...and back to the program ahead...the regularly scheduled reaming, of the poodle..and the library is all but closed on this midnight eve's..where the marquee over head reads "Fine Minds fucked Here for a quarter," and all the street is a glow, down the corridors and (chasms) of Cranial Boulevard. The Herestads are home in their beds, in the refrigerators, their closets, their mirrors, their couches, their lives..Broadcasted Bulletins...Live Streaming Footage from the crash site where they lay with their mouths open and exposed..and the Gigantic American Cocksus Verbatus (a 23 inch dick, painted all shades of blue and vein...all decorative with stars aligning the base and the tip, the red being the blood from the roof of your mouth as it penetrates and moves against the teeth, into the gumline and farther down your throat than you anticipated in your state of comatosis. It is usually wore by a man with a top hat, long flowing grey beard who claims he is the cousin of Napoleon the 4th, and wishes to inspect the property before buying his timeshare in your neighborhood..
"Your mouth's lawn better be trimmed and the grassroots better be sweet and clipped..Turn on the sprinklers Sam, this one's got a dry mouth, and I need lubrication."
I am here at the library while the Herestads sleep snugly with their soapboxes and televisions, and Cocksus probing (Verbatim) their throat for possible propaganda.. So they can be declared Enemies of the State and have their teeth removed.
"America loves a Gummer."
They search for traitors.. while I search the racks of books in this library on Cranial Blvd. It is a homely shop, full of mysteries and romance, full of metaphysical jargon(a particular volume on the study of brain waves and the direct affect of radio signals on the untapped root of telepathy and kinesis should be interesting. Hypothesis: Perhaps it is possible that the many synapses of the brain are intune somehow with electrical currents on the outside of the body i.e. a disturbance of the electrical field that surrounds the body in motion or rest is displaced by the induction of radio signals in it's environment. My approach is that the synapses of the brain fire off small electrical sparks, that can be intercepted and transferred through the constant and undying motion of energy itself. Therefore, it would seem almost feasible that these synapses and neurons could send thoughts from one person to another, in a different country, different city, different field and stage of growth mentally. Since the impregnated cognitive wave becomes intertwined with the recyclable force of energy, our thought processes can directly be affected by those of the past, present and possibly the future. This would eliminate the ideal of 'original thought' and replace it with the re-adjusted concept. And my brain is swimming, barely over the water that is filling up around it..It is a rainy night and all the windows are barred from the inside of the shop. You can still make out the red-flashing lights of the marquee over head and it's presence shines on the crack linoleum floor.
" linoleum floor in the middle of a library?"
This is no library, but a mind's toilet bowl.
"Fine Minds fucked Here for a Quarter!"
There he stands, the Cousin, Napoleon the 4th's descendant and heir to the estate, of the Revolution. He is not pleased because his colony of Haiti is rubble. "I had planned to return and conquer. Damn their pact with the devil! I would have turned that place into a 3-dollar library, and charged for dildo sessions and water balloon tricks! How's your head feeling today my son?"
"Waterweight. But let's stick to the facts here Nap. Where can I find a book on the possibilities of telepathy and telekinesis? Where can I find a book on civil oppression? Where can I find a book on the formation of our brave constitution, and the reaming it has endured at the hands of a small French, raped poodle, named Primp? Where can I fin.."
"Easy my son. All minds are fucked and fucked alike. Accordingly. Follow me."
He extends his right arm to my shoulder, which until this point has been tucked beneath his star-spangled coat. His beard is crusted with sperm, and he swears it is his.
"The common American whore doesn't know how to turn off the sprinklers. So I was showered in my own children..Can you believe such a thing?"
We walk past the G section, and I have a sudden urge to locate a volume of scientific studies on gangrene or an Anthology of Khalil Gibran.
"His name is never brought up here. That bastard started the Haitian revolution. He co-signed the pact with the devil, and I owe him many francs."
At the back of the brothel/library, all manner of prostitution lies. They are fat beastly whores spread out on long elaborate sofa beds between the first and latest edition of Burroughs’s Naked Lunch, and they sit with their forks ready, looking around to the other's plate for a title of the affair.
"Good evening you dogs! How much bread you got for Poppa Nap today?"
"Times are hard daddy. And the streets are too cold outside for them to have their supper. Everyone went home to have their gaping mouths probed with food and sex. What's his name?"
"It's of no importance. Back to work, you common slunks."
(a slunk was aptly pointed out to me (by Burroughs’s brain waves) to be an undesirable cow fetus. In plain English).
They all sit naked, and return to gaze at what is on each other's plate, while we continue on to the right wing of the Library. There I find a steel cage sitting, with 3 slunks Naked, and greased from head to toe.
"Excuse me."
Daddy Nap says, as a large green foam microphone drops from the ceiling.
"Ladies and Gentleman. Slunks and Herestads..Artisans of all types and creeds. Welcome to the main event of the evening!.. In this ring, weighing all of 1236 pounds, hailing from Tophet (a 15th Century term for Hell), we have the Bolgia Brothers!..(applause) The Bolgia Brothers!"
Somewhere in the library are large crowds overhead and unseen to the Naked eye. They roar with appeasement as the spot light shines to each of the Brother's faces...Pure Maddened horror at their predicament.
"First we have the mouth of the GOP and current radio host and former opiate addict.. Rush.. Limbaugh!"
Applause and laughter. Screams and concessions are being passed around the invisible dome overhead.
"Rush..Limbaugh!... Next, he is the most brutal mouth on television today(so watch out all you lady Herestads out there, the cocksus may have found a new home). Current host and founding member of the 700 club... renowned and informed T.V. journalist... Pat Robertson!!"
..There is a slow Haitian hiss that falls over the arena, and I try to look away to locate those books I had been in search for, but the display is too mesmerizing. Mr. Robertson is stone faced and his stance is no longer slouched, but the posture of a giraffe has taken it's place and he is as strong as an elephant with his stomping around the cage.
"Fuck you America! ..There be no Lord-stomping tonight! This is my time! I've got God on my side, and blood will be on my hands before this night is thru! You Hear Me you ignorant wretches?!"
"Okay..Okay. Settle down Mr. Patterson..save it for the fight at hand.. And next, but certainly not least, former minister and devout Christian, the man that fought Larry Flynt all the way past the wheelchair and back, the outhouse bandito himself.. Mr. Jerry Falowell!"
He emerges from the huddle of flesh and grease at the center of the ring.. after gorging on incest pornography magazines (the words Mommy Dearest in big bright red letters on a scrap of paper dangling from his teeth)
.."Jerry..Fallowell !"
Inside the cage, are various weapons, strewn out to different parts of the incased delirium. A crowbar here, an axe there..A plastic black dildo, with rubber battery replacements scattered all about the cage. "You know the rules gentleman. This is America, and there are no rules..Not here in the Cranial Blvd Congressional Library..No, All minds are fucked and fucked alike! Speaking of which"
Daddy Nap the 4th turns to me.
"You got your quarter for entry?"
"No...I thought this was the home of the free and fucked alike..."
Frankie Metro is a writer primarily from Clearwater, Florida, Campbellsville, Kentucky, Masonville, Iowa, Jacksonville... Gainesville... if it ends in 'ville chances are he's been there at some point. He's a huge Henry Miller and Arthur Rimbaud fanatic. Frankie co-edits an online zine at methlab1234.blogspot.com with Newamba Flamingo and enjoys copious amounts of surrealism and the obscene. He used to frequent strip clubs a lot, but found that the empty pockets were too much to bare. He enjoys long walks on the beach that are not oil infested [fuck you BP]. Frankie hosts BlogTalkRadio shows with the rest of the HIGHdra Syndicate.
Comments (closed)
highjackflash
2010-10-08 11:28:48
hell yeah man!!! dig,
Frankie Metro
2010-10-08 16:01:13
thanks hj./. mad respect mi compadre. and thank you to unlikely stories! i love this layout fits the story perfectly i think. one long blackout session. werd!
nella
2010-10-08 21:13:25
awesome frankie. ;) looks fantastic over here. kuuuudos.
Frankie Metro
2010-10-08 21:54:17
thanks sarah. i know right. kinda fits like a glove. a big black glove.