Wednesday, October 21, 2009

Just beneath the clouds, there’s air only certain people can breathe.

Stuck took the truck through the flooded mud drain to get there. Approximately 17 miles long, periodic rivulets of concrete plugged up by moldy leaves and rust covered grocery carts emptied foaming alive water from the surrounding slaughterhouses and created bubbly springs of enzyme teeming oxygen. Stuck took a deep breath. His stomach and lungs were beginning to react violently, the acids and the bile in them were already fermenting their own energies, but he squeezed his thigh muscles and took deep breaths. He was carrying old fridges, tiny holes in the network of Freon tubes leaked it into the air. Little blood molecules making love with the freeon ones floating upwards.

Stuck had leased the truck from Killer Eyes Winters. Killer Eyes was from Euclid Ontario, his mother was the daughter of a french steward but she was a whore and then an eternally working seamstress and he was brought up on cornmeal, lard and licorice. But acted like he was better than Stuck.

Stuck took no offense. He got the money for the truck by making promises to his nephew Henry Bee Lee that he would bring back money from the fridges.

Stuck was from Rancid Arizona. It’s below Rumour. He did this before, trucking, except with people. The ones from Mexico and below proper didn’t look him in the eyes and the ones from Guatemala let him watch them wash their eyes when he stopped and sprayed water on their backs at that one gas station in Nowhere, I mean nowhere.

Stuck ran away from his family because there were too many of them and he kept getting in to trouble by making more of them come into being. Except there was this one kid he had called Dew who he knew was going to be a great man.

At the end of the mud drain there was a north bound gravel road to the copper dump. It was his favorite road because of how the sulfurous hot streams smelled. Sometimes they did like when he used to watch Pinnochio in his mothers apartment. How he imagined the part where they smoked cigars till they got sick and watched the little burlesque marionettes.

Grass, green and brown grew next to the concrete everything. There were stairs up to the brick factory wall that was partially crumbling and covered in bright graffiti, strait lines bleed, shaded by diffuse red and black outlines, on top of older pieces, on top of the old factory sign Stuck nor anyone would ever see again that said

“Fowle Co. Thunder Anvils.” Fowle was a devil worshiping commie Yugoslavian, his Co., him and his brothers and his Irish wildmen, making Thunder Anvils, were successful during the war, when America needed all the Thunder Anvils it could get to drop on Nazi’s and Slavs.

He pulled the truck on to a loading dock, looked at the Holy Virgin on the dashboard for a second and pulled out a clip board. Then he walked in. There was no one in the huge old warehouse, but he saw the stairs up to the office, went up there and knocked.

“Is there a Luther here?”

“Yeah. Im Luther.”

“I have the fridges”

“Go unload them”

He did. Luther gave him a check for $300.

He went to the girl he was living with’s house. She was smoking on the porch. Sticking needles into a bowl full of opaque Jelly.

“I have the money. Here.” He looked at her freckles and how they were vibrating on top of her skin.

“Thankyou.”

“Winters will call in about three days. Give him the keys, Henry”

“Ok. Where you going?” She cleared her throat and the mucus stung. Her best hour was the one right before he got here. When the coffee was enough in her, the walls were lit by the sun and the idea that she could really feel her own ideas, understand them thouroughly and logically shape them was strong.

“Im going back to Toronto.” Once he was a paint huffer there. He saw angels swim up from the paint and into the bottom of his eyes. Inside the bottom of his neck was an infinite vacuum. He grew up though when the aliens came and told him that he was going to become a retard if he kept doing that.

“What are you going to do about Henry?”

“Henry… Ill call him from Toronto and tell him Ive been communicating with his dead mother.

“That’s horrible.”

“I know.”

“Anyway he already talks to her and if your story’s not strait with hers hell start to figure the whole thing out.

The Aliens came in August. They had already sent word by sending codes through the worlds entire electricity infrastructure