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WK 7
Aug 8, 2019 21:07:08 GMT
Post by rorschalk on Aug 8, 2019 21:07:08 GMT
Belay my last!
[The intrepid puffy-pantalooned purveyor of capital gains (being a bit light of late on the 'gains' part of the equation) sidles into the perpetual gloaming that is the Floor tapping his monkey-handled pimp cane before him like legally blind mendicant of the Zurich school of social engineering.]
A half turn to the quartermaster. Avast ye dogs! Ye mothers of hor-devohrrs and atypical whatnot.
[rapping the tip of his stylized walking stick to a point halfway twixt the twain denizen's desks, he stops and decapitates the monkey head topping his cane, which happens to be a small flask containing an undisclosed persuasion of fire water, puts it to his lips and drinks.]
Tis August again in l'hotel Ozone, mademoiselle and dirty wanker. I bid you much ado about nothing, but the truth will out!
[So saying, the Willy Wonka wannabe returns the headpiece to his cane and produces a slender sheef of pages from the breast pocket of his puffy pirate shirt, brandishing them like a weapon lethal at hand-to-hand distance.]
Villians! Dissemble namoore! It's is the heeding of this bold, ruddy cap that compels me!
[at the passing of his pathetic invocation, the TQR institution rolls onto his back still clutching the cap in his cold, dread hand, his limbs sticking straight up in the air like a lapsed cockroach.]
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WK 7
Aug 23, 2019 0:26:38 GMT
Post by carol on Aug 23, 2019 0:26:38 GMT
[Carol looks at the supine Rorschalk. She flicks her Bic and lights a rather largish joint. She leans back in DePlancher's chair]
Fuck is up, Ted?
[She pulls the current capital from the front edge of DePlancher's desk, and she looks it over. She inhales...]
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
...
[She exhales some sweet smoke across the Floor]
Okay, friends. We've got Joe Customer, no, Joe Custamuerto? No. Joe Custburger? Shit. We've got Joe's Where the Hell is Amy?
[She sucks on the joint and begins her examination, leaned back, deep, in DePlancher's chair]
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WK 7
Aug 23, 2019 0:43:10 GMT
Post by doomey on Aug 23, 2019 0:43:10 GMT
[doomey walks over to Rorschalk. he kicks him in the ribs]
get the fuck up, you bastard.
[he grabs the capital from Rorschalk's palsied fist]
you should at least try and compose yourself, act like a normal fucking human being, right? Christ.
[doomey glances at the current capital he holds in his hands. he leans in, squints his eyes, and he pops open his maw]
oh shit, cousin. you sent this to me on my fucking fucked up phone. I examined this bitch like yesterday. and no. no we are in no way forwarding this shit, uncle.
[doomey wanders over to the Porthole and shoves the current capital out into the deluge. he pulls, with effort, his arm from the Porthole. he shuts the window, shakes his head]
jesus. we cannot let these orifices remain open, due to, you know, rats and shit, right? is orifices a word? any the fuck what, Tim Frank's Concrete Jungle has been Portholed, bitches.
[he squeezes his arm, wondering if he's been fucked. he wanders back to the Cherrywood]
fucker nearly sucked my arm from the socket.
[he looks through the drawers for booze and cigarettes and pez]
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WK 7
Aug 23, 2019 17:48:14 GMT
Post by rorschalk on Aug 23, 2019 17:48:14 GMT
[the dead-cockroached Rorschalk's catatonic disposition on the Floor gives away the hint he's still alive by the wincing of his cataract-clouded eyes directly after Doomey delivered the swift kick to his ribs … and still he abides, thinking
the sonorous woebetiding melancholy in Whitman's Leaves of Grass is echoed in the bittersweetness of Harrison's All Things Must Pass, as this too shall be, alas!
And with a sigh and whoop of anti-despairing he heaves himself to his feet again whilst glaring from point to point at the two floorites airing their disingenuous bearing of good capital stewardship for those that still have eyes to sea!]
I know thee! Thy name is calumny!
[Then, covering his nose and mouth with a crooked forearm like a pride fallen Snidely Whiplash or Rest Home-circuit-following professional magician, he pivots on his good heel and disappears into the gloom] |
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WK 7
Sept 4, 2019 23:28:11 GMT
Post by carol on Sept 4, 2019 23:28:11 GMT
[Carol's hair has grown. Time has passed, and her hair has entwined and twisted upon its twines. Matted at particular curls, the one hung low over DePlancher's desktop. And the one snaking around her right shoulder, coiling, hissing. Nova-esque near her left ear. She has the current capital spread out before, her head hung low, examining. She exhales some thick smoke from her teeth. She shoves the last page of the capital to the side, she lifts her head]
Okay.
[She grabs up the capital, gets to her feet, and she strolls over to the wardrobe. She throws open the wardrobe doors, the backside of which each frame a tall mirror. She shoves the current capital up against the left mirror]
I like this cap, cousins.
[She leans in, pushes the capital against the mirror]
I'm Terminalizing Joe Cusumano's Where the Hell is Amy?
[Carol puts her weight, which is slight, into it, shoving the current capital against the wardrobe's mirror glass. The capital sinks into the mirror, and Carol jerks her hands back. She looks at her hands, makes her lips real firm. She looks at the mirror. She smiles]
Fucking A.
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WK 7
Sept 10, 2019 0:05:27 GMT
Post by doomey on Sept 10, 2019 0:05:27 GMT
[doomey watches Carol do her strangeness. he taps out a pall mall, swan vestas it, he leans back in the pilot's chair and he smokes his cigarette. he wheels in close to the cherrywood, twirls the bottle of amber on the desktop like he's dialing in a really cool radio station. he upends the bottle and give his tumbler a good few fingers worth of amber. he breathes, leans forward and gazes at the capital strewn across the desktop. he grabs up the tumbler. he takes a sip of amber. winces. he sucks in some sweet smoke. he rises]
okay. Brickhouse's Down the Farm is extremely smooth, Kentucky Bourbon smooth. let's lift this fucker up, shall we?
[doomey gathers up the capital from the desktop, he taps it straight on the desktop. he gets it on his fingertips like a busboy tray, a cocktail waitress tray. he thumbnails a swan vesta beneath the piled capital. and the capital rises slowly, wobbly. doomey gets the lit match under the capital, guiding it upward. it rises slowly. doomey vestas another match. the cap rises. it rises above the mirrorball, up into the rafters]
travel of the future, cousins. Brickhouse's Down the Farm has been Terminaled.
[doomey blows out the flame at the tip of the swan vesta, and he collapses into the pilot's chair. he watches the capital rise and disappear. he perches the pall mall on his lower lip, firms it up with his upper lip, sucks...
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WK 7
Sept 12, 2019 19:50:23 GMT
Post by rorschalk on Sept 12, 2019 19:50:23 GMT
[the full-body vibrations of heavy hydraulics shake the steel rafters unseen in the black vault overtopping the Floor like the dome of heaven, and the Rorschalk enters from a sliding panel stage left and walks briskly to the spotlit section of real estate under the ever-spinning mirrorball amidships the capital managers desks, their well-earned cinesures secure as Odin and Frigga's thrones in the feast room of Valhalla...]
What? Ho! Steady there ... Ordaaaaaaah! Ordaaaahhhhh! Ordahhhh I say!
[Channeling the now defunct John Bercow late of the parliament of the Queen and never late for tea or second breakfast, the blue-haired knatty gestures for the crane operator lost somewhere in the darkness above to swing his freight leeward just a slight]
Steady as she goes there, govnah!
[down throught the spectral thermocline comes a cylindrical steel-girdled glass case, secured by four steel cables tipped by heavy duty caribiners attached to the metal links at the corners of its squared circular top, it drops slowly down, its dimensions along the lines of Who's Tartarus, the trans-dimensional doctor's string-theoried phone booth, hints of quick, silver-scaled life shimmering through the otherwise placid water encompassed there within... the Rorschalk lays his hands upon the cool glass as it nears its final dispensation, and with the dull thud of immense weight and finality, comes to rest inbetween Doomey and a hard place juxtaposed there on the Floor]
Boligard, Madam Carol, I give you the 43rd wonder of the world, Wally Sturgeon and his Infinite Aquarium…
[standing on his tiptoes he releases the carabiners and tugs on the cables, which then repel skyward without a sound]
There was no room in my office, and I realy hope you don't mind...
[Doomey's come out from behind his desk, drawn to the silver glimmer as a deepsea minnow to the angler fish's luminous dewlap, he reaches out a searching finger to touch the glass]
Rausch!
{the Rorschalk screams, slapping at the other's offending hand]
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WK 7
Sept 13, 2019 10:02:30 GMT
Post by sturgeon on Sept 13, 2019 10:02:30 GMT
[Sturgeon swims to the edge of the tank, revealing himself to Doomey, who to his infinite credit hardly flinches at all.]
'Sup?
[Sturgeon attempts a respectful bow, as if to say "I too was human once, I feel you" but his grotesque quirks of anatomy twist the gesture into something vaguely threatening. The two stare at each other, twitching like Wild West gunmen.]
Doomey. Call me Sturgeon.
[Rorschalk clears his throat, holds out a roll of fresh capital, hesitates awkwardly, then throws it over the glass into the top of the tank, where the pages drift down like fish food. Wordlessly, Sturgeon retreats into the cloudy water, and the pages disappear from sight, one by one. Somehow, the Bose fires up with a Nick Cave song, all plaintive piano and stumbling vocals. Darker With The Day. But after a verse and a half it switches to a saccharine Japanese pop song. Singing can be heard from the tank, until it fades away as if into a great distance]
Itsu maru-goe no moto ga
Noto moto sugiru mae ni...
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WK 7
Sept 15, 2019 23:39:07 GMT
Post by doomey on Sept 15, 2019 23:39:07 GMT
[doomey stumbles backwards, away from the tank, and he trips over his own heels, lands assward on the glass tiles, comes up against the fragile legs of Rorschalk, who has somehow materialized on the Floor. doomey twists and looks up at the boss, raising an arm and pointing a fingertip at the fishtank taking up pretty much the whole wall between the wardrobe and Bukowski's slumbering ghost]
you put an aquarium in here, man.
[doomey pushes himself up onto his feet. he dusts off his pant cuffs and knees, stands tall and faces the tank's dank, green, sluggish bullishness. the thing is twenty feet long, ill-crafted, dripping-of-seams, and it's taller than your average aquarium, five feet or so. it's a giant casket held aloft by a visibly rickety rig of ornate coffee table legs and wiring and crisscrossings of metal struts and crowbar and duct tape and chewing gum. the air filtering castles and C3POs that litter the pebbled bottom of the tank are all strung up with air tubes that throb and course with huffing bubbles and slime. the plastic seaweed has all gone heavy, limp in buoyant waterland, and the hollowed out logs are cracked and collapsing. the water in the tank is, as mentioned earlier, dank and green. doomey looks over at Rorschalk]
there's a talking fish somewhere in there, cousin.
[doomey looks back at the tank. he taps out a pall pall and swan vestas its tip, sucks in some sweet smoke. exhales]
fucker needs a cleaning.
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WK 7
Sept 26, 2019 0:27:27 GMT
Post by carol on Sept 26, 2019 0:27:27 GMT
[Carol closes her eyes. They'd been open and examining for hours. She grabs up the capital laid out before her on DePlancher's desktop, and she tosses it aside. It flutters to the glass tiles]
I'm Portholing Tim McDaniel's Welcome to the Neighborhood... firstly because I just don't find it amusing enough, and secondly, because the title is just too fucking long, bro. This piece will find it's way into some zine somewhere, it's fucking cutting and brave, and we will probs eat our teeth for not publishing it, but...
[Carol rolls a joint]
We just don't go where he's gone. I mean, what is that? Genre wise? Cutsie? Advertisement?
[Carol pulls out some lighter fluid and squirts some on the tiled capital. She pulls out her Swan Vestas and she lights the tip of her joint. She tosses the flame to the tiles, and the capital erupts to blaze. She hold out her hands, palm out, warming them. She notices the fish tank. She inhales deep, and then she exhales]
What in the fuck is up with the lobster tank, cousin.
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WK 7
Sept 26, 2019 16:18:59 GMT
Post by sturgeon on Sept 26, 2019 16:18:59 GMT
[Sturgeon swims casually up to the edge of the glass, and uses a malformed appendage to wipe away some of the scum. He takes in the scene. Outside the tank, the floor is covered with what might once have been a carpet, but riddled with holes, tarry smudges and discarded blunts. Everywhere, piles of moulding take-away food boxes and tiny mammalian shit pellets. One desk, not quite level, its fourth leg made of a pile of rotting capital, hovers in a cloud of gloomy dust. The other actually looks vaguely neat. The walls have posters and notices pinned to them that look like they haven't been touched since the 80s. Not sure which 80s. And the ceiling?]
Why is there no ceiling?
Oh, didn't mean to make you jump. Hey Doomey. Got any caps for me? Better'n the last one please.
[Sturgeon produces a bottle from some hidden crevice on his anatomy. The bottle has four Xs on it, like something out of a Rodriguez film or a Wile E Coyote cartoon. He pops the cap. Some of the black liquid escapes into the cloudy water of the tank. Sturgeon takes a swig and shudders. He ejects a string of sandy material into the water from an orifice at his rear. Carol approaches the tank. Her joint falls from her mouth to the floor.]
Carol? Hi. Pleasure to meet you.
[Sturgeon goes up real close against the glass. Around where his clavicle should be, a pair of gills pulsates.]
Ever seen The Shape of Water?
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WK 7
Sept 28, 2019 0:09:48 GMT
Post by carol on Sept 28, 2019 0:09:48 GMT
Yar, Uncle. You are a fucking goldfish. You are cute. Sort of. Disgusting, also, sort of. But I really really do not want to fuck you. So...
[Carol bends, grabs up the joint from the tiles, slots it between her lips, inhales deeply. She watches the fish as it wags its tail, slightly moving left to right in the sewer water in the tank, thick stuff, light brown, shitty. She places her palm against the tank, smiling]
Damn fuck. You're a talking goldfish.
[She exhales]
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WK 7
Sept 28, 2019 0:37:48 GMT
Post by doomey on Sept 28, 2019 0:37:48 GMT
[doomey uncrosses his arms. he looks sideways at Rorschalk, and he shakes his arms and curls his lips]
christ, 'chalk. clean that fucking tank. I think it's beginning to leak.
[doomey steps back, hovers near the cherrywood. he looks over the capital spread thereon]
oh, fuck. hey, I examined Jhon Sanchez's Handy. fucking adored this capital. it's going up, family.
[doomey gathers up the current capital and he grabs up a bottle of glue and he goes about making a paper mache idol in the form of an elderly black man smoking a pipe. he alters it ever so slightly, adjusting the bridge of the nose, lifting the chin. he places the idol center stage on the cherrywood's desktop]
Handy is Terminaled, motherfuckers.
[the idol shifts and it melts and it doubles over and it collapses to droplets of Goodstuff. the grains of the Cherrywood desktop absorb the capital. doomey watches this, awed]
motherfuck.
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WK 7
Oct 3, 2019 0:28:47 GMT
Post by carol on Oct 3, 2019 0:28:47 GMT
[Carol grabs up the capital she examined, and she walks over to the Porthole and dumps the pages outside]
Sorry, folks. Donna Munro's Quiet has been Portholed.
[Carol looks out the Porthole, she looks at the clusters of stars and the wandering garbage and the space junk]
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WK 7
Oct 3, 2019 20:25:20 GMT
Post by rorschalk on Oct 3, 2019 20:25:20 GMT
[Thinking himself elsewhere, unaware that he had not signed out and/or exuented stage left, 'Chalk comes back into himself and straps back into the pilot chair behind his eyes]
Leaking, eh? Filthy water, you say? I was told this vessel was the proverbial universe in a grain of sand, the Elixir of Life in a bottle of snake oil. A dream to some, a nightmare to others deal. One man's filthy fish tank is another man's ocean, even! Open your eyes to the lies right in front of you, errr, the sentence of the true believer is rael! Ibbity bobbity Cabala.
[With his bit of whimsy stated and the default button that turns the gears of jaw and larynx contractually required to learn the world how the sausage is made done their duty , the 'chalk reaches into his puffy pantalons and extracts a dog-eared bunch of capital.]
Alakazam, and there it is. This capital could be the source of some conflict of interest, in that I'm contemplating something of a churn on this one owing to our dearth of brokers at this run down firm ... wherein the chain of custody of the ongoing disposition is turned back on itself to generate a verdict upon its accession. In other words, I'm looking to the Floor to adjudicate this Terminal loggerhead. Woe betide our stranded virtue when the capital default swaps of this cockled age come home to roost.
[So saying, 'chalk begins to rip the capital into strips, progressively thinner and then crosswise until he is holding a heaping double-handful of confetti, which he tosses into the air over the open topside of the infinite fish tank of Wally Sturgeon, the saturated bits of pulp fluttering toward the bottom of the tank]
Hey Sturgeon, you said you wanted some of that Terminal cuisine. But just a tad, there's no place in the world for a fish who's over fed. |
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WK 7
Oct 3, 2019 20:47:11 GMT
Post by sturgeon on Oct 3, 2019 20:47:11 GMT
Space junk? Where the hell are we anyway?
[Sturgeon, visible through the cloudy water, rootles around the discarded aquarium toys lodged into the sand at the bottom of the tank. He pulls out a slightly undersized deckchair, and rests upon it to read the latest capital. He's wearing a yellow baseball cap printed with "WEAR SUNSCREEN".
Science fiction. I love all that Jules Verne shit.
Guh - you guys have got me swearing.
After some time, engrossed, he gets up and swims away - he seems to go much farther than the apparent edges of the tank. He soon returns with a crate of bottles. He cracks one open on the side of the deck chair and starts sucking a tarry liquid from it through a plastic straw. He returns to the story. One of his fin-things twitches occasionally as he flicks through the pages.]
I like this. ZTB's Under the Light of Neith and Nerine. Yeah, I like it.
So, how does this work.
[Sturgeon has been watching his fellow floorites. There's some kind of magic at play. He swims to the edge of the tank and pushes the capital against the glass, willing it to melt away. It does not. He tries to style it out, folding the cap against the glass into the shape of an idol. It looks more like a wonky toque. Frustrated, he produces a Sharpie from somewhere and scribbles over the cover page. He spits the capital out of the tank, along with a spray of rankling saltwater, and it lands with a splat on the dirty floor. Written in bold ink on the front is one word:]
TERMINALED.
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WK 7
Oct 10, 2019 0:20:40 GMT
Post by carol on Oct 10, 2019 0:20:40 GMT
[Carol walks over to the floored capital and she slams her heel down on it. She grinds her heel on the capital pile, making it mulch]
Shit's been sent up, bitch. Wow.
[Carol breathes deep. She goes to the tank and gazes within]
Holy shit, motherfucker.
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