[Carol leans back in the pilot's chair. She slaps a doobie to her lips and fires it up with a Swan Vesta. Before her, laid out on the desktop of the Cherrywood, is Goldman's Killing Miss Pope. On the pages are a few burn marks, some gravy smears. She puffs on the joint, holds the smoke in her lungs, holds it, holds it, holds it, and she exhales. She looks around the Floor, wanting whiskey]
This fucker, Ken Goldman, is going up to the Terminal.
[Carol stands, a little wobbly, and she staggers over to the Porthole. She opens the window and looks out on the deluge. Trees are whipping left to right, garbage reigns and rats wave their tails. Carol turns from that hole and staggers over to DePlancher's desk]
Fuck. I. Am. Stoned.
[Carol bends and grabs the bottom edge of DePlancher's desk and she tips it over, revealing the underside. She kicks aside the catbox and she places the current capital into the blackhole that makes up the entire underside of DePlancher's desk. The capital gets sucked in, and it disappears. Goes otherwhere. Goes Terminal. Carol steps back, marveling at the weirdness of life on the Floor]
[Carol's examined the current capital, splayed across the desktop of the Cherrywood, and she's furrowed her brow and burped. Twice. She flips the edge of the cap, twists her lip. She's standing behind the damned desk, shaking her ass to Juliette and the Licks Shelter Your Needs, rebounded out the Bose speaker, angling off the mirror ball, splatting off the glass tiles, totally rocking the Floor. She grabs up the capital, crumples it into a ball of failure and tosses it up, catching it in her gloved claw. She looks around the Floor, her eyes like a searchlight, scanning left to right, up and down. She sees no one at DePlancher's desk. She sees no one else what the fuck on the Floor what so ever. Carol babies the ball of cap to her chest, and she leans in, cradles it, whispers to it. And then she takes the capital and shoves it into her pants. And she works it around until it's gone. Where'd it go? We don't know. We're Microsoft workers, we are dumb as fucking dirt, cousin. We're happy to go wherever they tell us to. Microsoft! Dumb as a fucking turd. Seriously. I've friends that've found tons of money in some foundry or other, but these Microsoft dickheads, wow. I mean, how incredibly daft could you be before absorbing into this uncomfortable group sex-commune business weirdness. But I'm just the narrator, so...]
Jay Seate, if that's his real name, seems a little weird, cousin, is not going upward. The cap is going to hell. Examined it, and it did not fluff my vagina. And I don't mean to upset the Christians and Republicans, I want to live in a world where we all get along and hang out at the nearest bbq joint, but and but. I will never not stop talking about my pussy, cousins. So powerful, my pussy. Any the fuck what, the capital is going south. Out the window.
[Carol wanders over to the Porthole and tosses the capital out the window]
[Carol's well examined the capital spread out before her on the cherrywood's desktop. She gathers it up, squares it, tap, tap, tap on the desktop. She twists her lips and purses them, sucks in cheeks, looking very David Bowie]
We've um fully examined the shit out of this current cap, motherfuckers. And we like it. The monkey likes it. I like it. It'll be a tough win. It's a war story. But it's not totally boring, like real war. Oh, shit, damn. I can see it in your faces, your upset I said war is boring. Okay, well, those of you who are upset by what I said can just go rub one out and drink some whiskey. I mean, wow, what is the world's most boring thang? War. Pretty much, most of the time spent warring is doing fuck all. So, if you didn't already know that, I am sorry. But it is true.
[Carol wraps herself a nice joint, and she sips off a nice Washington IPA, smacking her lips. She goes to her watch and turns up the volume on Prince's Sign of the Times. She shifts her ass left to right in the pilot's chair]
I'm throwing this shit up. Tommy Sheehan's A Final Relocation just got all golden, cousins.
[She grabs up the current capital, and she stuffs into her back pant pocket. She scrambles up the side of the wardrobe, and she stands atop it, looking left to right like some sort of secret spy, and then she leaps and grabs hold of the rafter above, and struggles to lift herself up atop the rafter. She strains and struggles and pulls herself up into the rafters, gets a foot up, good girl, and then she climbs up above the spinning mirrorball. She's like one of those crazy dudes that free climb up the side of mountains. Mountains! Crazy fuckers. And it becomes clear to us that she is leaving. She is going away. And we look up at where she was, and we see her boot heels, climbing, rising, ever upward.
[The Floor is empty. We look at DePlancher's desk, and she is like extremely absent. We look at Boligard's Cherrywood and we see nobody sitting on the pilot's chair. We look at the cleaning room closet door, and we see it not opening. We look for a cat, none found. Outside, the deluge rumbles, and the Porthole inches open, and the whistling wind invades. The wardrobe doors clack]
[doomey shoves open the wardrobe door, peers about, blinks]
they're all gone?
[he steps from the wardrobe, gazes up at the mirroball. he wanders over to the Cherrywood, touches the desktop with his fingertips. his suit coat is rumbled from habituating the wardrobe for all these long days. his hair is oily with unwash, and his fingertips are bloodied from tap tap tapping in waiting, and his shoes are untied. he approaches the pilot's chair warily and he plops his ass into it]
godamn, i'm exhausted. and I haven't done anything at all for weeks. ah.
[he reaches and grabs up the topmost capital from the huge pile that has gathered on the corner of the Cherrywood. he looks it over, leaving bloody fingerprints, sticky]
David Landrum's Brythonic. okay.
[he leans back, pulls a pack of Pall Malls from his inner suit coat pocket, he hucks a smoke from the pack, grabs it with his teeth and unsheathes it from the unchosen tubes, and then he thumb-nails a Swan Vesta and makes the cigarette tip go all glow and growl. he pulls a bottle of amber from the Cherrywood's left bottom drawer, and he spins the cap with his thumb, the cap goes crazy, skipping across the desktop, diving off the side. he pulls a somewhat clean tumbler from the upper right drawer, and he pours a good pour. he takes a sip, closes his eyes, smiles. he sucks some sweet smoke from the Pall Mall, and then he leans forward and starts his examination]
[doomey takes a pull off the tumblerful of amber at his elbow. he shucks out a pall mall and swan vestas it, sucks in some sweet smoke. he goes back to rummaging in the bottom right drawer, and he comes up with a big ink stamp and an ink pad. he throws them to the desktop]
David Landrum's Brythonic did not cut the mustard, fans and fiends.
[he snaps open the ink pad and works the surface of the rubber stamp back and forth in the black waterbed. doomey raises the stamp above his head and he slams it down on the top sheet of the current capital. the stamped message reads, FUCKING NO!, and the ink smears a bit as doomey pulls the rubber stamp off the capital. he leans back. tosses the stamp over his shoulder. he takes a sip of the amber. the capital crinkles and shimmies, and then it melts and smokes and disappears]
[doomey's been examining the fresh capital, smoking his pall malls, sipping the amber. he gathers up the current capital and taps it straight and tight. he places it on the desktop and grabs up the ink stamp. he rolls the stamp back and forth and side to side on the juicy ink pad, and he slams the stamp onto the capital]
fucking close, compadres. but, Jesse Kemmerer's My Happy Room has gone all sorts of Porthole.
[he watches as the capital he's stamped disintegrates to Buffy the Vampire Hunter dust]
and, hey, wait, there's more.
[he grabs up the capital off the top of the tall pile at the corner of the Cherrywood. he splays it atop the cherrywood's desktop, and he leans in]
William McManus's Simular World. Hm.
[he watches a nut bounce off the cherrywood's desktop. he looks up]
[From the rafters comes a rustling, and a tool belt getting-in-order chink clank, and then a feminine sigh (which will always, has always made men think of their favorite porno clips) (sorry, but it's true). Dust hovers and blankets the Floor as something above prepares to present itself. With a grunt (…), Carol drops from the rafters and lands on her combat boot heels, knees bent, eyes surveying the territory. She stands, smacks her lips, wipes some rafter dust from her eyes]
Mother fucker. It is dirty up there.
[She shakes her head, dust flying, and she wanders over to DePlancher's desk]
You think she'd mind?
[Carol trails her fingertips across the desktop of DePlancher's desk]
[doomey sucks the life out of a pall mall, stuffs the butt into the mess in the triangular, marble ashtray set down stage right on the Cherrywood desktop. he takes a sip from the tumbler of amber, sets the near-empty glass on the desktop. he purses his lips, staring at DePlancher's desk. he taps his fingertips on the desktop, twists his lips. he breathes deep, exhales]
as far as I know we have not been able to find the cat.
[Carol pulls out the chair, noticing the wheels might need some maintenance, and she plops her ass into it, swivels left and right. She grabs the edge of the desk and pulls herself up close. She grabs the topmost capital off the pile that's gathered at the corner of the desk. She spreads it out before her like a deck of cards]
Okay. Got us some capital named The Halloween Party crafted by Edward Turner. Sounds pretty solid.