Post by rorschalk on Apr 3, 2024 20:19:41 GMT
Recently, a tie break came up in the Terminal. Owing to the skeleton crew now manning the barricades at TQR, I was up a creek with only my wits and that certain je ne sais quois I've always had for a paddle. There was the off chance I could be saved by the hard trucking poetry leanings of a strictly online friend. When that fell through, I was three sheets to sailing on down the line.
And then, I remembered Otto.
You see, 6 years had gone by since the big gangster man had flown off with Callie Coven to the land of neverbee, left me with an empty bag formerly full to bursting with In-n-Out 2bl 2bls and a shank cut from the bumper of '67 Chevy Impala inscribed with an indelible ink markered "MOM" or "WOW" ... depending whether you underhanded it like a gaucho who knows his way around a knife fight or clutched it like that Psycho tranny when he pealed back the shower curtain for his famous bout of stabby stabby.
By the magic of gmail chat and the power of grayskull, he'd mssg'd me something something a few months back saying he'd gotten the charm broke somehow and was busted out of neverbee back on the chain gang in this world. Go figure! Also, he dug that TQR was still living rent free in some few geeks heads who could no longer afford their Glimmertrain subscriptions. I chatted back, "Cool. All is as it should be, bro. Further on down the road!"
Then, the circle squared itself once I had the Terminal tie break crisis that started off this convoluted tale of woe.
And avast! The chop shop caper in a back lot of some vacant lot in El Segundo was born, and the tie then was broken. A chorus of angels cleared their throats seconds before the clouds parted and the enervating Vitamin D giving rays of the one and only sun still warming up this fucked up planet despite its gainsayers crackly notions of sea ice and whipped horses eyes in the dead waters of a windlass Bermuda tetraheliogram blinded all there under in the diamond cutting glare of the ultimate ah hah moment before they began to sing.
Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Great God almighty we are free at last!
And then, I remembered Otto.
You see, 6 years had gone by since the big gangster man had flown off with Callie Coven to the land of neverbee, left me with an empty bag formerly full to bursting with In-n-Out 2bl 2bls and a shank cut from the bumper of '67 Chevy Impala inscribed with an indelible ink markered "MOM" or "WOW" ... depending whether you underhanded it like a gaucho who knows his way around a knife fight or clutched it like that Psycho tranny when he pealed back the shower curtain for his famous bout of stabby stabby.
By the magic of gmail chat and the power of grayskull, he'd mssg'd me something something a few months back saying he'd gotten the charm broke somehow and was busted out of neverbee back on the chain gang in this world. Go figure! Also, he dug that TQR was still living rent free in some few geeks heads who could no longer afford their Glimmertrain subscriptions. I chatted back, "Cool. All is as it should be, bro. Further on down the road!"
Then, the circle squared itself once I had the Terminal tie break crisis that started off this convoluted tale of woe.
And avast! The chop shop caper in a back lot of some vacant lot in El Segundo was born, and the tie then was broken. A chorus of angels cleared their throats seconds before the clouds parted and the enervating Vitamin D giving rays of the one and only sun still warming up this fucked up planet despite its gainsayers crackly notions of sea ice and whipped horses eyes in the dead waters of a windlass Bermuda tetraheliogram blinded all there under in the diamond cutting glare of the ultimate ah hah moment before they began to sing.
Hallelujah! Hallelujah! Great God almighty we are free at last!