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!
[doomey climbs back into the pilot's chair. he sips and smokes. he shoves some buds into his earholes and taps on the screen of his 6. he never had the energy to go out and buy an 11. he sniffs the air, head upturned]
i smell something afoul.
[he looks around the Floor]
why's shit all fucked up. the wardrobe looks bashed.
[doomey grabs up the topmost capital off the pile of capital piled at the northeast corner of the Cherrywood. he shoves a fresh load of candy into his John Wick Pez dispenser. he spreads the capital across the desktop. he notches a candy and grabs it with his teeth. he munches the sweetness]
we have adam Breckenridge's mama earth before us. but right now i really need to finish bingeing Dr. Death.
[he leans back in the pilot's chair and taps the screen of his phone. he closes his eyes. smokes and sips]
[Carol's curled up in DePlancher's chair, the current capital spread out out on DePlancher's desktop]
We've got Jason Corner's Boy Reclining. I'm thinking this might be a Me2 situation, but I might be wrong. I, like my fucking sisters, really glom onto situations like this. We like to make the crowd uncomfortable, we salivate for this. I personally get close to a serious cum, a quivering one. But nearly not one of you other assholes out there respond to capital like I do. S'because I examined a fuckload of capital in the camp, and I examined more capital before that godawful existence. But you've all forgotten that shit. S'cool. I hate you for it, but you're innocent, un-fucking-knowing shit. No one's emailing me. Wait. I might not have an email account. Shit.
[Carol examines the shit out of Corner's Boy Rerclining]
Fuck yes, fuckers. I must send Corner's capital completely tits.
[She twists the capital into a misshapen origami duo of laden bulls from some Chris Mars rodeo pre-now live show, with the cows standing off, back-hoofing, and blowing snot out of their nostrils, stepping back, blowing snot. Carol holds up the origami, and they battle]
Fuck my ass!
[the bulls tear at each other's flesh, and they slam the shit out of their foreheads against each other like they're frat brothers at the strange colleges all over this freakfest known as America. And Corner's capital sucks up the blood pooled below the frat bulls, and with this absorbsion it goes fucking viral, becoming well known capital. it goes up]
[Carol slams her ass into the DePlancher's chair and curls up]
Shit, fuckers. S'not like I had to do shit for that fucking cap, right? Weird. I love goodstuff.
[doomey claps, nodding Carolward. he sucks on the pall mall clamped betwixt his teeth]
bravo, sister. I do so love goodstuff, meself, yo. savvy? s'like magic. like a buzzing feeling in the gut. the eyes focus more, the scalp tingles, the fingertips pulsate. goodstuff. you know...
[doomey resettles himself in the pilot's chair, scooching his ass left and then right in the seats overly-welcoming open palm, and he leans back after grabbing up his tumblerful of amber. he smacks his maul, smiles hesitantly, and he settles in]
i love a narrative. a capital. a world. Mama Earth did not shiver my timbers, didn't make my skin crawl or make me wonder about how i will view tomorrow. and so, tis Portholed.
[doomey grabs up the capital and hugs it to his chest. he rises from the pilot's chair and he makes quick steps to the Porthole. he climbs outside, releasing the capital, watching as it flits and floats here and there. and we watch the soles of his shoes grow further and further distant]
[Carol launches from DePlancher's chair and moves to the Porthole. She shoves her hands out into the deluge, shoves her shoulders up to the extremes, the copper rim of the Porthole, and she tries to shove more of herself out into the deluge, and she tries, and she shuffles her boots to get better purchase and she tries to get more of herself out into the fucking deluge but the circular rim of the damn Porthole won't let her shove her body further into the storm outside the stupid fucking tiny window, but she's got her head out there and she just glimpses the heels of Doomey ejecting chaosward. And she screams]
[Carol tugs herself from the Porthole and plops her ass into DePlancher's chair, and she spreads out the current capital]
[She looks over at the Porthole. Seems she can't let this Boligard Doomey thang quiet down]
We've got Veronica Leigh's Mudhound laid out on DePlancher's desktop, spread eagle for our examination. First off, not to anger the populace, I do not like this bitch. I think authors, book sellers, and garbage men must always maintain a constant stream of wit. If we allow ourselves to go non-wit, strike us down. I say, strike us down!
[Carol looks over at the Porthole. Frowns. Sneers, does her Elvis lip thang. She lowers her head, and tears drip to the floor beneath DePlancher's desk]
We are shoving Leigh's Mudhound out the fucking window, bitches. But, on a side note, crafters might want to choose a fucking name. Sorry. I get upset. And Doomey isn't fucking here. Fuck. Fuck!
[Carol taps her ear plugs deeper into her ear canal]
Listening to Armchair. I am in love with Dax Shepard. Fuck. Okay, but fuck. This capital, this Manion cap, is well lit and dialogued and paced and pasted and painted and stood up, but.
[Carol tugs the earbuds from her ear holes, and she stands, places he palms on DePlancher's desktop and wags her ass]
But. I examined it a little more, and then I examined it a tad and turned on myself, like a ninja in a house of mirrors, right? And I said to myself, "Why in the fuck do you want to Porthole this fucking bitch of a crafter?" And I turned to myself, and I said "fuck, must be some sort of jealous thang, like I did not get those girls out of that fucked camp, and this fucker is crafting really beautiful capital." Right?
[Carol crumbles to the glass tiles]
We are going to make this a go. Might confuse the VC seeing as how I already sent him a refusal, but I will send him an acceptance and we shall fucking see what we see. Fuckers.
[Carol writhes on the tiles, and she wails]
I can not stand being too forward with opinion. I am a dick. Open mind. Open mind.
[Carol wipes her eyes with backs of her hands, and she sits up. She looks around the Floor. She lowers her head]
I won't say it. I won't fucking ask it.
[She gets to her feet and stumbles over to DePlancher's desk. She breathes deep, exhales. She gazes at the mirrorball, takes in the glittering. She lowers her gaze to DePlancher's desktop, and she sees a capital has been laid out for her examination. She flits her gaze over the title page, and she shakes her head spasmically]
We have a new one.
[Carol is sniffing back tears. We're not sure why she's so upset. She lets out one single sob. And we're stricken with embarrassment. Because we know what she's been through down in the Jungle and whatnot. And we know the one fella who pulled her out of that mess was Doomey. So Carol must feel fucked without Doomey, right? So we go to the Porthole, open it, and we look out into the deluge. Carol gets to her feet sluggishly. She sways. She grabs up the fresh capital laid out at her boot-tips]
It's another Karmazin, cousins. Titled What Was, What Is. We will examine the fuck out of this capital.
[Carol curls up and inches herself underneath DePlancher's desk. Might be she's exhausted and fucking done, right? And seeing as how she is the only person on the Floor, then how the fuck are we supposed to advance? Fuck!