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And the Hog World dance takes me over again, sweeping my conscience away, away. . . Drifting
with my rolling life, my round-a-go crowd. Spin-happy, Mort and Christian take to the top, pouring
me onto a balcony with a round-faced belly woman packaged around me, sinking into my skin like
so much butter, warm. I stand whooping with her at my waist, dizzy-balancing, smiling. She s
very pleasurable against my skin, though a half-ugly race for the most part.
Then, up here above the crowd, I stare out whirlpool. Looking on the bacchanal-tingle, on the
RICH indulging faces. I smirk.
***
Beyond the happy crowd, I gleam the outside windows, where hundreds of parasites have
gathered, smoldering eyes tearing into me, faces pressed against the glass. Poor, poor, poor. I
put an end to my smile and go inside my head. At this time, the parasites have sadness and we
have happiness.
If all of us were to agree to let them in they would have some of our happiness, but we would get
some of their sadness, and we would all be at the same level of emotion. However, we would be
compromising our happiness to end their sadness, which is not appealing to us, even though it is
the even thing to do.
After the moment for pitying the poor slips away, I go back to the fun. It was a good, fair idea for
me to come up with, but since I m at the TOP and want to keep my happiness and my luxury, I
m willing to sacrifice the poor ones to the cold.
Richard Stein always said that nobody deserves to live in the cold. But right now, I really don t
seem to care.
Scene 11
Another Day In Oblivion
***
Today, when I wake up with my brain squishing into the back of my skull - Hog World gave me a
nasty hangover, with some sour muscles and a bruise - I decide that I m inside of oblivion
instead of reality. I have said oblivion is the worst place in the world to be, but it is okay when you
are only pretending. While you are nothing, there s not much to worry about. And doing without
worry is the best possible thing I can do for myself.
I say:
"I am in nothing."
This is a very relaxing thing to say. All my nerves trickle right out of me, because nothing has no
nerves at all. I wrap my whole corpse in a cocoon of blankets, pressing my skin into a small
comfort. Only my face feels the fingering draft.
I decide to sleep like this all day, going in and out of actuality. There is nothing more important
than being in a dream world when the conscious world is horrible as it is. Christian comes in and
out of my closet/room every half hour to see if I m up for some ugly fun, but I tell him that I m
having all the fun I need for today.
Christian whines and leaves, back to watching old reruns on the pawnshop television. I don t
need to explain why they only play reruns on television. There hasn t been a new show for at
least three years, which is why I only watch Battlestar Galactica. Christian watches Hart to Hart
and The A-Team. Sometimes, while Christian watches The A-team, I wonder if Mr. T is like the
rest of the world - boring and emotionless. Christian thinks it isn t possible for Mr. T to get
boring, because Mr. T is a national icon, and should ve been the messiah instead of Jesus
Christ.
I remember that I m supposed to be in oblivion and not allowed to be consciously aware of the
terrible things in the world, such as Mr. T losing his soul. I try to empty my mind. Then I let my
eyes put me back into the sleep world again.
Inside of sleep world, I decide I am a butterfly that gets raped by a dragonfly girl in midair. Then a
frog slurps us both up and its stomach acids dissolve us as she continues her sexual assault.
The dream lasts for about two seconds and then weaves into one where I am five aristocrats
eating a sausage.
***
At work, it isn t so easy to pretend I am in oblivion. I can t work the register if I m nothing, it s
just not possible. I decide that only my mind is in oblivion - only because I have decided that -
and my corpse is a mindless zombie that can still perform simple zombie tasks like typing and
passing out food. Hopefully, the rolling world doesn t make me remember I am Leaf, spilling me
into the real world, which is where I don t want to be.
The early shift - Gin, Nan, and Vodka - is still here. Leeching at a BIG rounding table with Satan,
drinking storm-warnings and eating beer chips. Apparently they re not interested in going home
for the night. Instead, they want to get drunk-happy and be party maniacs all tonight inside of the
Satan Burger, while the rest of us work.
But, since I am nothing, I don t care to mind them now. Mort, on the other hand, complains, as
usual, about the usual. If he isn t making fun, nobody should be making fun. But I don t blame
Mortician for his bitchy attitude; it s in his character to act that way. Without his bitching, he
would be as boring as the rest of the world.
Mort hammers at some syrup ants who have invaded his kitchen. Syrup ants are a very pesky
type of ant. They are BIG like fingers and have large butts filled with syrup. In the world they
came from, people would squeeze the syrup from their butts and put a collection into bottles. On
the label of these bottles would be the words: "Syrup Ant Syrup," with a BIG cartoon syrup ant
smiling away as his syrup-butt poops on a stack of pancakes. However, on their planet,
pancakes are made from sawdust, because flour doesn t exist there, not to mention that wood is
one of their four basic food groups instead of breads and cereal.
As he hits them, their butts explode and a pool of syrup occurs, getting his counter goo-sticky.
Tiny drops of the sweet juice slop onto his wrist skin, pasting the hairs together. And nothing
frustrates Mort more than having pasty wrist hairs.
Mortician decides there isn t time to bother with the ants and sends a demon stapler and a
demon meat cleaver after them. These objects have never eaten syrup ants before, but they are
willing to try anything with syrup in its butt. At first, the demons chomp at the air, spinning in
circles, unsure how to work their invisible legs. Once they learn the how to move, however, they
gobble up the pests no problem. Exploding the ants in their metal jaws, leaves the counter a
gooey mess. Mort continues his working and bitching.
***
I come out of oblivion and hear this:
"WHAT THE HELL DID YOU TOUCH HIS PENIS FOR?"
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