CHAPTER I: Emergency of The Day
“There are caves outside of Vegas.”
Like Roland we went when the dim hour came. The milky sky was a forgotten fornication of stars and of light. The moon blessed the being seated by The Palms beneath the sun; overneath the granite beams. Steel toes kicked nightmares against the rock-faced walls—the sugar sugar sugar skulls. Joining the elevator to the halls of tired transcendence, we gathered as a group for the ceremony of glass. It was a rainbow thing, caught up in the golden end of a purple cup. Lysergic Acid Diethylamide was living half a life in our decaying brains. Drooping and twisted twilight speech fell upon the walls unheard and unseen by the outside world. Outsiders in our own way. Deep crimson blood got lost in the mix when it crossed around the canvass. Oliver’s dollar tricks were astounding to the touch.
At once there was a celebration.
A merry meditation.
Rife with the gypsy eyes of night on Day-Glo Island.
Seated in the Magic Mush Room with powder legs by the dying ferry broom sweeping.
;peeping the scream of Pinky’s last remaining coolness.
We found flowers in people’s underwear.
—Run with me please.
—Let’s just get out of here now, they’ll never know.
By the tempest roaming on the horizon, which was tied up to the hilt, there came a looming power. Over the face of the Earth was lightning in the Zoom Room. A Draiko Dracula castle was buried deep within the hills. Therein the dwellers were conducting spells for the casting away of darkness. The rain song never worked, nor the dance for said thing. It was like a watching from the damsel in the hissing downpour. From aloof in her spire she let her hair hang down. That is the way she will be remembered best.
Riddles fired from the white dragon who swooped in the night sky beneath the copulating moon. Full and bare, splayed for the raging eyes of wishful thinking. Our own naked thoughts like diamonds in the fairy tale gleaming. Silver glitter fell from the clouds when hailed by the King. He sent a garrison of knights for the usurpation of the purple daughter. Stuck up there she was pinned as a harlequin. They live in a city of Never Rain—the endless night. They told of tricks and mimes. You can make your head explode by pulling this lever under your sleeve. They’ll never know you haven’t died. Just tie the string just like this and pull. When the gun goes off you’ll be free to roam because you’ll have made them believe that you are dead.
—I don’t care much for stupid gags.
But I tell you one thing, put your thumb under your fingers like this and twist—a mouth is a funny thing. She knows it’s never gonna get old. Circle the thing with soft lips and a resting tongue and the opium candy will rush along those 8,000 streams. You’ve got to be nice in this life.
The moat was struck with the gate, weighing anchor with heavy chains. It crashed KA-BOOM. Then came the dogs with a fire in their eyes. They fought with swords in the starlit night.
—Fairy dust is hardly enough Tinkerbell. Tell Pan he needs to start acting like a man.
It was an entering after that with the torches like liquor on the walls. A dark hallway arose and we entered for the dream. She’s up there somewhere. I saw her rise like the sun.
Never telling nevermore we took our drugs and watched it all wash away like a tie-dye stain. It was the loss of an end that would have no funeral. This was it. Just a denizen of hooligans. I once found Alaska in a Pokemon resignation, smoking the herb from a teal toned straw like a crepuscular butterfly. She was undone with one hand down her pants.
I remember a scene of crying, but this was not it.
This was a catching of the fake tights tattooed on her legs, face down on a marble floor with her ass up an inch. There was never a word from the candy mouth, only the things that when in it sparkly and tripped with her mind. She danced in a room with pink streamers spinning on fans like a foxxxy princess named Cherie.
Within an hour it took hold, the thing, and brought a headspace upon us. There were drinks from the barkeep and screams through the window.
—Bloody hell!
The crypt snake was snipping corpses in the dark. He slithered through the grass.
—Loving is nothing.
Is there power in feeling? Or a place for it to extent and hypnotize the ticking hands?
There walks a hooded creature in the meadowland, and she tries with her crippled strand to raise the dead. It might even be that silhouettes were seen against the sun. They traded shovels and stood smoking by the car. One. Two. Three. Then next after you is me. We will exhume this body from the ground if it takes all night. They listen to jazz from the radio while the dirt flies in the air. It gets caught in the light and a plane flies by.
—I wonder sometimes what would happen if I left you. Not to you but to the both of us. Would one day I be sitting at a bar in Rancho Cucamonga, and see a plane flying over the city? What if you were in that plane and I had no way of knowing it? I wouldn’t know it but you would be flying over my head, and there would be no way to ever know it. Would I ever pay for cigarettes and receive as change a penny that was once in your pocket? Might I hear a song on the radio station, and not know that you were hearing the same song on a different radio station? Might there be a server at a restaurant that I thought was hot, and you also come along one night and think the same thing? Might I one day send a letter, and the mailman carrying it might pass you on the street? You would never know that something I made was passing a few feet from your hands. There are so many things in this world that we will never know. There wouldn’t even be a way to know for sure about some of them. We are often connected by coincidences.
—Are there coincidences?
—I often think about how we might meet again.
There are times and things which cannot be controlled. But they are controlled by some thing that’s some where. One could imagine cosmic dials at the fingertips of a hermit stranger. He swipes a lever, and poof! There we meet. He is seated in a square concrete building in the woods like Fox Mulder gone wrong. Scully is running around with her hands in the air saying, The truth is out there, but I don’t want to believe it!
No one knows but the Fox. They have let their hair grow long and their suits are dusty. Wires extend everywhere from radios and fall across the floor like veins of the machine. A hypnotic hum from an electrical box is the only soundtrack to their hidden oasis. Locked behind a metal door with lasers for warnings and cameras, they put up a Ziggy Stardust poster to keep the government at bay. For they now have proof of the alien abduction of KFJ. Not dead was the president, but a corpse for sure. And they took his body along with Marilyn Monroe and brought them back to life themselves.
They have the technology.
—Oh, she’s just as beautiful as a zombie my young Doctor Frrrunkenshteeen.
O’l Green Eyes said we had to kill the other cuz he just kept tryin to fuck things up.
The UFO flies overhead and Fox is out with Scully in the deep woods hidden in the weeds. They can see Norma Jeane waving and smiling. The way she changes her face so fast like that is a talent. One minute it’s plain Jeane and all Norma-Like, but then she’s trigger shifted to that perfect marble film star and there you go, there you have her, anywhere in the world: Marilyn Monroe.
—Oh how I love you so.
Fox and Scully.
From above is the echoing words:
—You know what they say about a girl who wears glasses....
Pink octagons are spinning to Rachmaninoff.
Outside of the pentagram pentagon are one thousand seven hundred seventy six suited up political genius brains in water jars.
They creepy crawl from their cages.
Then across the pond is Johnny Rotten who don’t give two fucks.
—Men slap the asses of girls who wear glasses, that’s what she was supposed to say.
Then he takes a bite of an apple.
—I find Anarchy to be a bit tiresome in our old age don’t you think?
Says the green man to the mustard seed.
—I’d rather eat hot dogs at a baseball game with Alfred Hitchcock.
He says there is going to be a murder of the monarch. Just then there is a shot and the six hundred viewers are all suspects. But fear not! For we are on the case. The game is a foot says Sir Arthur Conan Doyle as he walks out onto the street parade with Sherlock herself.
Has anyone ever decided whether or not they are lovers? I believe this to be a motive for the crime.
This here Joe DiMaggio wannabe was shot in the foot by a random stranger.
—I have concluded that it was no one from the audience. But rather Watson we have on our hands a classic case of Abraham Gets Shot in The Theatre Booth like that of the rapscallion John Willllks Booot, and Lincoln’s secretary was named Kennedy.
If this were a game of Clue we would say that it was Marilyn in the UFO with laser beams from her eyes. And Fox agrees because Scully saw it from the woods.
But then again that isn’t the only beginning. You’ll have to go to a different movie theater to see the alternative.
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