[doomey gets to his boots. gazes down on the ruined capital. he stomps his heel on the capital. and then he stomps his heel upon the fucking capital like repeatablly. Said, the capital has gone Porthole, friends. It's gone, besties]
Christina Francine's Friday nights are...Portholed.
[doomey sucks in some really sweet smoke, and then he exhales. he settles back into the pilot's chair]
Sedona House crafted by Jeffery Scott is going all the fuck Terminal, you fucking bitches.
[doomey tamps his spent Pall Mall into the cluttered marble tri-angular ashtray at his left elbow]
it really exudes the current vibe of alternate fiction. hah. no. fuck. truly, i'm attempting to aggravate the Terminali, get them to oralize their belief in bad crafting. get them on their goat, savvy? fact is, Sedona House is a hard examination. and in our circus tent, a bad examination means bye fucking bye. but this capital has been shoved upward for one reason; to make the Termiali examine.
so. we will see what happens. If they love it, fuck me. If they hate it, god is good and the devil makes a killer dirty martini.
[doomey taps out a pall mall, and he smiles, which is rare]
dude. I am fucking famished. maybe we should order a pizza.
Hey dudes, this cap "Charge Culture" was good-ish, which ain't good enough. It was about a lonely guy in a world where people need charging like mobile phones, and the way you get charged is by having sex, or at least, you know, a snuggle. So, as a story, nope, but look - I fashioned it into a waterproof pizza bag!
[Sturgeon flings a soggy bag out of his tank onto the office floor. When it hits the floor it splits open with a "splop", and a small stack of piping hot pizza peeks out. The toppings are mostly raw marine life. Some of it still twitching.]
Hope you like fish on your pizza.
[Inside the tank, he tears into a pizza that is more swordfish than anything else.]
[doomey kicks a few dance steps to Muthafucka by Beware of Darkness pulsing from the Bose. he whirls and twirls, stomps his shoes on the glass tiles. and he ends up with his ass settled in the pilots chair. he taps out a Pall Mall]
I just examined Sperlin's What Does the Early Worm Get? and it was fucking joyous. funny, joyous is a word. tough to orate, right? joyous. maybe it's okay. shit.
[doomey throws the capital toward the mirrorball]
this shit has been Terminalized, bitches!
[he Swan Vesta's the tip of the Pall Mall, and he leans back in the pilot's chair, in total bliss. until his phone chirps and roars and vomits. he plucks his phone from his inside coat pocket, thumbs the screen and shoves it against his ear]
what in the fuck do you want?
[he listens, tapping ash into the huge triangular marble ashtray]
only if the cabin has a balcony.
[he listens, sucks in some sweet smoke]
I know I could use a break. jesus. you don't think I know I need a break?
[he nods, looks over at Carol]
book the fucker.
[he pockets the phone, and he shoves himself up from the pilot's chair]
i'm off, fuck it.
[he walk over to DePLancher's desk, plants his palm on Carol's forehead]
[the door opens and doomey walks onto the Floor, he spins, and then he walks over to the Cherrywood and plops his ass into the pilot's chair. his clothes - unbuttoned cherry vest, green plaid pants, stained white shirt, etc. - are weathered and wrinkled and smelly. he looks over at Carol. he taps out a pall mall, swan vestas it. he sucks in some sweet smoke. he closes his eyes and seems to relax. for a second]
I had to get away. sorry. family stuff.
[he smokes, shuffles through the desk drawers, grabs a bottle of amber and slams it down on the Cherrywood's desktop. he fumbles with unscrewing the cap]
okay, not family, more mafia. i'd love to call my mafia friends family, but...i'm just not there yet.
[he nods his head, lowers it]
[he throws his arms out wide like a fucking bird]
we cruised, my Carol. we cruised. ugly matters were addressed and people may have met nasty ends, but I got some really good examining time in. wow. I examined. challenged myself, cousin. I examined one chapter of David Foster Wallace's The Pale King, and then hit a chapter of Neal Stephenson's Fall. and then i'd examine the next chapters, and it was wellness, of craft and cunning. um. the experience expanded my awareness of literature. I mean, to sit on the deck of a military boat in the middle of a battle zone and examine these incredible paragraphs and sentences, battling with the other author, a battle of words that was not a battle at all, because we all examine who we love. I mean, you sit me in a room that's blasting Stanley Clarke and there is no way out, you cannot leave. I am a happy boy listening to Clarke nonstop. oh, fuck. I am blabbering. but I missed you Carol.
[doomey pulls a couple mini bottles of palinka from his pocket. he screws off the tops and holds them out]
[Carol shakes herself awake. She'd been dreaming she'd been watching Frank, an above par film that for some reason has not won awards, and she grabs the half smoked joint from her lap where it'd fallen, and she sucks it to life, sparks jumping ship left and right. And then she stands, her lips twisted. And then something happens, in her eyes. She was relieved, and now she is pissed. She was Carol, now she is Kali. She sucks the life out of the joint, she flicks its remains tileward]
where the fuck have you been, you fucking cock sucker!
[doomey flips over the last page of the current capital. he sniffs, and he wiggles his ass in the pilot's chair. he taps out a pall mall and swan vestas it, sucks in some sweet fucking smoke. he grabs up the current capital and taps it straight on the desktop]
we are sending this shit up, motherfuckers. sorry. didn't mean to call you motherfuckers. my bad. meant to call you all chicken fuckers.
[doomey twists the current capital, and then he twists it again. he twists the capital to dust]
[Carole and Doomey jump when Sturgeon starts speaking. How long has he been there, camouflaged by the tank's cloudy water, listening?]
Do you ever feel like everything is just utterly meaningless? Like, you know, you try to smile at the right time, make conversation, say the things you're supposed to say, go to work because that's what you do - and you don't want to let people down. Pay all the bills, watch the news, write a few words, exercise, eat your veg, fold the laundry, and keep pretending it all makes sense?
And every now and then there's a crack in the facade, and you realise you've been talking to yourself in the elevator, or smelling a woman's hair on the bus, and, panicking, you force yourself to slip back into the act - the constant, exhausting, ridiculous act where you have to be normal and happy and busy so you don't make everyone else uncomfortable.
It's tempting to go a bit mad. To get sick. To do something drastic. To feel. Get fired. Smell the grass. Spend my savings on a beautiful woman. Travel. Gamble. Scream. Just so I can take a break. Relieve myself from the burden of responsibility and society for a stolen moment. To give myself energy for the next few months of fitting in.
None of this is of any consequence. I'm only telling you what mood I'm in as I approach this shining new piece of capital. No pressure, "Dollar Hedge" by John VC, but I'm looking to you for the energy I need. I am going to consume this cap like a line of pure cocaine, and I damn well hope it's goodstuff.
[Doomey grabs up the remote and he thumbs in some real nice How To Kill a Radio Consultant, followed by The Lost Art of Keeping a Secret. Doomey stomps and swags and he twists his hips and he slams his left boot on the tiles 1 2 3 4. he removes himself from the fun and thumps his ass onto the pilot's chair, and he scans the fresh capital. he licks his thumb and turns the page]