Skin melting…
(via achaoticmasterpiece)
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The corn rows embrace the car as Esther loses control. She slams on the brakes, just as something smashes on the bonnet.
“SHIT!” Esther shouts at the cracked windscreen. Her partner Paul, swimming in New Year’s drunkenness, springs up from his sleep in the seat next to her.
“Wah, wuh, huh? What happened?”
“I hit something.” Tears well in her eyes.
“When? Is that why you were shouting?” Esther nods. “Well, that was a bit silly…” He trails off and stumbles out of the car, “Why are we in a field of corn, honey?”
“Not now Paul…” Esther inhales and relieves her steel grip from the wheel, “Just see what I hit.” Her voice falters.
Paul looks from the human shaped dent in the Chevy’s hood and the crumpled heap of red and white fabric. He bends down to investigate.
“AH!” Paul leaps back and slips over.
“What, what is it?” Esther calls from the window.
“Oh…my…god…” he says, rising.
“What?”
“Oh…my…god…” Paul stands, gazing down and dumbstruck.
Esther gets out of the car, shouting: “PAUL, WHAT THE FU-” The words die in her mouth as she sees the heap of red clothes, trimmed with white fluff.
Paul breaks her silence: “Est, you hit Santa…” His slurred words hang in the air like a balloon.
“I what?”
“You hit Santa… Ran him right down.” His eyes are dark.
“Wha-whu, bu, but why was he in the middle of the field?”
“No idea… Probably was just taking a breather before heading home…”
“But his sleigh isn’t here?” Little sparks of hope flicker between her tears.
“Invisible maybe?” Paul shrugs.
A moment passes, then Esther’s reserve bursts.“Oh god, what are we gonna do? I’ve killed Santa,
I’ve murdered the father of joy and holidays, the giver of presents and dreams to young children. How is anyone ever going to believe in him, if he’s dead?”
“Who’s gonna feed the reindeer?” Paul slips in.
“Exactly! Oh Paul, I’m gonna be shunned for all eternity; The Bitch Who Killed Christmas.” She looks to Paul, watery streaks on her cheeks highlighted in the moonlight.
“You’ll probably only go down for manslaughter…” Paul offers.
“Shut up.” Her words are like quick strike venom. “Trust you to make jokes at a time like this. You never support me, I bet you make me take the blame for this, if you hadn’t made me take that last hit, we wouldn’t have been in the field and this would have happened. Well, fuck you very much Paul, I hope you burn in He-”
Paul raises his hand, silencing Esther. Holding the hat, he smiles. “Look.”
Esther’s eyes drop down from Paul’s smirk and focus on the cold, dead corpse of a Santa dressed scarecrow.
It was never a question, the hairy hands in the air. They never asked questions, only pointed and gaped their chimpanzee grins until their eyes became yet another wrinkle. Night in, night out, he would stroll up and down, in front of the desks, discussing the relations between religion and the dinosaurs; how velociraptors were a good insurance policy if the world ended and no shining being came down to save you. At least then you could point and laugh at your friend who wasted years being celibate and not enjoying wheat products… His class of monkeys would find this concept hilarious and then hurl objects at him.
Carl B. Blanket found his night classes the hardest to deal with. Crocodiles on a Monday morning had a firm grasp on string theory and were coming to terms with the concept of buffet eating tariffs. Egrets, although a little unsure of typewriters, made fine ballet and jazz dancers. His class of cows on a Tuesday afternoon could understand that cheese was made from milk and had all ready started experimenting on how to coagulate it in their stomachs, to produce instant cheese. Blanket went to tell them there were cans for that, but they were generating promising results.
But monkeys were far too narrow minded. Religion was so integrated into their thinking; any suggestion that God wasn’t the reason for the rain, delicious snacks on trees or why crabs made good safe crackers, provoked a bombardment of paper, clipboards, rubbers and manure, followed by bouts of laughter.
His walks home from the Ark were always introspective. He reminisced about the old days, when it was all about money and squandering it. Those were good times, simple times, when it was just a 9-5 automotive system, with the weekends off occasionally.
Now, there was the possibility of 18 hour shifts, sporadic night classes due to animal feeding times, all followed by the reproduction quota. 30 hours of intercourse from each male a week, just to replenish the human race. Sometimes, Blanket thought it was far too much to handle, especially the copious amounts of monkey shit he had to wash out of his suits every week.
The words weren’t ever hard to find. Ed always had them on the edge of his tongue, but held them there with a steel reserve, so bent on not letting them spill out of his mouth. Asking for help was hard; wanting to ask for help but not being able to was even harder.
He spent long minutes wishing for the chance to say it all, shout it all out of him, for anyone or anything to hear. But never could. Anytime one seemed like it was going to escape, a darkened hand reached from inside his heart and pulled it back within.
His muteness alienated him from all those outside his head. He soon found his hands disappear, transparent like untainted glass; present and existent, but invisible, just as he was without the words blooming on others ears. The disappearance spread to his chest, to his legs, all encompassing. The words not come, no matter how much he tried to scream them out.
Before long he was translucent, a slight shimmer in the air. Days were labored in front of the mirror, Ed’s wishes for his reflection skimming across its surface. He cried into his hands, invisible tears on clear palm. A single word flared in his mind and drifted its way onto his tongue. It was warm and simple, light, ready to slip through the distant lips and into the mirror.
“Please.”
The mirror’s surface trembled, rippling slowly and then became still. Words began to tumble out of Ed’s mouth, dancing around the room, naive and unsure, clinging to anything they could hold onto, before fading into the unsettled air.
After several hours they stopped all was silent. But within the mirror, there was the reflection of an invisible smile for all of the spilled words to behold.
Spit flies, matted hair torn, the claws and teeth wrenching, the crowd baying for blood to be drawn, drawn in the circle they made for profit on the soul of a dog.
Victory is claimed by the Doberman. His brother lies dead, faded into the dirt stamped with greedy hooves. He feels no remorse, no shame or sadness. He feels the warm pat on his head. And the promise of a meal that night.
Giraffe sat gloomily in the pub, drinking a Cheetah with extra lemon. Velociraptor walked up to him and asked what was up? Giraffe responded by saying that due to the inflation of monkey nuts, he had to fire half his workforce. Velociraptor proceeded to pat him on the back and order him a couple more drinks. Giraffe felt a bit better, but didn’t really appreciate being asked if Velociraptor could then use the monkeys at his accountancy firm; chimps doing accounts? That’s like employing baboons as psychiatric nurses…
I have seen so many things. Shown so many people the fate that awaits them. Only then can they decide the lives they live…
But I why do I always have to kill fictional characters? They never listen! Romeo and Juliet? I told them that they would mess up their schedules and miss each other at the rendezvous, which would lead to their peril… What do they do? Carry on their love affair and kill themselves. Dumbledore. I tell him Snape is out to get him, is still in contact with the dark side; he stops me there saying that he trusts him and soon finds himself plummeting to the floor. A school without a headmaster, exactly what the students need!
The villains are worse. The Green Goblin flies around, kidnapping young women, hurling explosive pumpkins at a man spider, expecting that he can get away with it. I showed him how he gets cut in half, his own hoverboard separating his torso from his legs, and it just seemed to encourage him!
They never learn. This next guy is a money lender. So many guys down the bureau get bankers, but they actually exist! I’ll probably visit this Scrooge bloke, make him feel real guilty about taking money from the poor and he’ll get written as not caring the morning after… He’ll take even more money I’m sure. I really need to get transferred to Christmas Present, that’s where the fun is.
