29 August 2006
Love Sauce Lost
Hot City Mystery Adventure:
"Where you are the star."
chapter 1:
You are walking down the hot sidewalk. An itch lingers in your loins as a bus spews hot diesel on you. Tormented by lust, terrified of love, yet for no good reason convinced you are entitled to happiness. Contemplating your lack of happiness you stop at a red light. Traffic waits next to you idling and stinky.
The city has not been kind lately. In fact the city has kicked your ass and left you reeling in the gutter for the indigent to consume. Maybe not that bad. But this fact is true: seething and fuming are your primary oxygen absorption methods.
On the ground before you is city trash – a menthol cigarette pack and an electric orange snack food wrapper. It occurs to you that menthol cigarette smokers and bright orange food snackers are some of the littering-est dirtbags around.
A nanny walks by with a kid. A grandma is leaning by her front door. Your favorite tree in the city droops lazily in the hot sun. A dead relative appears thinly in your mind. Do dead relatives still care for you after death? You pray to your dead relative in case. A hello, a plea, an unanswered question about what the afterlife is like.
Your internecrocourse is interrupted by a good-looking mail carrier. Some people simply look delightful in a uniform. You experience that itch again, a tickle in the back of your throat - if your throat was in your nether regions.
To force yourself to stop thinking about your depraved lust you look at the sky. Skyscrapers loom on the horizon, a seagull follows the west wind. You hear two pigeons eating gutter dirt, then a car horn. You realize that you might be the most sad and compelling creature on the planet – a lost and haunting spirit in love with the damned and dirty city.
But is it love anymore? Are you not sick of this polluted cement and steel canyon crammed with overcaffeinated annoying types?
Maybe you should go back to getting overwhelmed by your depraved lust. A fantasy about freaky love in a faraway Jamaican resort. Flesh on flesh thrusting like the exotic animal you know you are. One thing you can do in this life – freak it fantastically. To what use when you cannot share it with a willing accomplice? You merely wish to commit crimes against humanity in freak form. You have it within you to open new dimensions through freaktastic ecstasies.
But you are not vain. You are merely another lost soul seeking city salvation. You are trying to make it, whatever it is. You wish you could be a little more smart, a little less crazy, a little something else than what you are.
You think, what the hell is the purpose of all this running around like a spastic monkey anyway? Is there a god who gives a crap about your wretched life? What more, is this god keeping some sort of score? Most important, how is your score? Is there anything left for you to do to pull you sorry ass out of an eternity of torment?
God is such a boring topic. Instead of god or sex or seething about your so called life you peer in the storefronts you walk past. Cellphones, fast food and oddlot storefronts with moldering file boxes under fluorescent lights.
Where are you going? You do not even know. Earlier you had decided to take a walk. You wanted to clear your head. Now your head is filled with god, lust and anguish of a self-loathing nature. You head to the waterfront. You like the waterfront. It is usually empty save for a few confused tourists during a weekday. The sun hits the ripples and you can sometimes see an enormously large tanker ship.
There is a little-used promontory you walk up onto. Its stairs are inscribed with declarations of young love and littered with cigarette butts. It is breezy up here, just ten steps higher than the pier. Toward the horizon you see a water purification pump, an imposing bridge and a bunch of ducks bobbing in the gritty water. They are looking for a handout. When it is apparent that you are not giving it up they bob down toward the waterfront restaurant that feeds mainly tourists.
What the hell is it you are supposed to do, to be, to want to be? Oi. You are confused. You let the sun-glitters in the ripples of the windy water hypnotize you. You notice another person on the promontory. You ignore them, annoyed. This is your private place. Others are not invited.
With questions unanswered as usual you shrug, curse, seethe and stumble back down to the pier. Damn, that person has come down too. You let yourself get annoyed by everything for a second, then force yourself take a big breath. Relax, it is just life. You did not choose to be here, hell most of the things in your life and about you are things you did not choose. Hmm.
You stare at a couple fancy boats docked along the pier. A crew of surely illegal immigrants scrubs, vaccuums and generally bustles. A couple contractor typess unwrap a tall thin cardboard package. You wonder what is in the package. With a razor knife a guy expertly slices down the seams. You slow in anticipation.
Out slides a full length mirror, the frame is gaudy gold, the edges of the glass are beveled. You think, how appropriate for a boat like this to have a mirror like that. You imagine the guys affixing to a closet door of the master cabin below. It reflects geometrical flashes of sun as they examine how they are going to affix it.
As they turn it casts a shadow of reflected light; this hits you in the face, instinctually you flinch, squint. When you open your eyes you see a perfect reflection of yourself from about 30 feet away.
If you see a man in the mirror, go to page X
If you see a woman in the mirror, go to page Y
"Where you are the star."
chapter 1:
You are walking down the hot sidewalk. An itch lingers in your loins as a bus spews hot diesel on you. Tormented by lust, terrified of love, yet for no good reason convinced you are entitled to happiness. Contemplating your lack of happiness you stop at a red light. Traffic waits next to you idling and stinky.
The city has not been kind lately. In fact the city has kicked your ass and left you reeling in the gutter for the indigent to consume. Maybe not that bad. But this fact is true: seething and fuming are your primary oxygen absorption methods.
On the ground before you is city trash – a menthol cigarette pack and an electric orange snack food wrapper. It occurs to you that menthol cigarette smokers and bright orange food snackers are some of the littering-est dirtbags around.
A nanny walks by with a kid. A grandma is leaning by her front door. Your favorite tree in the city droops lazily in the hot sun. A dead relative appears thinly in your mind. Do dead relatives still care for you after death? You pray to your dead relative in case. A hello, a plea, an unanswered question about what the afterlife is like.
Your internecrocourse is interrupted by a good-looking mail carrier. Some people simply look delightful in a uniform. You experience that itch again, a tickle in the back of your throat - if your throat was in your nether regions.
To force yourself to stop thinking about your depraved lust you look at the sky. Skyscrapers loom on the horizon, a seagull follows the west wind. You hear two pigeons eating gutter dirt, then a car horn. You realize that you might be the most sad and compelling creature on the planet – a lost and haunting spirit in love with the damned and dirty city.
But is it love anymore? Are you not sick of this polluted cement and steel canyon crammed with overcaffeinated annoying types?
Maybe you should go back to getting overwhelmed by your depraved lust. A fantasy about freaky love in a faraway Jamaican resort. Flesh on flesh thrusting like the exotic animal you know you are. One thing you can do in this life – freak it fantastically. To what use when you cannot share it with a willing accomplice? You merely wish to commit crimes against humanity in freak form. You have it within you to open new dimensions through freaktastic ecstasies.
But you are not vain. You are merely another lost soul seeking city salvation. You are trying to make it, whatever it is. You wish you could be a little more smart, a little less crazy, a little something else than what you are.
You think, what the hell is the purpose of all this running around like a spastic monkey anyway? Is there a god who gives a crap about your wretched life? What more, is this god keeping some sort of score? Most important, how is your score? Is there anything left for you to do to pull you sorry ass out of an eternity of torment?
God is such a boring topic. Instead of god or sex or seething about your so called life you peer in the storefronts you walk past. Cellphones, fast food and oddlot storefronts with moldering file boxes under fluorescent lights.
Where are you going? You do not even know. Earlier you had decided to take a walk. You wanted to clear your head. Now your head is filled with god, lust and anguish of a self-loathing nature. You head to the waterfront. You like the waterfront. It is usually empty save for a few confused tourists during a weekday. The sun hits the ripples and you can sometimes see an enormously large tanker ship.
There is a little-used promontory you walk up onto. Its stairs are inscribed with declarations of young love and littered with cigarette butts. It is breezy up here, just ten steps higher than the pier. Toward the horizon you see a water purification pump, an imposing bridge and a bunch of ducks bobbing in the gritty water. They are looking for a handout. When it is apparent that you are not giving it up they bob down toward the waterfront restaurant that feeds mainly tourists.
What the hell is it you are supposed to do, to be, to want to be? Oi. You are confused. You let the sun-glitters in the ripples of the windy water hypnotize you. You notice another person on the promontory. You ignore them, annoyed. This is your private place. Others are not invited.
With questions unanswered as usual you shrug, curse, seethe and stumble back down to the pier. Damn, that person has come down too. You let yourself get annoyed by everything for a second, then force yourself take a big breath. Relax, it is just life. You did not choose to be here, hell most of the things in your life and about you are things you did not choose. Hmm.
You stare at a couple fancy boats docked along the pier. A crew of surely illegal immigrants scrubs, vaccuums and generally bustles. A couple contractor typess unwrap a tall thin cardboard package. You wonder what is in the package. With a razor knife a guy expertly slices down the seams. You slow in anticipation.
Out slides a full length mirror, the frame is gaudy gold, the edges of the glass are beveled. You think, how appropriate for a boat like this to have a mirror like that. You imagine the guys affixing to a closet door of the master cabin below. It reflects geometrical flashes of sun as they examine how they are going to affix it.
As they turn it casts a shadow of reflected light; this hits you in the face, instinctually you flinch, squint. When you open your eyes you see a perfect reflection of yourself from about 30 feet away.
If you see a man in the mirror, go to page X
If you see a woman in the mirror, go to page Y
