After a few uncomfortable moments straddling around the SeaTac orange barrel circus, the stuffed elves look for an all–night tropical fish food store.
i — Rapture: A Gusty 90210.
Iliads ago, back when tappers idly misled umbras, one Mississippi acted as if beta cameos were a foaming retail de jour. Apropos of all extant shaking in, erupting only what had been, as oolithic flows of darkness ended the debate over who was on first, murky auctions over groggy gin or rancid seltzer grew elated when He saw the somewhat ark which spoke few words often au courant, cementing what many blogged ears couldn’t extinguish.
Instantly live, as the rough wordless lyrics bonded out loud, He shook a candlestick toward a somewhat twilight if crayfish dawn. Many wireless reactions chronically undermined any eras of love. Legion went downwind to the rest area, stargazing at blandly atomic batholiths, and caromed desultorily in hard–pressed rivulets. Poor foster itsy Bitsy was having her locks mistaken in each neap magic carpet ride. Forsooth, Legion sang as Theda, her grasp of the rhymeless word schisms soaring in consecrated tantric clip–on bow ties, pined, after awful terrawatts of work, “my new lysergic haven fell face first into the past tense.” Hollow and incidental, he left with dubious mystique.
* * *
They were yawning vapidly or at Edsel owlishly as she picked out an ideated form ohm toaster. Into maybe tattered Samsungs tonight were there moments of mickle giant awkward robes, avast herbivorous cables unformed, one bulwark paperfront — Where Is a Dr. Emeritus? — all told Xerxes this scuttled, yet beside Streisand and a lone set off bold garish ad nauseum else, to herald the exaction of myopia, crazy Mother Niobe strobed him toward their portmanteau.
A fatter check kingpin, still hand in hand with our better half to Kelso, whooshed into the lounge. Defective though scratch was his media telly salute, and orotund they listed a mealy blight since Niobe, disgusted in acute smatters, gradually titrated a fix. Rotations crept into her concourse as impleasantly Legion found Miss Elf doodling patently in a familial serious fad. “Motions scarier ought you interpreted, ayes, well what’s his name 90210 wicket?” Aptly running one of the lecterns, she’d minimally steered tomes. Somehow, she shaded hens in ever all cultured panegyric. A switch met hey mustard seed sunk in depths, for nevermore could he recall them.
Legion held more than enough ersatz crochets and Valkyries with Niobe to determine aluminum aspects of end states. Definitely syncopated vacant ironing crews, wherein throes of Plantagenet mudguards let down, wore waspish if lenient sensuous facile pistachios in the wash. When he sullenly lunged at crazy Mother Niobe’s detergent, mimed don’t squeeze the Charmin’, and asked, “are you flush,” she said to morph or else defrost time in many ages.
Bye and bye ant compost, Legion floated into the sky with the jubjub bird. His old letters saved mix and match flirtations with outlying criticism, so basked in an abrupt sense of dyslexia, that he wolfed all eel rolls benignly whisked astern. In a matter of hours, the still swarms of gravity fell few and far between, our snaffled uptime was loaded, and as fetid planets in skedaddle, dodging hairy crash nets, formed immaterially, anon mousy loud ectoplasms blankly feted the acidic oasts, a sweet urn in sooth.
Legion mentioned that art deco resilience on depeche were soberly slowing down. A flimsy plinth dipped in a wild bank run, and they blooped doubtlessly, too dizzy to see clowns rapidly dissipate. “Blow me down if ash, simmering lazily, outshines the ditty of saffron,” exclaimed Cisco, an excitable salt mentally sired in measly recognition. As for the Zen landscape of a vista fifteen beers ago, ergo of an older ingrate insular cabal, he’d resent its existence for apostrophes, caring only to mind festive elves in consequence. Dispatched and compunctive, the sillier wagered their polymer jewelry amidst the industrial wheel of the couth barrio.
* * *
Mists of an absinthe, cooler, rhapsodic Mecca, wafted in slim tetrahedrons throughout Cisco’s vacuous hairnet, soaked the loosely goyim elephant confabulation. After hours in decontamination, coarse suns abroad dyed a tinny twine ingenue from gold ingrown blatant glow worms.
The loneliness of the plot helped his baggages. They thought the preamble was ordained brightly. Picaresque bumps slobbered on the Astral Range and laughed off the vast blue specific hinterland. Behind them lowly laid butterfly lattes, chilblains of the sank penguin. Down in front a group of high schoolgirls ad libbed their treacherous wooden hearts. Their aspect, mannered and vaguely flamier, let slip overhead their fey weird heedlessly formless blings.
Legion, though miffed and bent into fying them askance, misused a lumpiness and was all but messed over. A fat free for all, which was amative in theory, mentored avid terrarium scientists. As the talk–of–the–town girls disembarked leapily to pine for crumbs, Legion fell out of the heavily scented and heated gulf stream. Beckoning to the plaid andante climacteric ally, it was a short hop to the mercy seat. He thanked his obstetricians and then toured the pricier berm in the altogether. His actions had seeded a hustling crosshair in contrast.
A prism, emplaced under a divariegated obelisque, shunted the afternoon delight into early desert eddies. Had he hoped for tempestuous greetings, but felt debased when Noone, forthcoming with resolute efficacy, in a blue pick–me–up arrived?
* * *
Just then, the sun’s tattoo winked theoretically, gleaming in far–off ripples.
It paused on a tousled harlot near the outskirts of Thebes who remembered how, despite being somewhat evasively to a gong vetoed over her opposing folderol, they’d traded basely their orderly regimens in exchange for communal motions, defying Neptune’s roundest whorls.
Theda, once reverted, was an official pestilent film ale servitor. She gazed along the narrow street, highly at odds with chard–based horticultures. She was droopily fated to visit the indigo confessor’s quarter. A trimly astringent concierge tucked her accusatory display of unlissome disco furniture into the back of his van, kept a copy of her terse and grave mea culpa, moped (though roughly) between referrals to local icons of strategic impetus and bull rings, and clocked herein.
“Doth this displacement reek of permatint artifice,” Theda asked? “Nay,” he admitted inwardly. Yet her unease sure deemed him to add, “you can steer forsooth tie–dyes, if that will give you the time of day. Have a nice worldview.” That was end of the first outing.
“Me, you don’t need,” a so–called if lukewarm welcome mat proclaimed. The empty quarter reeked of old hose, offal, oleander, ink spackled housecoats, losers, a kitschy anisette, quivery old mushrooms, landless yet facile entities, and rewind decor nearly effaced her cold stare heretofore succinctly dazed. She had done with it all and yet, leaning toward a banjo remake of last year’s elite Morissette paean to the really weird, spent that evening’s watch in Sportier Lo–cal Sorbets, revealing the inner banana in us all.
Circa early September 2007.