So you find yourself cornered by Frank the night janitor. He has a secret he wants to inject into your neck just when you have freed yourself from hours of phone prattle and NASA jokes volleyed by an out of town audit team with a wacky sense of humor. My cigarettes groan in their crushed pack, even the lucky one, turned opposite from it’s comrades is not her usual mercurial fuck-off cancer non-self. I was getting closer to the revolving doors, near to a triangle of shade I frequented when it became available after 2pm on summer days.
I shoved a smooth Rollo in my mouth to assuage my arrested outdoor plan. I then mummified Franks peroration by imagining a highly vaunted Rollo commercial where the carmel at the center of this candy is cascading with violent force in order to thwart an imminent train robbery in an imaginary Canton of Switzerland. Han-kerchiefed bandits manage a paralyzed whoop of crushed amusement before a sticky end. If only these criminals understood that candy-centers are often the militias of our imaginations and more!
Frank’s accent was thick with metaphysical graffiti. A simple physical explanation was quickly disintegrated with a spasm of disgust for anything that might sully the curdled pretension that humans were the most mysterious thing in all universes, and the gods were so tricky when it came to confusing us, knowing it’s prized creature-offspring delighted in all sorts of flattery even if it was cloaked with some hardship or painful self-examination. It chose reveal the ‘truth’ every so oddly, and during God’s Egyptian fad, things got out of control.
What does one do to escape wtih ’good’ conscience? Are you afraid of the Pink Man? Mother may I? Great Cesar’s ghost!
“Sir,” I said, “it is the science of n o s e s.”