Tuesday, November 23, 2010

Hard Boiled Egg: The Malt Falcon

It's the cycle of life and death.

Everyday, I died. And every night, I'm resurrected. Reborn. Like that Jew guy.

Never has a phoenix metaphor been embodied more fully than me.

So there I was, dead. As a doorknob. Or is it door nail? Door...mouse?

Anyway, there I was, dead like an insect playing dead, only I was dead for real-real. When SHE came in.

"Ya gotta help me, mister!"

She had legs as tall as the model of the Empire State Building which they used in the King Kong movie. The original one. Not the remake. Wait, how tall was that thing? Maybe that's too short.

So anyway, long legs that curve like an anaconda, if it had no bones. But it does. So it's cool.

She was in black and white, with only her blue eyes and blue dress in colour. Goddamn printers.

"Ya gotta help me. Please!"

Her chest heaved up and down and wriggled out of the dress.

I wanted to help her. God knows I do. It is one of the things God knows about, and he/she/it knows a lot of things.

But I was dead, see? I was dead as a ... well, I was dead.

So, topless, she took my body and carried me out of my office.

"Please help!" Her voice was wavering and she was looking through a veil of shimmering tears.

She put my corpse in a car and drove to the city limits. We pulled up to an abandoned warehouse.

"The men in there... they have photos of me. Photos of me that would make me ashamed for my entire life. Ya gotta help a lost little girl, mister."

I wanted to, toots, but I'm dead.

She took my gun - the metal one - and put it in my cold, dead fingers.

There was some noise in the warehouse.

She aimed my armed hand at the people who were coming out of the warehouse.

And we fired. The old cannon sent earthquakes down my arm and into my crotch. Somehow, her nipples found their way into my dead mouth.