MGK
09-21-2010, 05:39 PM
Esblánc hears every single drop of rain on the car's torn and twisted metal, glistening from the silent rain. Then, the sounds of the accident resurface in his conciousness, broken glass, cooling steel, the tremendous force unleashed slowly dissipating into the cool air. The taxi driver in front of him is certainly dead; snapped neck, head lolling against the dash, steering column buried comfortably in his chest. Esblánc undoes his seatbelt and picks up his pistol from the floor, fighting off a wave of dizziness and comes to sprawled on the road wet asphalt and warm pieces of glass against his cheek, the chassis of the car so damaged that the passenger door offered no resistance to his slumping body. Slowly, he stands up.
The shopping district corner is brightly lit despite the lateness of the hour, nonsensical shopfronts and faceless mannequins observing the sculpted metal and flesh through the lens of a streetlight. The passengers of the other car, four in total, are all dead; all of them black haired, of similar build, wearing the same business suits in different colours. Despite the orgasmic confusions of body and flesh not a single drop of blood, no hint of that glinting essence is to be seen. Esblánc shakes his head as if to clear his vision and almost falls down, staggers as if drunk, regains his balance slowly. He starts walking in the direction his car had been driving. He takes a few stiff steps raises his head the shopfronts ahead reflect the glimmer of moving headlights the sound of a roaring motor he takes four steps to the left into a doorway:
A wall of light and mass soars past him, kicking his coattails with wind, forcing him to turn away. The fully-stocked 18-wheeler passes his field of vision in less time than he has to turn his head takes the car wreck head on horns blaring continues in a straight line, the twisted metal not much of an impediment, and in a cloud of glass and sun visors and windscreen wipers and wheelcaps disembodied limbs hands and feet the impetous object piles itself straight into the largest shopfront, directly on the corner, almost vanishing inside completely. The truck's trajectory has remodeled the scene, the car wreck replaced by scattered drifts of debris and brutal skid marks. The luxuriously decorated shopfront, of proportions easily fitting the truck, is a gaping wounded hole, thin trails of smoke bleeding out of the dark interior, crackling flashes of broken electricity lines against metal illuminating the ominous silhouette of the mangled 18-wheeler and its roadkill. A distorted burglar alarm has gone off, feebly protesting against the intrusion. Esblánc walks slowly toward the fantastic, his steps almost unsure. The rain has stopped. He feels warm, a trickle of sweat runs down his brow. He wipes it off. The trucks loading doors swing open slowly. Esblánc hears running footsteps turns and:
The first man sprinting towards Esblánc wears a grey business suit and a stupid grin on his face. His first shot goes wild, the second hits the running man in the forehead, his legs flying forward as if their owner had run into a plank at head height. Footsteps to the left Esblánc turns and shoots twice, just in time, the mans corpse, clad in a blue business suit sprawls at his legs. The last spent cartridges hit the pavement with the sound of money. The corpses are bloodless. And Esblánc raises his head as the sound of hundreds of running leather business shoes fills the air, clattering on the tarmac like a thousand pistol shots. The container door creaks.
A hundred men with wild black hair in business suits stand in a circle around the shopfront, each identical save for the colours of their suits. The trucks loading doors are closed. The men, standing still, start to mingle and throng, move together in a kaleidoscope of cheap fabric and bloodless stares and echoing footsteps. They stand still. The second story of the building sags in the middle, onto the truck. The men in suits start to move again, crossing the square back and forth in senseless haste, and as they stand still it becomes clear their number has diminished; almost half have dissappeared in movement. The third story of the building is showing signs of stress and as the men in suits start running in between each other in a tight contorted circle never touching in perfect synchronisation the building collapses, ripping a perfect hole into the wall of shoppfronts lining the street. And after the dust cloud has settled, the detritus fallen and all the wounded dead not a single one of the men in suits is still there.
--
for "pollygamie", accompanying booklet to pollywogs album "dirty words + dirty sex" release 12.11.10
The shopping district corner is brightly lit despite the lateness of the hour, nonsensical shopfronts and faceless mannequins observing the sculpted metal and flesh through the lens of a streetlight. The passengers of the other car, four in total, are all dead; all of them black haired, of similar build, wearing the same business suits in different colours. Despite the orgasmic confusions of body and flesh not a single drop of blood, no hint of that glinting essence is to be seen. Esblánc shakes his head as if to clear his vision and almost falls down, staggers as if drunk, regains his balance slowly. He starts walking in the direction his car had been driving. He takes a few stiff steps raises his head the shopfronts ahead reflect the glimmer of moving headlights the sound of a roaring motor he takes four steps to the left into a doorway:
A wall of light and mass soars past him, kicking his coattails with wind, forcing him to turn away. The fully-stocked 18-wheeler passes his field of vision in less time than he has to turn his head takes the car wreck head on horns blaring continues in a straight line, the twisted metal not much of an impediment, and in a cloud of glass and sun visors and windscreen wipers and wheelcaps disembodied limbs hands and feet the impetous object piles itself straight into the largest shopfront, directly on the corner, almost vanishing inside completely. The truck's trajectory has remodeled the scene, the car wreck replaced by scattered drifts of debris and brutal skid marks. The luxuriously decorated shopfront, of proportions easily fitting the truck, is a gaping wounded hole, thin trails of smoke bleeding out of the dark interior, crackling flashes of broken electricity lines against metal illuminating the ominous silhouette of the mangled 18-wheeler and its roadkill. A distorted burglar alarm has gone off, feebly protesting against the intrusion. Esblánc walks slowly toward the fantastic, his steps almost unsure. The rain has stopped. He feels warm, a trickle of sweat runs down his brow. He wipes it off. The trucks loading doors swing open slowly. Esblánc hears running footsteps turns and:
The first man sprinting towards Esblánc wears a grey business suit and a stupid grin on his face. His first shot goes wild, the second hits the running man in the forehead, his legs flying forward as if their owner had run into a plank at head height. Footsteps to the left Esblánc turns and shoots twice, just in time, the mans corpse, clad in a blue business suit sprawls at his legs. The last spent cartridges hit the pavement with the sound of money. The corpses are bloodless. And Esblánc raises his head as the sound of hundreds of running leather business shoes fills the air, clattering on the tarmac like a thousand pistol shots. The container door creaks.
A hundred men with wild black hair in business suits stand in a circle around the shopfront, each identical save for the colours of their suits. The trucks loading doors are closed. The men, standing still, start to mingle and throng, move together in a kaleidoscope of cheap fabric and bloodless stares and echoing footsteps. They stand still. The second story of the building sags in the middle, onto the truck. The men in suits start to move again, crossing the square back and forth in senseless haste, and as they stand still it becomes clear their number has diminished; almost half have dissappeared in movement. The third story of the building is showing signs of stress and as the men in suits start running in between each other in a tight contorted circle never touching in perfect synchronisation the building collapses, ripping a perfect hole into the wall of shoppfronts lining the street. And after the dust cloud has settled, the detritus fallen and all the wounded dead not a single one of the men in suits is still there.
--
for "pollygamie", accompanying booklet to pollywogs album "dirty words + dirty sex" release 12.11.10