bowmore
drive by drunk
Registered: Oct 2000
Location: canadian rockies
Posts: 1526 |
"and i heard as it were the noise of thunder, one of the four beast saying, Come and See"
-Revelations 6,1
Where? Right here. Thats right. I am known here.
It's not a far walk from the Avenues to the Ayslum. Not far in miles and not far in madness. The creeps and cretins inhabit both places and danger is never far. But I'll risk it. I am after all a professional.
Last night my friend Spaceboy called me. He was ranting about lobsters and the Unknown Soldier.
"Shut up you crazed fiend" I screamed, loading my .454 Casul and locking my doors, "I'm tired of your insane gibberish. Pull yourself together man! I don't have time for this."
I had been recieving distressing faxes from Paintchips all evening about the constant drug abuse of his sometimes girlfriend Karen. I was in no mood to listen to the lies of this cretin.
"But a LOBSTER is eating my wax carving of the UNKNOWN soldier!" He yelped into the phone at a pitch so high that my Bull-Mastiff, 'Nixon', stood up.
These calls always disturb me. Especially at 4:00 in the morning when you are are trying to reassure a friend that his girlfriend is not a reefer zombie by fax. It reminded me of the early days of the Clinton Campaign. Controlling massive hemorages of credibility by Mojo Wire and fax.
Forums are a savage business so I hung up on Space, screaming "Drawn Butter!!" into the phone.
The bastard. He had ruined my high and my prize peacocks, sensing the disturbance and immenent gunfire had begun to scatter across the acreage. It will take me hours to round them up tommorrow and will require the help of at least 2 hired hands and 3 bottles of Cabo Wabo tequila.
Thinking all was clear I decided to inhale one more mask of ether and prepare a coupe de tete fax for paint. But things are never still and easy on crazed nights in the high country. Anything can happen when the temperature falls and the geeks and yuppies fill Aspen, driving the locals into drugged stupors wondering the country side like packs of horny, wild dogs.
I should have been ready for the sound of my iron gates being smashed down by something heavy and bored-out like one of CAL's savage 4x4's.
He leaped from the cab, a full 8 feet from the ground, dressed in camo and panting like a wolf run deer.
"It's 'fiend!" he yelled between gulps of air. "He's gone insane at the tavern!"
Most people ignore 'fiend as a harmless drunk, tonight was the night that would prove the hideous exception to the rule.
We raced down to Woody Creek, CAL's monsterous truck shrieking the whole way. We got there too late. He had been snatched screaming from the parking lot, while pissing on the mayor's car by an errant pack of savage dogs and eaten before the proper authorities could be notified.
Only his parka had been found but was left undisturbed because of the presence of a litter of foxes nesting in the down.
This is life in the Ayslum. Where madness is often forgotten by morning and the one-eyed man is king.
Res ipsa loquitur
Owl Farm,
Woody Creek,
Colorado.
November, 2000.
------------------------
Be Brave.
Stay Strong.
Wait for the Signs.
[This message has been edited by bowmore (edited 11-22-2000).]
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11-22-2000 05:04 AM
