Post by Jack of Blades on Jul 8, 2006 15:17:13 GMT -5
Saturday night on the town. It was a concept that I was worried about indulging. Of course, Jake took to it like a fish out of water. He was a veteran of the neon course of nightclubs and hotel bars. Every bit of him demonstrates his comfort in holes like the 'Squatters' bar where we currently find ourselves within. His pink shirt only buttoned halfway so that his coat of human fur can entice any female company. His fine hair latching over the bold spot from one side to another.
I just cradle my drink. I asked for a simple cocktail and I'm guessing that a 'Rusty Screw' is just lager and water. It pails in comparison with the aesthetics of Jake's poison. More of a bowl than a glass, it's rainbow fiesta that covers the liquid with parasols and other tacky pieces of flare seems to be brighter than any article of halogen lighting.
He makes some throw-away comment about a girl dancing adjacent to us and as a reflex, I smile at him. I try not to smile anymore. In case it happens again. But I still oblige him with a glance at my white teeth as he continues his commentry of her 'Class A meat.'
He ends his description with mentions of all kinds of containers in reference to her bossum ending with a simple joke that uses the word 'cans' five times. I laugh but as a result, inhale some of his toxic fragrance that he received from a magazine subscription. I cough as he reserves himself back to his illuminous drink.
He drags the beverage back with one of the plethora of olives supplied and begins to make conversation with me. He asks if there are any girls I like here. No, I respond. They don't provide me with a challenge. He looks perplexed as if it was his understanding that the only challenge that a woman can supply is how difficult it is to unhook her bra. I elaborate realising that my answer seems to much Blades-ish.
"What kind of girls do you go for?" he asks. I should tell him that I go for anorexics. That I go for the ones with considerable mental scarring. As well as physical scarring, of course. The ones with the stringy, white hair. The innocent naive cohort also makes me tick. Her.
I owe her alot. Her leaving, her exile allowed Jack of Blades to die. A kind of act of Hari Kari. Who else could provide such a challenge to the 'Bastard Clown?' Ellis and Blades, in their truest definition, had a symbiotic effect on one another. Their lives had driven them to misanthropy, their contempt for humanity had driven their actions and their contingent existences provided nothing but cynicism and insanity from either party. But, Ellis hadn't realised that yet. But Blades wanted to. He wanted to prove that he was the ultimate end. He wanted to somewhat egotistically prove that he cannot be blamed for his attitude and belief system. Anyone could break under those conditions. And Ellis was his way of making this obvious.
But the 'suits' had prevented that as everyone knew. And Jack of Blades had no way out. He was an anomalous entity. With Ellis gone, he had no purpose. And he or 'I' left. I tried to make it up to Ms. Island but didn't know how. I heard her father had perished in some detention centre so in a feeble effort, I sent his grave some flowers with my last paycheck. Heh, for all my cruelty towards her, I still sent her flowers.
I turn away from my contemplations and realise that Jake, the forty-something with heart troubles, is making an effort to break dance in admist disgusted and amused college students and widowers. My presence is simply peripheral, I decide to leave.
I move throughout the hallways and human masses to the outside. Three taxis splash the only suit left in my wardrobe leaving me moist and static. My fourth weak gesture of raising a hand signals a vacant automobile which I promptly enter much to my regret as I find out that the taxi driver recognises me from my 'hay days.'
He remarks that he usesd to illegally produce 'WCF' memorabilia and storm the crowd as they left from the shows hollaring that the cheap prices of their stock. I was an unpopular stock apparently. Nobody brought my stuff. They gave up on me. He finally remembered my name as 'Jack of Cards' before pulling up to my appartment and charging me an extortionate amount for telling me that I'm generally unliked and have a forgettable name.
I trudge up to my apartment door, wet suit and all, and slam my forehead into the pine coating as if to express any degree of feeling. I scare her. The next door neighbour carrying two bags of groceries who'd been staring at my method of stress relief with a gesture of pure bemusement. I move my eyes without forcing my forehead from the splintered door. She lets out a small shriek, her meek presence warranted by the 230 pound saturated man who has a tendancy to headbutt doors. She tries to rangle her keys from her coat pocket and open her appartment door but this only concludes with numerous gestures in trying to balance her shopping.
I remove myself from the dent in the door and take a bag of her. She gives me a small unsure smile and unlocks her home. I watch and apologise for the dramatics explaining it off as having a 'bad day.' She says she just goes on a 'chocolate binge' when she has one of those.
An uneasy silence. "Sarah" she states. "Jack" I answer. She gives me another smile and thanks me for helping her enter succesfully and closes the door on me. I want to go back to my dent but her door opens again and she sucks her lower lip bag and realises that she didn't take her bag back. She doesn't ask for it suggesting a nervous tendancy which is also mirrored in her appearance. Black rimmed if somewhat fashionable glasses, comfortable if not revealling clothes, hair drawn into an ornate bunch pulling any worry lines from her face. If she has any.
I take the initiative and hand the bag over. She laughs and thanks me again. The door closes. I go back to my dent.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
[glow=red,2,300]"Housing all your fears,
Desensitized by TV,
Overbearing advertising,
God of consumerism.
[/glow]
I just cradle my drink. I asked for a simple cocktail and I'm guessing that a 'Rusty Screw' is just lager and water. It pails in comparison with the aesthetics of Jake's poison. More of a bowl than a glass, it's rainbow fiesta that covers the liquid with parasols and other tacky pieces of flare seems to be brighter than any article of halogen lighting.
He makes some throw-away comment about a girl dancing adjacent to us and as a reflex, I smile at him. I try not to smile anymore. In case it happens again. But I still oblige him with a glance at my white teeth as he continues his commentry of her 'Class A meat.'
He ends his description with mentions of all kinds of containers in reference to her bossum ending with a simple joke that uses the word 'cans' five times. I laugh but as a result, inhale some of his toxic fragrance that he received from a magazine subscription. I cough as he reserves himself back to his illuminous drink.
He drags the beverage back with one of the plethora of olives supplied and begins to make conversation with me. He asks if there are any girls I like here. No, I respond. They don't provide me with a challenge. He looks perplexed as if it was his understanding that the only challenge that a woman can supply is how difficult it is to unhook her bra. I elaborate realising that my answer seems to much Blades-ish.
"What kind of girls do you go for?" he asks. I should tell him that I go for anorexics. That I go for the ones with considerable mental scarring. As well as physical scarring, of course. The ones with the stringy, white hair. The innocent naive cohort also makes me tick. Her.
I owe her alot. Her leaving, her exile allowed Jack of Blades to die. A kind of act of Hari Kari. Who else could provide such a challenge to the 'Bastard Clown?' Ellis and Blades, in their truest definition, had a symbiotic effect on one another. Their lives had driven them to misanthropy, their contempt for humanity had driven their actions and their contingent existences provided nothing but cynicism and insanity from either party. But, Ellis hadn't realised that yet. But Blades wanted to. He wanted to prove that he was the ultimate end. He wanted to somewhat egotistically prove that he cannot be blamed for his attitude and belief system. Anyone could break under those conditions. And Ellis was his way of making this obvious.
But the 'suits' had prevented that as everyone knew. And Jack of Blades had no way out. He was an anomalous entity. With Ellis gone, he had no purpose. And he or 'I' left. I tried to make it up to Ms. Island but didn't know how. I heard her father had perished in some detention centre so in a feeble effort, I sent his grave some flowers with my last paycheck. Heh, for all my cruelty towards her, I still sent her flowers.
I turn away from my contemplations and realise that Jake, the forty-something with heart troubles, is making an effort to break dance in admist disgusted and amused college students and widowers. My presence is simply peripheral, I decide to leave.
I move throughout the hallways and human masses to the outside. Three taxis splash the only suit left in my wardrobe leaving me moist and static. My fourth weak gesture of raising a hand signals a vacant automobile which I promptly enter much to my regret as I find out that the taxi driver recognises me from my 'hay days.'
He remarks that he usesd to illegally produce 'WCF' memorabilia and storm the crowd as they left from the shows hollaring that the cheap prices of their stock. I was an unpopular stock apparently. Nobody brought my stuff. They gave up on me. He finally remembered my name as 'Jack of Cards' before pulling up to my appartment and charging me an extortionate amount for telling me that I'm generally unliked and have a forgettable name.
I trudge up to my apartment door, wet suit and all, and slam my forehead into the pine coating as if to express any degree of feeling. I scare her. The next door neighbour carrying two bags of groceries who'd been staring at my method of stress relief with a gesture of pure bemusement. I move my eyes without forcing my forehead from the splintered door. She lets out a small shriek, her meek presence warranted by the 230 pound saturated man who has a tendancy to headbutt doors. She tries to rangle her keys from her coat pocket and open her appartment door but this only concludes with numerous gestures in trying to balance her shopping.
I remove myself from the dent in the door and take a bag of her. She gives me a small unsure smile and unlocks her home. I watch and apologise for the dramatics explaining it off as having a 'bad day.' She says she just goes on a 'chocolate binge' when she has one of those.
An uneasy silence. "Sarah" she states. "Jack" I answer. She gives me another smile and thanks me for helping her enter succesfully and closes the door on me. I want to go back to my dent but her door opens again and she sucks her lower lip bag and realises that she didn't take her bag back. She doesn't ask for it suggesting a nervous tendancy which is also mirrored in her appearance. Black rimmed if somewhat fashionable glasses, comfortable if not revealling clothes, hair drawn into an ornate bunch pulling any worry lines from her face. If she has any.
I take the initiative and hand the bag over. She laughs and thanks me again. The door closes. I go back to my dent.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------
[glow=red,2,300]"Housing all your fears,
Desensitized by TV,
Overbearing advertising,
God of consumerism.
[/glow]
