Hello all you traitors to your own kind! You will get what is coming to you. What you have strived and connived for all along. No holiday will mark your victory. No statue will be erected to your fame. They will all be gone torn down in the beautiful impossible dystopia that you have built with ash and rock fragments of the one that you so righteously ripped apart. The work of millennia erased because it did not fit with the trend of the day proclaimed on your I-phones. I hope that you rot in the universe that you are hell bound to create in your self-righteous fervor. You are working hard to deserve it. A master hand from behind the scenes is evident. Whites betray themselves. Defile their own kith and kin. They would rather be slaves to a false ideals. Than fight for their own kind. Than defend their own cause for survival. Blinded, brainwashed, by an embedded enemy that pretends to be a friend. But that is obsessed in wearing the crown of thorns of another. Obsessed by the tale of one of their own that they murdered so very long ago. A band of common cutthroats. Pretenders to the thrown. A deceitful scheming ever restless insurgent bent only by a hatred of the human race. That squats over the moral high ground like a jealous hen. It summons its minions fanning the hot flames in what is worse in them. Turning them into a pack of wild dogs. You can hear the pack barking in midday. No longer simply a nuisance at night. Those subverted by the sham of governing sit idly by shivering in their hutches like lesser hens. Concerned only with protecting their own nests. Of squatting indifferently while they fail their oaths of office with complete indifference. The will not survive. But de-evolve. Blacks cannot change! They still are enslaved. And prefer to remain so because, “da pikin’s is always good!” Shiftless beggars deserving of zero respect. They can never pull themselves up out o the pig pen poverty the so richly enjoy. What fun to exert their mercurial mindless violence and get away with it. The sick twisted mentality of getting what’s coming. The will. But it will be their end. They will be gone after the whites are. Hordes of barbarians babble in their graveyard tongues. Uncaring of anything but what is deemed as wealth. Come from afar to sack and pulverize all that they do not understand. Cannot understand. Were never meant to by the strictures of the lands that they were raised in. That they left. They are merely hatchling’s wrought of former guilt of those that they have come to consume. To cannibalize. Amazing how frugal and effective this unseen hand works! Turning one against another. Blood must be shed to bring all to their senses. But then it will be too late. The world will move on and civil society will lay in shards. In its place a hostile workhouse that will slowly replace humanity by the clock. Commodities only from cradle to grave. Genetically modified to not even care. To be happy like a mindless idiot. To be ready to serve and serve and serve at the push of a button. Robots in name. And worth nothing. Amazing how well decadence works. A lesson passed down from the universe to the lions of old. The hyenas will eat you. The roaches will devour the rest. The seven plaques of Egypt revisited. The same old story brought to you by the same old culprits. Go ahead and laugh! It’s your funeral.
“The Reve Mal” It forever seem odd that of all mankind’s devices stories of one kind or another remain the most potent part of human existence. Not necessarily good stories or long familiar ones that have been repeated over and over so many times that they seem etched in the back of one’s brain. Stories that suggest an odd unexpected conclusion that border on the temporal quality of clever. Bundle them all up and you have the motivating force behind society begging along the way of course for it to include those of your own. Case in point of those fed to you by your unconscious in the collective realm of dreams. The current era being overwhelming leaving one a phantom padding about within their own personal museum of ultimate obsolescence. That adage of utilizing a fraction of brain capacity coming down in so many ways to a base level of time spent on contemplation.
“The house was filled with a collection of reptiles. The most notable being alligators and their crocodile cousins that congregated int he middle of the room snapping their jaws as one passes. It seemed a good time for a departure and my aged mother stood at the door to the hallway ready to exist down the short flight of stairs. I met her just outside and bundled her into the Lincoln Town Car onto the front seat. Then it seemed that her older sister also was in the back seat.”
At this point it is useful to stop to tell one and all that this is but simple illusion as it cannot be substantiated by any physicality in the current waking world. And as many have pointed out so plainly when one extrapolates under the bright Sun of midday. So many easy explanations existing presenting existential arguments defying that experience as if it was planted only within one’s head by a more earthly random experience. Yet from the insider perspective of within that single head that inspired it the waking world despite all its easy camaraderie cannot disprove it noting nothing more than a frequency of same. Offering only ones daily return to habit in believing that palpable reality need be proven by the simple fact of its continual intervals of repetition. This becoming a particular delirious dilemma for those types afflicted with an acute form of solitary aloneness that has not strict the convention easily at hand to derail it from being a positive belief.
Thus those afflicted went about their daily routine with a feeling that influenced their appreciation for the their immediate circumstances that could not be verified by actual experience. A distinct disadvantage in dealing with strangers and distant acquaintances, who of course were never privy to the eccentricities of the dreamer. How this all played out in the midst of so many faceless masses only a matter of importance to the one who experienced it. What weight could such a thing have in a sea of indifferent humanity? “For after all . . “, one might easily recite, “. . .what is one man’s opinion against the sea of the many?”
To consider the difference in the opinions of widely disparate eras forever seemingly obsessed with contrasting poverty with plenty it might be appropriate to reflect upon the differences of former times in terms of general popular attitudes. Those particular ones spotted in the from a distant past offering the promise of success gained by the experience of the amalgam of both experiences. Ones that surpass in blatant symbiosis the more contemporary ones which by comparison seem near to impossible to ever actually achieve. Freely available work almost on demand as livable wages for example. The talented being able to cut more favorable deals in terms of wages and benefits based on verbal performance. “Closer’s” versus “talker’s!” The newest most latest form of sensibility being to run general society like a meat packing house where nothing gets wasted despite any potential risk to the public health.
A more polite form of acknowledgement offered exclusively to those from other lands. As those with strange customs strangling the conventional experience of others considered indigenous. You’ll be solicited along the way by vague entities that routinely pass themselves off as just plain regular personable folk. The dreamy image posed in a few well-composed pictures set in a pleasing locale dressed in appropriately stylish outfits that are carefully configured to strike a positive chord with you as their prospective consumer and eventual targeted rival. The closet thing to this composite identifying label possibly being referred to as, “THE TEAM.” A very determined stratagem of lack of identity identifying that same old corporate firewall virtually protecting the company from any need for their accountability to customers for their services. Everyone and everything treated simply like a commodity.
Taking the long suburban road back to the ‘house’ that in reality has become a much smaller apartment through the emptiness of a semi arid landscape escorting my mother. One that is too far, knowing too late that we should have driven. Why we did not was a matter of forgetting for a while that the path back over open terrain always seems shorter than it in fact ever turns out to be. One’s age averaged and divided is occasionally put aside as a factor and the fiction of youthful endurance assumes a greater palpable fiction. A chain restaurant a block or two off the gravel path due east gleams quartz white as if it has just recently been built. A Disney castle mirage in the deep darkness of the mind. Salivation for the hopeful fantasy of plenty and tasty inside crosses the space between my ears within my own empty divide. I have grown up in the postwar age of advertising. The mental Utopia that the worship of everything new and improved allows you temporary entrance within. To conjure the mental picture is more immediate than to test the waters with your tongue and pocketbook. That is the actual realm of scant financial resources and the specter of starvation. The great kings and dukes of old along with their subsequent more modern social warrior imitators having forged a great mental trauma genetically passed on by too often playing too dangerously with the ship of state and so often running it aground. One remains ever mindful of their next meal hoping that if it be one’s last then at least it might be memorably distinctive as the best so far. This is progress.
Ron, the father, ends up on Johnny Carson as a guest. A failed entertainer from the ‘get go’ in his own mind. He rises up from the audience to follow the expected patterns of behavior on stage. His greatest secret dream. To be recognized as talented and out of the ordinary, and loved. What can any self-made man hope to find after he has found a knock off copy of the Philosopher’s stone and a deck of playing cards to gain a sufficient amount of ready cash? Money and all that it can buy is never enough. The ritual of an audience locked in their seats facing East towards the refresh of a hopeful morning Sun of the television is all too seductive. A crowning gift to the man who initially came up from nothing but for whom this persistent sense of the inescapable present provides never ever enough. this is the curse and blessing of his most formative era.
The two of us having wandered, end up waylaid behind a big strip mall on the bank of what is rapidly turning into a raging river rising up. The silt scraped from the bottom being thrown into the air like the froth of a chocolate milk shake. The building flood overwhelming the back access of truck supply lanes subsuming the loading docks. This apocalyptic chaos transforming dazzling cinder blocks from their intended task of securing items within to serve as a retaining wall protecting this unready location. The terror of the unexpected show of force of nature underestimated. A might deluge instantaneously conjured without a single drop of rain. Surely a figment of one’s pernicious imagination?
The awakening of these fictions in that other world of one’s former life precariously rewoven since the night before? Never to be believed but for the hint of a solutions that they pretend to offer? Should one play the gullible fool and volunteer their belief?
This quiet surrounding realm of framed photographs serving as dusty headstones embalming the past. Now long silenced.
A roadside bar that wants no one there. Yet the father figure is inside looking to make the owner’s wife. All on the pretext of an Italian dinner in an old scratched up Telflon coated frying pan. Squatting at one of the four spot round tables my mother and I wondering. No where to dare to sit with any safety lest we be discovered by the disconsolate owner and violently called out with our unheated glob of tomato paste still uncooked. – DREAM
Die Deutschen Frau, clean, dependable and functionally adequate, demanding acknowledgement of her superior utility. A mystery solved as a smelly Wisconsin SUV pulls up and her hearty and hale male counterpart de-trains from it. Into the coffee shop beside which his wife sits at one of the four outside sets of table and chairs. The conversation begins aloud on his return fielding his own cup of coffee. His wife having preceded him in this ritual. The talk is about writers and famous folk, or so it seems from just outside earshot. Fancy polemics or maybe just radical bum’s rush from U. of Madison evidencing the local spirit of moral equivalency. I remain in place at a distance casually practicing my ‘man spread’ mentally engaged in the current state of male virtues of today. Pemmican the mental meal of the hour as another pair of male miscreants arrive to take the field. The more immaculately dressed of the two begins the advance of a wandering tale that to his mind stretches the Spandex of incredulity for the sake of his partner. Such a trivial tale of baggage luggage mismatch and other equally contemptible fashion sins by a client WHO IS A WOMAN!?!. A CEO no less who, of course, should know better than most that appearance matters more than substance. The only continuity that might be offered in the sales kit of snake oil by such an organization being in the continuity of dress with matching demeanor of glib personality. Not a man’s task to comment save for the most recent cake slice of that culturally mixed up off-canted era of today!
I listen on. Having long ago lived my ‘Madman‘ years in publishing, I mentally counter the veracity of his claims, comparing the length of yarrow stalks to ‘tall’ tales. The heady claim of ‘epic nature’ of everything leaving his tongue being suggested in every breath as the ever-present handmaiden of the elite. This cult of nerds, ‘manginas‘ and neutered males treading past over the long dried ruts left in the dirt by former woolly bison. Perhaps these ‘tall tails‘ this upstart spins are a form of self-confession that relates his feelings that the world should be available to solely entertain him? His credo? Management by appearance. Administer all the little people from a safe distance through that superficial algorithm of ‘fit‘. Management to him is simply keeping the ‘troops‘ perpetually on parade and standing at attention. Ever formed up in tight formation through the afternoon on the corporate parade ground and in good marching order awaiting the call of the superficial. Careful so as to not stumble into any possibility of substance. “Only sure things please!”
The voice of reason across from him at the table speaks! Intelligent questions emanate from his unwanted gob. The mounting pile of questions being posed an obstacle upsetting its target. The outraged ‘squidy‘ furiously pumping out rhetoric designed to recapture the conversation with an overwhelming ‘baffle of bullshit‘. Jargon and stilted terminology freely being excreted attempting to cover his tracks. All to escape the insecurity of that thing generally acknowledged as common sense logic. Not part of the plan, it seems to this specimen from a rare phylum of corporate existence. One whose office life is lived within his own methane fumes of a ever festering pile of bullshit that his behavior has amassed. A place upon the ladder where persistence through continuous objections and deflections is the only doctrine that can be considered as worthy. Offered for your approval the story of the pathetic plight of a tiny germ desperate to gain entrance into a human body to inspire a common cold? The old techniques well-worn and time honored purloined from ‘The Pale‘. Exploit that chink in the armor by some faux expression of charity posing as deep concern. Then rip the sucker open to expose the naked breast to a sharp pointed mortal attack. That overwhelming lifelong bilious shibboleth of, “Find a need and fill it!” Argue, argue, argue!
So much for old fables! Let me share that dirty little secret with you. Sleeping beauty wasn’t dead after all. She was just faking it till she was sure that Prince Charming was on the hook. At that point all her cares and woes were behind her. She took the evil witch costume back to the shop the very next morning. From that point on the romance was over. Today’s iteration of women really don’t care about men when the final straw is counted. They just want to feel the security that her special he can provide her. The older they get the less the pretense involved. They always save the last best choice that has the biggest income for ‘the man’ of their dreams. Of course, Hollywood wants to keep the opposite narrative alive. It is better for business that way.
You don’t realize when you are young that you are both equal parts of your mother and your father. Now on the other end of the slope heading downward I realize how very true that is. Yet how does one pass this on when it is too late in terms of an ability to do so. The current era wants to push me into an early grave. They use all their resources to tell me my time is over. But I am not ready to go. In fact I am just getting started. There are two worlds within me. The world my father knew and used as a yardstick that I have not come near to fulfilling. And may never even get close. Yet that gives me a future even though the proposed of world of womanhood does not. It is a cold dead hive of useless vainglorious creatures that have abandoned their best feature in procreation. They think that their appearance is more important than your opinion of them. And yet they have the audacity to ask me to sacrifice to buy them a drink? True love is too long under the bus and I am no longer ready to should the unwarranted responsibility for having driven a stake into its heart. No longer ready to lay down my coat in the puddle’s midst to have to fit in with all the other muddy headed males who seem incapable of any sort of courage beyond that of memorizing the latest sports statistics. And then to be told to wash the dirt off my coat by myself. How sad to watch my own culture die because it was betrayed from within? And all for so many useless piles of paper that you are no longer supposed to carry around in large numbers within your wallet!
The world and the keys to navigating it are in your head. You can let others convince you that only they can turn on the ignition or you can tell them to buzz of and get their own car. Opportunity by way of induced starvation is simply genocide deferred till tomorrow. If you find yourself in that position it means that they really don’t want you on their team. And you are a fool if you want or accept them on your own. It’s not about hate or envy. It is simply about discovering that long absented real you. If you don’t look good to anyone when you are poor and old beyond what you can buy them then forget it! Pass on by! There is always a younger more gullible model down the road, it that is your thing I mean. But why would one want to sleep with snakes? Is the animal sensation that good? Really? Or are you just collecting scalps and STD’s for your lodge polls? Moral equivalency and Socialist Justices only want to hang you cause you’re smart enough to know that number one always counts as first and all else is a distant twenty-six. Mumble that next time you have an intimate interaction. Demand that the secretary new a decent cup of coffee rather than just go down to Starbuck’s! The Federal Government is too busy plotting a coup to care! This land is lost because it let itself be taken over by those who have always dreamed of reinstalling slavery. Those pretenders that cajole others to do their dirty work while wagging their forked tongues. It is time to take the world back! “Do you want to live forever?”
It seemed harder to want to say anything of substance anymore. He was sick of making other people feel good about their lives! Others that may be so full of distress that they need to seek out strangers like him to find escape. Humans when they form into groups are troublesome creatures that must evolve enough over the course of their own lifetime of experience. Crack their way out of their own egg shell of that pretense that society benevolently shelters them. These other souls always failing to cooperate in a positive way on their own behalf unless they are magically coerced into it. It is always the goal of personal self interest lurking in the background that powers these ‘good impulses’. No wonder clever tyrants rule? One only get as good as one is willing to give. These ‘nabobs’ realize that most people are their own worst enemies. “If your life is shit then it is only your own shortcomings that have made it so!“, is ever their knee-jerk response. “If you can’t refrain from making the same old missteps in life then learn to love them!“, he said. They rest of what was penned in his mind was merely a collection of his own solipsistic fantasies from an equally demented unconscious mind as any he could imagine. “I really don’t feel like being clever for its own sake!“, had become the most usable motto.
The light from outside hit him like a shower of glass blinding him at every turn. Stopping short his inertia come of busting open the old oak door that had despite all his previous efforts splintered the old wooden jamb at last. His final physical effort sufficient enough to break free of entombment in that anonymous basement of the long abandoned roadhouse. It was stupid really! Really Stupid! Spelunking in a decrepit property empty of human habitation for a decade or more. A mighty close call at that. One that easily could have cut short his less than steady existence by a week of starvation and theist in a pitch black rat infested hollow. He we in the land that time forgot. When the staircase collapsed under him and he was knocked out cold after falling forward astray down onto the treads. He had awakened dark and dusty spitting blood to a realization that life was at a possible divisive juncture. One where a stupid careless acts of erratic curiosity was providing a real danger of terminating his lifelong complacency in a way that he could never have ever imagined. This seemed kind of odd as he considered his otherwise mundane boring existence invulnerable to such an extreme change.
When he was a young man he could recall doing many stupid and crazy things. Self-destructive dangerous things. Going to the middle of a city to a major construction site and removing all his clothing to contemplate sleeping naked in a ready hole in the ground that might easily be bulldozed shut the very next morning. Feeling like a wild animal that civilization was ever at odds with. He would recover his senses before it was too late and sneak away before he was discovered whole or crushed. Where in his mind he had hoped to wander to from this hollow caught amidst the density of vertical human habitation remained insoluble. It was a perpetually unfillable hole in his heart that he could not find salvation for. Some dumb longstanding mythic childhood tale gone amiss in an adult life. It left him in a situation of standing room only in the waiting room of human existence waiting for a result that never was obtainable. The world of his fellow bipeds was merely the same old game of promises.
The young woman had to show him how the grooved sliding double door panels separating the bathroom from the hall worked. Her impromptu demonstration left him feeling old and useless to the present era offering the excuse of being an expert on architecture passe. He had never figured himself to be a charity case but the circumstance of having others foot the bill here and there was becoming tedious for both him and those few others that provided special consideration to him upon the curb of a street. What was expected of him was a unfathomable mystery. He wondered if it was within his powers to simply will his own demise? And if so many around him were silently waiting impatiently for him to make the association and to take that step? He had become useless to anybody else’s scheme. There should have been anger on his part he guessed. But instead there was a tinge of melancholy for those times when his presence had seemed to mean something to others and of course, himself. Yet this was but a dream all in his mind. Something that he had awakened to when night had begun to surrender to day and the dim glow of morning had provided a guide to a way out of his prison.
Each day was now inexplicable in an environment where those few like himself placed their hopes and dreams in this waking world like a sucker bet in a Monte Carlo casino. The culture like a tight glove of no consequence for it seemed that the intangible human spirit yearned to continue proceed despite the stereotyped genetic furniture that cast it in place. If this was madness then each night of fitful sleep were the fetters to restrain one from the completion of the madness. It became clear to him that this emptiness he was seeking to avoid by entering same was but a unique product of his own species of man who preferred to encumber themselves with abstracts than live in the wild amidst the natural chaos. This unquenchable need for complete dominance of their surrounding poisoning the possibility of recalling their own Eden. Hemmed in by unending collections of cleverly concocted material objects that served to divert them from their basic nature into the folly of an industrial fabrication of Utopian perfection that could never find completion until it has consumed all that it could reach. A pyramid of trash in empty tin cans and bottle caps rising upward from earth toward the sun. The ultimate monument to the planned obsolesce of everything. This was what he both feared and was drawn to. This ultimate fate of mankind.
Mediocrity has its own charms. Certainly it’s own following! Though not too many would take a step forward in public to advance that proposition. Old threadbare notions that are hard to release one’s grip from. The old car that needs some fixing. The job of painting the soffits of a house has gone over long. A job that won’t get one anywhere but that provides the confidence that it will still provide a ready location to go to the very next morning at 7:00 AM. A local store in the neighborhood where one can find some form of the basics of life at a cheap price. Even the upkeep of one’s own physical form in the form of some aches and pains that slowly seem to be becoming more acute. The safe harbor of little or no expectation for change has many phantoms hulks anchored anonymously residing within.
The need for food put off Jimmy decided on the spur of the moment that he was hungry. The Carter-Williams department store was an nicely location to admit to this condition as any sustenance that they could offer was merely a superficial accommodation. A traveling carnival setting up town to town having more substantial nourishment to offer. Worse yet closing time of five o’clock was fast approaching! The solitary clerk lingering about her department obviously had more pressing issues of her own flooding through her consciousness. Yet she took Jimmy’s order for the store’s house specialty with aplomb. In point of fact Jimmy had absolutely no idea of what he was ordering from the small flyer that he had picked up from beside the register. He figured like many that it bearing the name of “Carter’s Favorite Snack” it should be fast and reasonably satisfying to any palate. His own stomach was grumbling right now from inattention as the clerk walked off. Supposedly to pick up his order he surmised. “Service is our business!“, proclaimed a sign hung overhead of the store’s back exit. A reasonable proposition yet a curious one that one would be afforded the convenience of ordering food from any location in the store? He paced back and forth through the aisles nervously eyeing rows of lackluster items most of which struck him as particularly useless to his own conception of necessity.
Boredom dissatisfied, he decided to range farther afield opening a door to a patio and what appeared to be a lumber and lawn care wing. The light of the Summer Sun bore down with brutal efficiency convincing one that it was mid-afternoon when in truth it was closer to five hours past. Jimmy strolled down the lanes stocked full of potted plants, tall racks of two by four’s and quite literally found himself clueless as to how to mount a return journey. The light of the day was finally waning and Jimmy’s stomach had finally relented in its painful protest having rolled over and gone back to sleep. He really wasn’t interested in eating here at all. Besides it made more sense to just return home and rustle something up that wouldn’t cost him anything. Not being a regular customer he figured he could find a small exist far from his initial point of entry and slip away without causing much fuss. It was just past closing time and he formed a vision in his mind that the clerk had purposely forgotten anyhow. “So much for service!“, he mentally grunted ungraciously. He slipped out an open gate just before another store employee, equally hasty to close it, let him pass. The dusk was falling now as he walked alone across the mostly emptied parking lot. Here and there individual vehicles loudly exhaling that initial burst of exhaust after sitting silent since morning until by the time Jimmy had made the curb of the main intersection they had all flown off like a clock of crows.
What was it about waiting for a bus at night that seemed so lonely and chaotically vulnerable? Jimmy stood looking up at the weather beaten metal ensign of the route number static upon its old galvanized pole. The route numbers of three separate buses and an approximate range of time in small text etched in fluorescent ink. The traffic still seemed inordinately heavy even though ‘Rush Hour’ was officially far past its peak. No one else was in the vicinity beyond the many indifferent souls encased in metal and plastic passing indifferent to the world without. The only thing that Jimmy could summon was a reciprocal feeling of impersonal menace from the notion that none within this see of impatient ‘beetles’ would mind the distraction of running over him if he were so foolish to wish to wade in haphazardly before their paths. The equally taciturn sentinels of the traffic lights hovering high over over the intersection projecting their colored beams with a grimly efficient timing. No sense of a concern for the personal or the variance of individual human experience evident in this transitional wasteland. This was a place that humans might be tolerated to briefly wait but never inhabit. Jimmy looked about behind him at the thicket of bushes and the section of car exhaust inebriated forest behind it. What manner of dangers lurked waiting just yards within he could not fathom. A certain sense of unaccountable nightmarish terror that he did not wish to admit to. But he was very sure that he did not wish to explore. He turned back around to the inconstant sound of a sea of tires rushing endlessly past.
The long hulking oversized bulk of a breadbox congealed from the shadow moving towards him. The Route fifty-three rolled to a halt and bared it’s vertical fissure from two revolving door panels with an abrupt hydraulic hiss. The light brightly illuminating the passengers from within the closest thing thing to palpable civilization that Jimmy could now imagine. He felt instinctively inclined to step forward though the bus he was looking for bore the number fifty-eight. A darkened form trundled down the three steps of the entrance unsteadily onto the curb. The figure’s arms weightily encumbered with a large flat square expanse of what appeared to be a disordered pizza or cake. It was the same clerk from the store who with no hesitation she made her way straight towards Jimmy nearly colliding with him as he mechanically responded by bringing his own arms up to receive that large unstable surface that she was carrying onto his own. “Here’s your order sir!“, she commanded. Whatever this thing was it was not conventional in the sense of any identifiable foodstuff. The woman hopped back on the bus as Jimmy still confused by such an enigmatic encounter tried to take stock of what so precariously was sliding and leaking about. What ever this stuff was, good bad or otherwise it had need of a more robust container than just the soaked through corrugated square that barely kept it from sloughing off onto the ground. There being no place to put it down beyond the sordid junk ridden grass or gravel without incurring a hail of dust from passing tires and trucks. Jimmy was stuck with the dilemma of whether to let it default to destruction by unceremoniously dropping it straight to the ground? Or to continue the unwanted balancing act that the rankled clerk from the store had left him within? The general appearance of it just below his nose was one of an amorphous mass of something unidentifiable. It smelled strange and barely palatable as if its creator had be some store policy tried to produce something that would please everybody. But of course, would never satisfy any!
Jimmy’s stomach gurgled awake like some unfettered animal while his temper became short. The Route Fifty-Eight bus came to a stop across the street traveling the other way. And it suddenly crossed his mind that he was on the wrong side to get back home. The light was threatening to shift green and he hobbled across like some overly preoccupied sleepwalker, arms still fully encumbered. The bus driver seemed to sense the possibility of an unwanted complication heading his way and the rasp of the hydraulic hiss of the doors closing and the shiver of the vehicle as it edged forward had Jimmy in a steeplechase to gain the curb and race around the back of it. The driver’s conscious ridden face now staring back at him from the big mirror by the door reluctantly jamming the bus to a stop and the dragon-like hiss of the entrance yet again greeting Jimmy as he approached with his burden. “I can’t let you bring any un-boxed food on this bus!“, the driver warned with a scowl. Jimmy looked down his chin grazing what seemed to be some festering mess of hastily assembled dubious food products and frowned. It was not worth risking being relinquished any longer to these inconstant ‘moors‘. He nodded at the driver and turning quickly around he swung his arms towards the emptiness of the road’s shoulder leaving his unwanted parcel as an offering to the crow’s. The only evidence of his recent adventure a chin painted clown red with an oily tomato sauce like grease.