Psst. Hey, you -- yeah, the little boy in the dress with the camera. Come on over her(e) and have a seat; I wanna tell you your future. Between you and me, it's gonna be a real fine mess, ... son. A real fine mess.
Now, I ain't claimin' to be no Criswell ( ... ain't no Tim Burton either); I'm more amazing than that! I can even judge a book by its cover, if you can believe it.
You better believe it.
All right, the moment has come for me to dig out my crystal ball; I got it from Criswell by the way. It's here in my duffel bag somewhere, just let me move these satin bras and panties out of the way.
Oh, you like those, do ya? Sure, you can have them if you like. Perhaps if you wear them beneath your fatigues whilst taking a bullet in the ass for Sergeant Mike, you'll earn yourself a medal, or two, or three.
Ah-hah!. Here it is, see? See how the ball shimmers, awaiting to reveal the destiny of a young boy longing to glimmer on silver?
Oh, but to glimmer is not enough. He must be a creator too!
“Dear, God, please help us.”
I'm only kidding, now let's see what the fates have in store for you.
Ah, yes, the mists are parting. Images are appearing and the sound of voices deep in conversation is coming in clearer.
Mmmm, we're tuned in now. Tuned into that illusive phenomenon that humans have slaved for centuries trying to control and define: Time.
Come, look closer. Closer still. Past the mist and over the rainbow.
Listen. Listen harder if you will, under the static and through the perpetual hum-drum of those annoyances that hit above the belt and below. There's so much one can discover about oneself if one truly wishes to know.
Shhhh, no need to respond. Glen is speaking, trying to illicit compassion through the smelting process. If he's looking for sympathy from blue-collar steel workers, he -- you! -- can just forget it.
Yes, yes, belly dancers that pole dance for the Devil, or writhe for him on a head-doctor's couch, do serve their purpose when a man finds himself down and out. But how down and out can one man be? Down enough to don an angora sweater, change his name to Glenda, and then out himself on the silver screen during the 50s?
However, I do appreciate your longing to be as free as Jorgensen -- excuse me, Christine. I say drop thy balls and declare thyself like she:
“I changed my sex!”
“I led two lives!”
“He or she, the transvestite!”
Hey, becoming a spinster is a sight better than peddling your wares as the bearded lady in the freak show, or playing low payin'/ no payin' gigs with Eddie Wood's Little Splinters. That kind of stress and human malady for fodder could cause a man to become as unusually thin as John Waters.
Never mind; you wouldn't have heard of him. But soon, very soon, he shall take your place. And again, when it comes to the audience, there's no accounting for taste.
Ooh, what's this? It appears my Waters' comment has angered you quite a bit. Shit! Well, pull the string then. Go on, pull the string, you crazy bastard! Just make sure it ain't your bra strap, or else Lobo might get confused and try to tap dat.
All the ladies in the club shout: “I'm loco for Lobo!”
Aww, hunny, I know you're upset about this whole Waters' thing, but if you can't handle a little friendly competition in this industry, you might as well make like the wind and blow.
Pull back those shoulders! Stick out that chest! Bring those feet together and smile wide, for here comes that overpaid conniving creature the monster's bride.
Dun, dun, dun dun, dun, dun, dun dun, dun, dun, dun dun, dun, dun dun, dun, dun dun . . .
Hold on there, son! What you trynna run for? She ain't here for you, but for that super Swedish angel, Tor; which if you ask me, should make Fuller want to bitch-slap Janet Lawton all the more. Hopefully that girl will get some sense one day and tell you to piss off, you and that creepy sonofabitch you run with, Dr. Varnoff.
Telling a morphine addict to just lay down and roll with it?
What an idiot!
I suppose you'll be smooging with the dead next just so you can that say you did it.
No, no, forget your spin on the shit. Time to move on to the turkey that laid the golden egg and your fellow freaks aboard space station 7.
Chrome hubcaps danglin' from fishin' line.
A dead man playin' a dead man.
From day to night, from night to day, and then back again.
"What the hell, man?"
Solarbonite. Solarbranite. Solarbernite. Solarnite.
Make up your damn mind!
Son, you may be endowed with the passion of Eros for his lyre, but your desire to harness true talent is the mirror image of Vampira's.
Speaking of Eros, and his accusing finger, I don't need some pompous alien bastard telling me all of us from Earth are “Stupid! Stupid!” I know; I got duped in the game of life by being born and raised here, remember?
To linger upon thy finger or not to linger upon thy finger? To shimmy up to the orgy of the dead, or to slide through a wondrous cavern fashioned of bare, feminine legs? Mamma didn't leave too many options for her little man; though, many a time it's been said, granted the saying is lame, that one man's trash is another man's Citizen Cane
My advice? Take a page from the arsons' hand manual, who themselves, like you, have been routinely shat and spat upon. 'Cause let's face it, you're the anatomy of a psycho, boy. Your work when all is said and done? A doomsday weapon.
© Copyright 2016 Candidate 118. All rights reserved.
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