I bulls and bullets begin. The end of the world is before us and all is turn-to-grey. The Dalai Lama will certainly be the last human on earth. And in whichever reincarnation he makes his last, the blast of an atom bomb will be its last vision before departing. Mission over old friend. Mission over.
• Hey my head is heavier than my feet, what am I doing standing on my head when my feet are below the clouds. I have no clue as to how many masks must be made before I have mastered mask making
•Wherewithal had his communion at the age of 11 but he insists that he wanted to determine whether God, in so much as is possible, would provide him with virgins after the completion of an upright lifestyle.
• There were thirty kids that summer. All of them fat, all of them whining. We had taken the lease over its expected deadline and had the place for just one more summer. Just three months to return order to the world. The fat children were in our hands.
There were thirty kids that summer. All of them fat, all of them whining. We had taken the lease over its expected deadline and had the place for just one more summer. Just three months to return order to the world. The fat children were in our hands.
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“The point is to have the alcohol inside of me. That way you can forget about living, if but for a time.” Claynton growled in response.
The room's bar was old, old and wooden. The kind of wood which would give you splinters if you ran your hand along it. And the two men who sat there wore the trappings of any lumberjack who worked in northern Ontario that time of year. Their arms were large and their hands were coarse. And the creases in their faces hid all but the slight gleam of candle light which would shine in this eye or that. The place was cold and large. The kind of large room whose dark corners provided comfort to outlaws, schizophrenics, and whichever lucky man happened to be getting head at that instant in time upon God's green. The place was oval, the door was oval, and the windows too. About everything in the place was made of Romanic curves except the wooden columns and the old bar. What was with that bar anyway? And didn't I say something about the people sitting at it? Oh yea, there were two of them as I remember. And they were old men, lumberjacks or mechanics I don't remember. You see, on that night I wasn't paying too much attention. It was long after closing time, I'd served them a bottle, locked up, and somehow or another I'd found myself in the corner again. One of those dark corners. One of those lucky men. Well, despite the way she worked her tongue, I saw – if but for an instance – I saw that candle light flicker and shine and I knew. I knew they had death in their eyes. Well, looking back on it I didn't really care that much at the time and I'm sure you can understand as to why. But it was there all the same. They were going to die soon and they knew it. One last round before goin on to Valhalla. Or maybe they were the only survivors. All comrades having fallen around them as the day went grey and their vision went red. And they drinking that flaming oil down like they weren't two men but thirty. And the bottle was half empty.
