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A man of expansive taste.
By Daniel | September 6, 2007
Big Black Sun
The moon hung wild and free like Gods toe nail. Somewear in the City of Broken Angel’s; a human scream. A beckoning bellow of burnt bile and bones shatnered hither, tither, and all diagnol directions in betwixt. This screambellow snickerd into the pollution coloured sky; thru the air like so many ankle-broken gymnysts and down perfectly like a Feather into the ear of one Wolferine. He was not tickled. He was rabbit; foaming at the mouth like a Cujo. The Rabbit Wolferine.
—
“Vrom. Vrom. Vrom.” vrom’d the motorcycle. It sliced thru the chili night mist like a more airodynamic knife with wheel accessories. Wheel; wheel; wheelie. Wolferine wheelied over the road because it had alot of annacondo snakes on it; his headlites casting shadow puppets like big spaggeties against the Octobered trees. The bellowscream still echo’d thru Wolferines’ ear hair, his neck mane, his feather’d soul.
More screams. A chorus line of hurting. The night was a crool mistress, brows pluck’d: Very Nice. Lips lustered like Rudy Red Dimons: Very Nice. Hart… a Dungen of Despare. Very Nice.
Not.
—
Wolferine had reach’d the epicenter of the echos. Bodys strewn hamhazard like pink t-shirts in a small girls’ pad. Blood flow’d like a stigmata river. Wolferine was not fazed. His hart is callussed as if it had spent its’ summer lerning the bass guitar. He breathd in. He breathd out. His Wolf-Sense was jumping like a Junebug down the street. A werid smell, a witchs’ brew of dog and also dead dog to.
On the ground, beside the murder’d and dead bodys: Foot prints. Big ones. Holy Cow. Only one things for Wolferine to do: Follow his loyal sences to whenst it may lead him.
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The foot prints led strait to manshun. Medal gates that read “Adagio”. “So our prep has a name, thought Wolferine to himself.” To knock and say Hello Is Anyone Home? To call ahead and say Guess Whose Coming To Dinner? Nay he say. SNICK say his adamantium claws. Slice – dice – dead like rice. Wolferine step’ed thru the whole and entered the dead zone. He stop’ed to admire the archetexture. German and Europeen. Loveley. How could this house of inequity house such misdeads. Wolferine shook his head like a hungry dog. He muzed to himself, “My, how a Good Son is soon eclips’d by a Bad Moon Risen.”
—
The door was unlocked. He walked in: Uninvited as is his want. Nooses swung in the wind like a childs’ loogies, to afro, to afro… strangly beuotiful. Seductive, like a Richard Gear silhouet. Paintings on the wall, sculpchures all ovre the place. The home of a artistic. On the floor… bottles of Drugs. Print’d in red like red Arial font: ZOID.
Wolferines’ world swam like a soul in a fish bowel. Zoid. A new drug so dangrous that… that… you don’t Even want to know how dangrous it is.
Adagio step’ed down the step’s. He was a man of expansive taste. Penny loafers entrusted in the silverest of Quartres; Georgie Armanie shoes; Jordache leather jackets. The Whole 9 Yards. Wolferine knew better than to judge this manbook by it’s cover. “Be wared, hes’ a Zoid Head” he thought. Adagio step’ed slow, like a almost-froze-snake. His eyes are green and hypnotistic, hypnotising Wolferine with thoughts of sunset, a womans’ subtle bosom, JcPenny. He popp’d in a Zoid and Wolferine popp’d out of his JcDream.
Adagio morphed. His once delicut skins of golden beige; now skelly like a fishe’s belly. His once see-green eyes; now orange like cancer pee. Before him stood a seven foot Thing of mass proportion. He was muscled like a horse leg. A true Lummox. Spin, spin the orange circle. He was a tornadoe of fury! “Oh my God it,s Zoid Rage” said Wolferine! It was go-time.
Adagio lumbered forward like a fast panther-cat and upper cut into Wolferine’s chin like it was a Jeopardy buzzer. Fittingly, Wolferines’ head buzzed like a bucket of bees; bees that don’t anser in the form of a question. Bees that anser in the form of Head-Butt! Now things are on the level. A plateu of combat. Adagio chokeslams; Wolferine ear bites like a Tyson; Adagio punches; Wolferine punches back Donky style. “Enuff z nuff” thought Wolferine too himself. He stopped; dropped; shut him down; and open’d up a little shop of horrors uponst Adagio’s earthly flesh. When the new, improv’d tornadoe of fury settled nothing was left of Adagio but fillets of retribution.
—
Wolferine stepp’d outside as the sun peaked it’s firy fist upon the yonder horizon. In reglar life Adagio was a cunning gentlemen with a underbelly of bluegray ache. But whilst in this limelight of the Zoid Zone, he became a monstar, a true syko. Wolferine wandered what transports himself to his Zoid Zone. One thing: the sanctity of justice and law. Wolferine smiled a smile and thought, “Cool”.
Topics: By: Daniel, Wolferine | No Comments »