He just kind of melts out of that theater. It's the badly kept one on the corner of arch where it meets the bad end of main. He slinkys out, hunched like he never learned real posture, or real spine. Hands laid in the pockets of his pastel blue aquamarine windbreaker. Yeah, the one with the Leslie Neilsen hair and the Snidely Whiplash boner. He walks to short, and talks like tom waits as if he never went through puberty. A trickle of high pitched babble through gravel, like the emissions of a noisy culvert. He'd look like a tough hood if it wasn't for the pervasive grease, which any seeming of character would slide off of. The vaguely meaty smell of the semen and the cheap cigarette smoke clings to him as he exits, and he meets her on the corner.
Now she's a piece of sad work. Her head is canted forwards on her neck like a bird's, and the rest of her head looks like she was designed in a wind tunnel. Her teeth cant forward slightly , her lips extend, and there are a few hairs where the chin ought to be. There's weight around her hips. Too much weight, and there's a wrongness in the shelf they seem to form off the sides of her. Looks like she was purpose build to shuffle up to people's ears, to whisper scandal and gossips, with too warm breath and the occasional drop of spittle. I can't think of how she'd survive insinuating anything.
The two critters stand at the bus stop, neither really noticing each other, until the 56 bus comes around the bend from the public library parking lot, yeah the place where you could get rough trade for a dollar in the 70's. Yeah, the turtle statue is pretty fitting, considering that. With a heavily manifolded diesel wheeze, the bus magicians them off, and that crawly feeling goes with them. There's someone for everyone, they say, in their case it's an Aesop sort of cautionary.
Nice. :mittens:
Whoa, what
I like it, even though I don't know what it means. It's dark and depressing as hell.
Not supposed to mean anything really. If anything, it's a reflection on people I used to see around the hometown (one of the hometowns). Each city gets this sort of set of common bits or traits in my head, and sometimes people just match up to this in the most grotesque ways. There are better people, sure, but it's that train wreck fascination, the bleu cheese revulsion when you see a writhing mass of maggots, or the guilty pleasure in "Accidentally" dropping a stick of butter into your drawers.
Quotedropping a stick of butter into your drawers.
:vom:
Quote from: Richter on October 19, 2011, 04:30:55 AM
Not supposed to mean anything really. If anything, it's a reflection on people I used to see around the hometown (one of the hometowns). Each city gets this sort of set of common bits or traits in my head, and sometimes people just match up to this in the most grotesque ways. There are better people, sure, but it's that train wreck fascination, the bleu cheese revulsion when you see a writhing mass of maggots, or the guilty pleasure in "Accidentally" dropping a stick of butter into your drawers.
:lulz:
The fat fuck with the greasy - used to be white but now it's gray - teeshirt, a weeks worth of nondescript foodstains all but obliterating the faded logo, stomps along, ten yards in front of his woman, his jutting forehead hiding his vacant stare from the sun.
She waddles behind pushing half the progeny along in a go-chair they should have grown out of two fucking years ago. The kid just sits there, lifeless, like someone pulled it's batteries out, a thick stream of unattended snot and spit descending from it's face, the only testament to consciousness.
Even further back the firstborn lags behind, sucking on a pacifier which, to all intents and purposes, is an integral part of it's facial anatomy.
In a minute or two the woman will turn around and bellow at the kid to "FUCKING HURRY UP!". Not losing the cigarette, dangling from the corner of her mouth while she does this may well be the only life skill she's ever learned.