Mr.Pressure Loses His Mantra continued
Brother shines a light into the eyes of Pressure, so bright he bites his tongue and spits blood onto the white walls that now surround him. The house seems like a parody of mom and pop and a monster under the stairs time. Yes, this place fits a little too small, a little too tight around his arteries. He coughs. Through the front wall, Pressure hears a whimpering and has to almost lay down to peer out the window. Out, Mantra writhes about, covered in lipstick and a perfume that shatters like a thin shell when Police-cop Brother Ben shows up. Reaching down, he snatches up Mantra and sucks the body down like a snack, "There, you crotchy punk. What do you think of that?"
In the brisk country of Yesteryear, a small shore culture on the waters of the acrid sea exists, being as old as the time of striped fashion. Evolution had been on a sort of, shall we say, rebellious streak, sleeping around and snorting copious amounts of narcotics. It got in to rather psychedelic music and lost sight of the survival of the fittest spirit. In this span of time, such beauties as the zebra and thylacine were conceived, along with this water of body. The self-realization coming upon the creation of the tiger. I mean, black on orange? Come on.
Mr.Pressure had lived upon these banks for several years. Now, after having slid himself down super-swift into the gullet of Ben, he had first drifted through chunky waters, heavy with philosophies and theories torn apart by the cop. Pressure searched a long time for his lost companion, all the time lacking his inner peace. One afternoon he is collecting dry bits of Socrates for his nightly fire, whistling, "Hum drum dimmy tongue ..." a sea shanty he had acquired from the local fishers, when he hears a familiar voice called out, "Copy thus, for sake alone."
At this moment, Pressure questions his dear Mantra, even though the friend is newly found, his whore body mangled and weakened in the harsh water, "But I do enjoy it." "That is a perk of the teaching," but Pressure is already riding a wave of nostalgia, realizing his existence on the shore is no longer warranted. He thinks of his simple surrogate family, their racist treatment of those from across the waters, and of their tradition of drinking a distilled blend of the liquid, once they were deemed old enough to be returned to the state of a child. He thinks of his budding wife, back at the shack, most likely masturbating in his absence, filling the hut with her scent, the scent of ghosts, then losing interest before climax.
"This is my home." "No." "It is now, Mantra." "No, it's Ben's stomach." "Then Ben's stomach is my home." Mantra spins, as the boy demands from the tower before pushing. "I'm going to leave you here for now. I hold a somewhat respectable place in the social structure of the village. But I will return," only to be answered by a cocked head, hair hanging, falling out.
Pressure enters his modest hut, his wife preparing Nietzsche-meat to roast over the fire with Kant sauce. He looks at the skin stretched over her back, knowing he loves her, knowing when her eyes rolled back into her head in ecstasy that she was staring at the bit of his soul that resided up there, "I'm going, and I may not return, Delila."
Her small frame pitches one way, the another, slamming through furniture and moving the foundation when she strikes the wall, "I'm, I'm sorry," and he rushes out, the entire hut vibrating.
He walks to the dwelling of the local fire chief, "Come in, Pressure," he speaks from the floor, "I'm just perfecting my dry-extinguish technique." "I want to ask you a question, chief." "Well, go right ahead, friend." "I know you have a mantra, sir ..." "Oh yes, Pressure," he reclines onto his back and licks the words from the roof of his mouth, "Why use powder, when you can dispose into the ocean?" "And it's a good mantra?" "Oh, Pressure," he snaps up, "It's an excellent mantra. Has kept me fed and happy for years." "Chief, well, do you think I could borrow it?" "Pressure, though I would if I could, you must understand that it does not work that way." "Do you know where I could get one?" "Of course, up Mt.Quasi." "What is up there?" "Can't tell you, " Pressure screwing up his face, "When I got mine, I toddled up there," and with a laugh he produces a clucking noise that represents their distilled beverage. "But it's a good idea?" The chief again rolls back into a giggle fit. No, the house had thrown him back.
From the beach, Mantra sits, chewing on a cat that is or isn't in his mouth, lazily watching two huts violently mate in the distance. Mantra and Pressure sigh simultaneously and take of for Mt.Quasi - one having been clued in, the other possessing an innate knowledge of every other nearby mantra. Mt.Quasi holds on its slopes the well-honed stones of a Damascus temple that slice flesh rather easily. But the two, attacking the mound on different courses, soon find foot holes rather easy to come by. Toward the peak, they catch sight of one another.
"Leave off it, old boy. I'm here for another." "As I should only expect from one such as yourself." "You're pure fairy-weight, you know that?" "Just the sand in these heels gives you no right!" "Off it. I've come to replace your worn ass. There is no place for such as yourself outside this digesting domain." A separate voice is heard, just over the peak, "By torrents abound," the voice speaks, stale and flat.
The two rush around, but only find each other. "Kitties, oh feline friends! Above!" Decorating the walls of heaven, as it had the whore's leg, hung the unsavory texture. "How is it, Ben, you callous shit, that you should inhabit yourself?" "Only as all do. Your wife is also grating against my face with her dwelling feet, and I will tear her apart soon enough." "You leave her out of it." "Out of what? Me bestowing your new mantra?" "I will hear nothing from my prison walls."
"Not even freedom?" and the mouth of the texture seems to gag and spout a stream of bile, drawing it up from the great ocean. Its tendrils spin around the two climbers and bares them into it. Through the old passage, Pressure hears a faint voice calling out, "Fear not time, for in time we have all perspective," adding, "dear kitty."
A dying body, washed in shortwave frequencies, regurgitates onto a side-walk. Pressure flutters to the ground, covered in ink. "Why, look at that, old boy, the tramp didn't care from your flavor," Mantra laughs, through the old mouth of Pressure. "Suppose you'll have to exist only in the way you belong, thought," picking up the scrap, Mantra rips him apart, as the rooftop walkers pace.
END