[Carol has moved around to the front of DePlancher's desk. She stands there, her back to Doomey, the current capital spread out before her on the desktop, her palms planted to either edge of the capital spread, and she's leaning in, examining. She purses her lips, and she taps the title page with a fingertip]
Avra Margariti's The Domovoi. Pretty fucking good. So far.
[After shoving the top page aside, she places her palm back on the desktop and continues her examination]
[doomey is nestled in the pilot's chair, hunkered over the current capital. he's twisted, his shoulder resting on the desktop, his elbow weighing down the capital, his forearm a mast, his hand a crow's nest. the mast rocks fore and aft in a crazy turbulent sea, the crow's nest holding a tumbler of amber. he's into ice now. he was a neat guy prior. in the tumbler clinks one huge ice cube, the size of toddler's fist. he bangs the tumbler, wet and glistening under the mirrorball, against his leaned-in forehead]
you know, Carol, I was, I mean, hah, you don't know, 'cause you t'weren't present, I was down at the Queen's Rump on Sunday morning and I asked Santino for a bourbon on crushed ice. he stared at me, I stared back, our sights like a tug of war in mud, confidence the middle flag, and then I blinked, lost. he went off to make the drink, I set the head of a fag on fire, sucked in some sweet smoke. he grabbed up a tumbler, and then he grabbed a handful of ice cubes and shoved them into his big greasy multicultural maw. he chewed that ice, Carol. and then he caught the shards of said ice in the tumbler, filled it. he then poured in a good pour of amber. he slammed the drink down on the bar right in front of me. we did some more staring, me tilted my head just slightly if I recall right.
[doomey sits up straight in the pilot's chair, arches his spine, stretching. he gathers up the capital, and he folds it and twists, condenses it, and then he gets to his feet and walks over to Carol]
fuck it. i'm giving Charlotte a free pass.
[he grabs the belt hem of Carol's pants (the rear hem seeing as how she has her back to him) and he pulls it back, and he shoves the current capital down therein. he takes a couplke steps back]
I declare Charlotte Platt's Christmas at Aunt Sally's Terminaled, bitches.
[doomey executes a sick twirl and back steps to the Cherrywood, whereupon he perches his ass, in his head hearing a very loud version of 3RDEYEGIRL's anotherlove. he taps out a Pall Mall]
[Carol lowers her head, shakes it. She'd felt Boligard doing what he did, and then it'd been done, but she'd so hoped it'd cease at some point before fruition. She stands, stretches her shoulders, and she turns. One of those slow turns. One of those "You did not just flutter into my own personal world" which we all live in, write it down, "and fucking do what you just fucking did" turns. S'like Pacino or Caan, the meat of the tough guys, her eyes screwed up at the edges, her mouth slightly gaped]
For your, oh fuck that. FYI, Boligard, you just Portholed Charlotte Platt's Christmas at Aunt Sally's.
[doomey swan vestas the tip of his Pall Mall. he sucks in a couple good lungfuls of absolutely sweet smoke. he closes his eyes. a few beats go by. birds sing. doomey's lips twitch. he exhales. he shakes his head, tilts it left, right. he opens his eyes]
fuck me testicles burning witches fuck!
[he breathes. he pushes his ass off the edge of the Cherrywood]
a revision! Charlotte Platt's Christmas at Aunt Sally's has been Portholed.
[he ambles around the desk, slamming himself in the head with the empty tumbler, and he settles into the pilot's chair, twisting and nuzzling in, his eyes downcast]
[he looks to the pile, grabs the topmost, spreads it out on the desktop]
we have Janie Brunson's Two Kingdoms.
[doomey pours himself a good pour]
please jesus, give us something really awesome here.
[Carol faces the music. She'd thumbed in Ash's Spheres on the Bose remote, her face uplifted to the rafters where the speakers perch, twenty or so speakers, good ones. She wags her chin to the beat, her left boot-tip tapping out the slow beat on the glass tiles. She closes her eyes]
Prey for deliverance...
[She hums along. She shakes her head. The next song rains down, Stooges Born in a Trailer. Carol prances out onto the tiles, twirls, and then she struts to the backside of DePlancher's desk and slaps her ass down into the chair. She's wagging her chin to Iggy, and she flips off Boligard sitting across from her, the glass tiles deciding to pulse with light now, greens and reds and blues. She slaps DePlancher's desktop and lasers her gaze across the lines of prose laid out in front her. The song ebbs. Pink Floyd explodes from the twenty some speakers, Have a Cigar. And she nods, examining. As she examines, she rolls a joint with one hand]
[doomey sucks the life out of the pall mall, shoves it's corpse into the gigantoid triangular marble ashtray upstage right on the Cherrywood's desktop. he's been watching, sneakily with lowered head and upturned eyeballs, Carol examine her current capital. he has a look in his eyes like he's dumbstruck and confused. he grabs up the tumbler and takes a hit off it]
[Carol exhales. She goes limp in her chair, sags, relaxes, shuffles her elbows and hands across the desktop of DePlacher's desk, and then she pretty much passes out. For like one second. She lifts her head, straightens up in the chair, looks over at Boligard, twists her lips]
ok. well, we here at TQR love prose of all types. we'll take romance.
[doomey twists and takes on a different personality, turning his head toward where he'd been previously]
[he retracts to his previous position and responds]
yes, we will. provided it has mirth and humor. and we like shit jokes, those always add to an acceptance. and stuff about farts. essays about farts. we like that. things that involve Andy Richter. these things we like. we enjoy capital about roadkill. we enjoy murder mysteries that involve pencils. we really like children capital that puts bravery below envy. we like vomit on everything. vomit on the couch, in the dog dish, coming out of the fax machine. we're weird.
[he drains the tumbler of amber, the big ice cube assaulting his nostrils. he sets the tumbler down on the desktop]
but if you want to craft a fairy tale sans all of these, then fuck you. Janie Brunson's Two Kingdoms does not belong on the TQR train. it''s been Portholed.
[Carol sits up straight. She looks around the Floor. She nods her head, and she says]
[She digs around in DePlancher's desk drawers and comes up with a bottle of water. Water. She uncaps it and guzzles the therein. She gasps. Breathes. She holds the joint in her other hand, and as she tosses the empty water bottle over her shoulder she kisses the joint, sucks in some really sweet smoke. After a couple ten seconds she exhales. She looks down at what she'd been examining]
Yeah. This here capital is, excuse my Spanish, fucking awesome. We're going to send this up, folks.
[She rolls up the current capital and grabs up the remote. She thumbs in Lovesores When the LIghts Go Out]
Fuck, I love this song.
[She twists the roll of capital, and she smashes it against the tiles, and she sits on it and she sniffs at it and she tells it sweet nothings and she bullies it and she pinches its nipple. The capital repels from all the abuse and it rises to the Terminal, up past the rafters, beyond the mirrorball and up beyond. Carol waves]
[doomey's been chasing Carol around the Floor as she sat on the flashing tiles and sniffed at her capital and whispered to it and laughed and shouted at it and twisted it. tuckered, he puts his hands, one holding his bunched up capital, on his knees and tries to catch his breath]
[Carol twirls and finds Boligard winded, hands on knees, behind her. The glass tiles flash beneath his feet. She walks up to him, tugs his capital from his hand]
And, hey, we're not doing the pants anymore.
[She tugs at her waistband]
Stretching the leather, Dan Rather. That's not cool.
[She wads up Boligard's capital and throws it off stage left. She looks after the thrown capital despairingly. She shakes her head and turns back to DePlancher's desk, and she trudges thereward. She points at the broken pipes on the wall of the Floor]
Why can't they just fix the fucking tube?
[She seats herself behind DePLancher's desk, leans forward and pulls the topmost capital off the pile. Spreads it out on the desktop. She leans in, examines]
We've got Lynne Sargent's Rust. I like the title. Nice and simple. A destructive element. Might be dark. I like dark.
[doomey recovers, stands, the glass tiles going crazy, beaming the primary colors up past his face like that blast of wind lifting Marilyn's skirt. he stomps on the tiles. they keep blinking sporadically. he walks over to the Cherrywood and takes a seat, rolls in]
yar, girl. no. no one fixes anything that's broke. not on the Floor. I think it was written into the contract when I signed on. they won't fix broken shit. they refuse to pay us. they send the roast beef upstairs, we get none. we have to pay out of pocket for our air fresheners. it's strictly BYOB, though they'd go under with an open bar down here, so I give them that. smart move, right. so now the glass tiles are fucked, the tube's busted, the cleaning closet has pretty much gone toxic, the wardrobe's missing a leg, DePlancher's gone missing. they won't expense a search party, and they won't expense an exorcist to get rid of Bukowski, but, hey, i'm okay with that last one, grown fond of the fucker, speaking of which, where'd he get off to?
[doomey looks around the Floor]
[he leans in and grabs the capital resting on top of the towering pile at the up stage right corner of the Cherrywood. he spreads it out on the desktop, toppling a Bill Cosby pez dispenser. he looks over the title page]
okay. this here is MZ's Atmoboarding. atmoboarding. what the fuck is that? fuck.
[he shuffles the pages around, tilts his gaze up to Carol, and he tilts his head]
Rust, crafted by Lynne motherfucking Sargent is totally Terminaled.
[Carol rises. She walks around DePlancher's desk, capital in one hand, Bose remote in the other. She thumbs in Prince's Revelation. She walks around DePlancher's desk...She walks around DePlancher's desk, and she starts to wag her ass, leathered, becoming lathered. She walks around DePlancher's desk. And Prince talks about Pharaohs, and she shakes her head. She walks around DePlancher's desk. She thumbs the remote. She gets to her knees, the capital held in her hands. Lou Reed oozes from the speakers up high, above the mirrorball, The Blue Mask. Carol shuffles forward across the glass tiles, and the tiles explode with primal colors, up and up, hitting her in the chin and the under-breast. She raises the capital in front of her. and, with both hands, she pulls the capital apart, stretches it, and she stretches it further, stretches it beyond its stetchedness. And the capital goes all batshit otherwhere with a flash of Rambo explosives, captives rescued]
Okay. Terminaled. Jeez. I need a fucking nap, folks.
[doomey stands, a bit off, and he gathers up the current capital in his arms. it's a lot of pages, and he's flapping the stray pages down with his hands and his chin, the stuff wanting to erupt like lava from a volcano. he wads up the capital and he shoves it onto the desktop, and then he sits on it. his left cheek lifts with the force of the capital, and then his right cheek lifts. doomey focuses, and he concentrates, and he fires a flame from his asshole, focused, bro, lasered. the flames die on the desktop. doomey breathes deep. he resituates his ass on the pilot's chair]
MZ's Atmoboarding has been been Portholed, bitches.
[Carol, exhausted, grabs the topmost capital off the tower of capital piled at the corner of DePlancher's desktop. She spreads it out on the desktop. She looks at it, she cracks her neck, and she nods her head as she thumbs in Fuck the Police. Carol stands and wags her ass]
We got Adiya Anne's Edith. See what the fuck, Truman.
[She wraps her current capital into a tight tube. And she kneels, goes all magic girl pose, and she shoves the capital down her throat. And we watch this horrible scene, recoiling and vomiting. She coughs it up, and she throws the stupid thing aside. It rolls under the wardrobe]
[doomey's situated in the pilot's chair, he's sunk in. he's shaking his head. he taps out a pall mall]
okay. wow. listen.
[he leans back into the pilot's chair]
I know you all think I deal with some real casual stuff, but there's times the shit gets weird, okay? right? okay? like this shit.
Hanker Bedknee's hand paused over his ship's controls. Subtly, his fingers began to tremble. His ship trembled, too. This wasn't the first time either. He'd gotten the shakes on several of his recent inner-system runs. He'd have to make another appointment with his analyst.
Okay, so there's overuse of comas, right? Or maybe I'm crazy. "Subtly, his fingers began to tremble." that reads so awkward to me. but what do I know, right? anyway, it's not casual! it's loose. I keep going back to "Subtly, his fingers began to tremble." sorry, but that is not TQR. that is awkward and stumbling.
[doomey swan vestas the Pall Mall]
so Brian Cosky, we're tossing the capital you sent us into the deluge, out the window.
[doomey tosses his shoes onto the cherrywood's desktop. he leans back in the pilot's chair, sucks in some sweet smoke from his Pall Mall cigarette. Pall Mall cigarettes. Pall Mall is an American brand of cigarettes produced by R. J. Reynolds Tobacco Company in Winston-Salem, North Carolina, and internationally by British American Tobacco at multiple sites. As of 2012, Pall Mall is R. J. Reynolds' highest selling brand. he gets to his feet, grabs his shoes off the desk and tosses them under the wardrobe]
i'm going shoeless, joe.
[he grabs the current capital off the pile that rests on the corner of the desktop. he looks over the title page]
Jhon Sanchez's The DeDramafi. Jhon. am I pronouncing that correctly? DeDramafi. am I...
[doomey, tossing back what was left in his tumbler, rises, and he grabs the capital he'd been examining. he walks to the flashing glass tiles and holds the capital out before him, like a breakfast on a tray]
however the fuck you say his name is going Terminal, folks. problem is, somewhere along the line, some editing must be done. we must edit it, or we throw it back at what the fuck's his name, but it's so good that beside the craft slips the capital must move upward. it's gotta. not sure I've ever seen a capital that needs work move upward. mayhap.
[doomey removes his hands. the capital floats in the air before him]
is that a word? mayhap?
[the capital lifts, like a body in a bad magic show, and it rises up past the rafters, up past the mirrorball, and it's gone, Terminaled. doomey turns and wanders back to the Cherrywood]
seriously. fuck, this is becoming a theme. i'm so far behind schedule we're losing some real good fucking goodstuff…well, we'll see...a few years later Sanchez is huge, right? I mean, I Terminalaled him even with the mistakes, the misedit, the flaws. if I saw it, and i'm shit, homeslice, then the lit world is going to love this fucker. we had a chance, but i'm behind, shit shit shit.
[doomey slams his phone on the desktop. he breathes. he brings the phone to his ear]
I will be quicker, faster and juicier. sorry, boss.
[doomey cracks his neck, and he taps out a fresh pall mall]
yep...just make sure to watch this fucker, right?...okay...yeah...yep...write that down. okay, boss. best to you and your family, whoever the fuck they may be this week...yep...jesus fucking shepard, please sign off...okay...yeah, we'll do that, cousin. bye.
[doomey taps the red button with his thumb]
christ mother fucker. we need to...I need to move quicker.
[doomey grabs up the fresh capital off the top of the pile at the corner of the cherrywood. he spreads it out before him on the desktop]
Jay Caselbere's Memories of the Home. okay, let's see what this has to offer.
[doomey leans in and examines the current capital]
[Carol kisses the last smoke from the joint, and she pops the last of it into her maw, masticates it, twists up her lips, opens them to let out some sweet smoke. She smiles. And then she grabs the topmost capital off the pile that rests at upstage right corner of DePlancher's desk. She spreads the capital out before her on the desktop]
[She motions to someone offstage left, raises a knuckle to one of her nostrils. She focuses on the capital]
So, we have Tom Howard's The Nexus Murders spread out before us. Let's just pray to Shiva right now and hope this capital is totally balls out.
[The guy from offstage left scampers out and places a mug of dark-beaned coffee at Carol's elbow. Carol slaps his shoulder]
[he pulls a pack of pall malls from his inside coat pocket, and he taps out a cigarette]
and I hate to say this, but i'd, on the downlow, love to be identified as a lit zine sans sci-fi and fantasy. prose, here, might include horror and regular old twisted lit. my thoughts. I come across sci-fi and I am a very difficult positive result, folks. i'm sorry, it's me, it's not you. though, by my narrowing of our view, we'd be limited, I mean, shit, VC's would send in historical dramas and reconstructions, and, god vomit a penis into a ripped asshole, romance. no, no. we can't narrow our vision. we'll take it all.
[he swan vestas the tip of the pall mall, sucks in some sweet smoke, exhales]
regardless, Jay Caselberg's Memories of Home just did not fucking cut the mustard, bitches.
[doomey pulls out his iPhone and thumbs his podcast app]
I must get back to Dumb Gay Politics. one of those awesome ladies got all Judge Judy on that wax puppet Pence. golden. we are in so much trouble, public. we are Germany and Trump is Hitler. those poor poor fuckers trapped in those death camps on the border of Mexico. but...
[doomey pours himself a good pour]
[he grabs the topmost capital off the pile gathered on the corner of the Cherrywood. he spreads it out before him. he takes a sip of amber]
okay, fuckers. we have the marvelous Lisa Shapter's Planet 51.
[doomey lowers his head. he is really not into the whole sci-fi thing]