Satan Burger - By Mellick Carlton Page 0,63
sun blobs out. Orange fuzz dissolves into the skeletal-patterned skip-clouds, frigid with gray and hints of blue. Spider limbs talon-reach for the soap mountains on their avenue. Uneven faces secrete slowly out of it - the cloud is going to leak more people-creatures instead of rainwater, spat-splashing onto the great mob of overpopulation below.
It rents through light, oozes sideways, chokes it into darkness.
And dusk becomes night.
The mob:
Crowds of people sleeping in the streets, the carpet walkways, smushed into buildings like snail shells. All different races, sizes, shapes, colors, clothing, trying to ignore claustrophobia. Every empty piece of ground taken up by a living being. Rippington is Earth’s toy box, overflowing with piles and piles of action figures. They are motionless and hushed. Some coughs and shaking. Waiting for starvation to kill them and make them like Gin.
The roadway people become aroused when they see sheets of lightning dazzle-striping from the clouds. Flashes reflect against their BIG glazed eyes, haunting their children. Coils of wind corrupt their naked parts with invisible fingers. Some people enjoy the storm, for now - the water clouds aren’t collapsing yet - because there’s no amusement in Suffocation Land besides what’s up in the air.
The warehouse is ready for another concert. It’s burning warm with gum-crammed groups of people and thick sweaty air. Mostly filled with walm people trying to get off the stormy streets, and some of the usual crowd of punks and skinheads, trying to get rid of their boredom. The rest of the usual punk crowd - the larger portion - must have lost too much soul to make it here.
There won’t be another show after this one.
Only two bands are playing tonight: The Oi!s and Sid’s band, Slaughter Shoes. My band was supposed to play too, but Christian refused. He said he wasn’t in the mood, and neither was Vodka. And Vodka has BIG round pads on his breasts. I don’t care for playing either; playing with my blue woman is more fun. I’m in my room with her right now, caressing her perfect ocean skin. Her sensations not as quick as a human’s but that’s because she is like a machine.
Slaughter Shoes starts playing - a melodic hardcore sound with a saxophone player. Boot Lips, the singer, hop-bangs to his songs, more soul-filled than anyone else here; it’s like the walm hasn’t touched him at all. He’s even more up-up than he was back at his apple barn. I’m sure his soul will outlive everyone’s in town. Good luck to him.
He really adored the steel sculptures that live inside the warehouse and ordered them to be placed in the center of the crowd, surrounding the toilet where Vodka is sitting. The sinister/gruesome aspect of the sculptures is what he liked. They are black and rusty and crude, also very sharp. One looks to be a palm tree of knives and another is like a tangle of meat hooks and a headless woman with spiked skin and sword nipples. She smiled at Boot Lips with her prickly vagina and he immediately fell in love.
The name of this unrefined sculpture is Fria.
Vodka sits alone on the toilet, staring at Fria’s butt and the butts of every other sculptures around him, boxed in like he’s in the bathroom stall of a sweat-dizzy night club, but the stall doors are sharp and spiny and stabbing inwards. He complains to the sculptures for crowding him, but they won’t give him anymore room. His stare is blank and evil, but his response is silence. And nobody outside of his little boxed space realizes that he’s in there.
The blue woman begins to touch me now, to excite me, trying to get my penis erect so that she can eat. She’s always touchy-feely when she is hungry, and very alert instead of inside her dream world.
Mooshing her plump breasts into my stomach, digging into the skin with flinty nipples. BIG eyes looking into me - she knows I like that, it jingles our souls together. I’m not certain that blue women have souls. They’re more like machines or like animals, and I’ve been told that neither of the two possess souls.
I slink into her neck, washing the azure plastic, feeling her smooth-fleshy. She doesn’t have human neck bones. The neck is more like the human calf - lots of meat with one hard bone . . . but her bone is soft and thin, flexible. I can also feel a slight tube, probably for mouth reproduction. It creak-chirps when