The Sour Milk Suck Experience

Grog smog swamp brain has no contents in the morning. Soon neither will guts. Blood soaked eyes strain to open. Not much on the news in the shopping centre food hall sets this morning. Some straights are gay. Some gays are straight. Santa has been banned from saying ho ho ho. Blab la bla. We need a gun. Why? The cops are after you, the families of your victims too. What, you mean our victims. Same thing. Where can we get one? Don’t know. Didn’t you used to hang round a lot of drug participants? Yeah, but most of them only smoked dope. What about the others? I could try Stal. Is Stal the man? Did you just try and crack a joke? Shut up. I’ll try him, wait here. Stal has lick dissolved too much lsd and shaved his head. He also hates television and dirt. Man created God in seven days, He has used his power to reverse our own thought patterns on this, See, He didn’t create us we created Him, You know, back when humans had much stronger evolved psychic powers, Those brain emissions had to go somewhere, They just built up in the sky, Fuck knows why they didn’t go further than that, maybe the ozone layer was too strong, but all those thoughts slowly pushed together into an entity, this invisible deity, a giant human head mind that knew all the thoughts and emotions we possessed, it’s still fed by our thoughts now, still knows everything, and when you die your mind or spirit just floats up there, stays in with it too, That’s why it’s, He’s, so powerful. Hey Stal, can you get us a gun? Silent concrete stares. You don’t wanna do that, get mixed up in firearms and shooting. You know anyone? I might, maybe, where you been anyway, haven’t seen you in ages? Been travelling. Ok, have you ever even used a gun before? No, have you? No. Not to worry. Hey what ever happened to Bernie? She joined a band. What were they called? Chasing Satan On Acid. Any good? Think they got a record deal with Punctured Lung, but haven’t heard from her in ages. Cool. You ever finish your degree? Nah, quit. Oh. Take this. Hands a scraplet of paper over. Try them, one of them may help but I can’t vouch for their sanity though. See ya Stal. Bass drum punches ear drum as the rewired Smallgeni 732FG pash pounds along towards a possible weapon connection. He is deaf with a tattoo in his inner ear of a horse. Typical shaven skull and navy wife slapper. Thick as a skeleton dipped in flesh. Chocolate muffin resembling boils on his stomach which he unthreads with the mosquito bite pick that’s packed with cheap heroin while searching for an unbroken vein to his heart. Finds it. Draws back black brown muck mixing with caster cutter that slow swims pushed back into his gut. Puts down the syringe on the retro 50’s coffee table with a broken surface. Sits mouth open to catch flies. Snaps back then sly signs something to his interpreter. An Akubra donning Aborigine named Cloud who’s wearing a stolen business suit and no shoes. He’s saying that his gear is shit but it does the job. Mangles his fingers together again. He wants to know what you want? We want a gun. Eyes push into suspicion. Another digital conversation takes place. He says what you want it for? Nothing that will lead back to him. He says if you use a gun it will lead back to him somehow. No it won’t. Fingers fly anger as he tries to use his dull tongue. Get out. But -. Just fuck off! Waiting in the running engine car, she glints. No luck or love of any kind there. Did you offend him? No, he was violently passive. What now? Not sure. Sun lies down slower when you’re sober. Sit and suck down caffeine in an all you can drink till they say that is actually misleading, please get out. Tension up down horror music plays stretching down the street. Several bodies explode out in sprays of glare glass through a neon pregnant window followed by veiny hands grabbing for stray hair. It’s three ay em. On the dotted signed line. Violence is whispering into alcohol moisture and minds. Pulled knives. Fists swung. The need for more and more and more weapons. Bass is turned up louder. Bullock built bouncers stand their ground. The plastic cups come out. Spilt stains get darker. Boiling vomit floods mouths. Blood eyes vein twitch, some close. The afflicted wander into traffic. Friends are forgotten. Enemies remembered. Teeth grit. Knuckles crackle. Shadow hidden groups yell at the sky and the ground. Some fall. Others kick at their eyes. Blood pushes from nostrils. Bare bone faces turn to ash skulls. Blue lights and bruises fade. The lights come up and on and the paths are empty again. She sneers, saying yes a gun is a good idea out here.

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