere dust.
[doomey sucks the shit out of a pall mall, and he stabs what's left of the cigarette into the mess inbowled in the triangular marble ashtray situated at his right elbow. he giggles and pours what's left in his tumbler into his maw, and he fucking swallows, bitches. he gazes out on the Floor, and he sees DePlancher seated behind her desk, watches as she examines her current capital, as she strokes the forehead of her cat with her thumb. he thumps his chest, heart-level]
fuck my ass.
[doomey shakes his head, shakes the ghost from his conscious. he looks over at Carol]
just examined the shit out of diGriz's Fair Laid. I am pretty sure he is a brother from another mother. or maybe a sister I never knew I had. or maybe a child I wished i'd had but forgot to let out of the basement. not sure. confused. this capital is so fucking good i'm eating scarfs. I've eaten five of them so far. I need a glass of water. or vodka.
[doomey falls out of the pilot's chair and shakes on the tiles. over time, a minute, he calms. he gets to his feet, and he grabs up the current capital. he folds it, origami gone crazy, into the spaceship from the last scene in Close Encounters, and the capital rises and moves mirrorballward. doomey watches the capital rise, and he breathes deep. he pours himself a good pour and lights another pall mall]
s'like a son gone off to college. or, you know, not college, but rather motherfucking life.
[doomey shakes his head, thumbs in NWA's A Bitch Is a Bitch]
fuck colleges. fucking rapists. like life insurance salesmen. fucking rapists!