A waxy gleam from the razor. In my hands between my fingers. Somewhere in between. Flipping back and forth. Not sure what to do. Just wait and stare or get on with the show. I don't know why I was procrastinating. Perhaps it was resulting from other thoughts I was preoccupied with. Tender thoughts. Robust thoughts. My skin was all flaky and fidgety. I glanced at my shallow face in the mirror. It looked hollow again. The mirror was a cataclysm of Holy Shits ready to step in itself. Someone better squirt some Windex on it, and like right away. I could barely geta good look. My eyes were narrow and out of cahoots. A distortion pedal.

Enough stalling, I thought. I handheld the cream. Lacquered up my hands and rubbed it in my face. Smooth like a rabbit's jackass. I scraped off the hair follicles one row at a time. One layer at one time. Like a big tub of bean dip. Guacamole n' horse manure. Green sticky shit. Spicy and without the tomato testicles. I rinsed the remaining bits of castaway cream. The forgotten about and misused n' abused. The refused. My skin was wonderfully handheld again. It's nice to be young, I thought. (Though not for much longer.)

My cousin's cousin gave me a desperate knife back in the last year and a half. It was a present for my last unhappy birthday. I grabbed it in my right palm, gleaming at my shiny facial surfaces with my right index eye. I was looking for a target. Tryin' to look good for my latest incarnation with Blankman. (Hank the Blankman we'd called him. He penciled me in for a spacey game of checkers and I twas to leave undefeated again. And he twas to leave less "Hank-ti-mon-eous")
My fingers flipped open the drippy blade from the tiny little bugger and let at it. A slit on my right cheek and one on the other. I looked like a rambling telephone wire, again. There was enough room to stick my hand into an entire section of cheek skin. (Blankman was sure to have his woozle strangled at the site of it all… and I might if he asked nice.) I took a towellette of Cantonese dish vomit (so to speak) and rummaged it through my hair. (On my head - you see, I no longer played pity to the facial components from before. In the garbage, I tell ya!) Spike it up like a centurion disco queen. I thought, make him sweat it out. Make that f**k'n Blankman render his meatbiscuits for ten cents on the dime. We'll see won't we.
Ooh ooh ooh. Were those my gangly ear lobes or were those sweaty little dwarves campaigning for free speech? They did need a trimmin'. Oh my! All this time wasting away like telephoto signals. There was something in my mind. Something I should-a-been-a-occupying my brain follicles with. But I didn't want to think about it. Pack it down, I thought, like heaping RED shit bricks. Pack it down NOW! I scraped off a bit of the 'ol lobey lobes. Right n' left. It was a pleasure to look the part of the sexy confederate. Here's to you Mr. Blankman. May you have your lightning rod cremated in my slithering wet tongue-pod.
I had to fluff up my cheek flaps a bit. Give 'em a more motherearthy look to the whole package. Damn! I was a fuckin' cheeky-squeeze!
Blankman was not to be patient with all this handicapping time management. Where would he go, or do, stuck up in my spaceship. Stuck up in noon's morning sky. Fifty million star-grazing centitrons from home. He was sneaking eyeball shots from his clock. "When is he gonna be present again," thinking. And I knew better than the rest of 'em how my waiting was for a certain kind of theater-dream making kind of come true. Make 'em think me all the more tasty masculino-key-lime pie for the inconvenience. He knew it too, which would greatly explain his fowl good mood. His unmoving twitch! His dancing death! His red bleu!

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"G'day Mr. Blankman," I told him.
"Hasn't quite been a quarter of a century," he said, "I'm shivering shocked."
"Stop your sleazin' big cowboy man. I cut open my facial cheeks for you."
"That it is!" he added. "Looks mighty winded. A man is definitely a man!" He stood up birdlegged and sniffly nosed. Shook me by my right index a strong collapsing "good morning." Nearly shrunk the non-existent sprinkles off me bum. (The man's got a firm one)
"Kiss the seat's ass," he joked, and I did it anyway. So did he.
"What are we wasting tonight's afternoon with here?" I acted like an ignorant stool pigeon.
"You already know the nature of our a-meet-in be to play us some seriously deliriously old-fantastically fantastmic game of CHEEKers." he winked at my eye over that last bit of words and fluffed up at my 'cheek-ers' with his right index.
"Now now Blanky. Win a game and we'll see."
He scrambled his arms back and positioned himself in a tactile position to win or be won. All or nothing. But it was the heart he wanted.
"Your move," he mentioned to me. The pieces of checkers were a-nippin' at me every little time I was spittin' trying to make my move. Aggressive little wieners, I thought. Couldn't even get a handle on 'em.
"It's easy," Hank said. "Ya gotta grab 'em by their spinal cords and clog down their biting jaws with your thumb. They're helpless little sunny side uppers."
"I bet your fortune cookie is just about as cantankerous," I said, eyeballing his cookie.
"Now! Now!" He was a-shockin-a-back a few yards. "Nobody here gets missin' any street talk." He added with appropriate sign language. "Cut the chase." He giggly giggly wiggled.
"I was just kidding you. Don't go takin' it out on my good graces." I added with the disappropriate sign language. "Cut me some slack," and I had a little wiggle myself.
He took his move and nearly had a bite taken from his right index. Head in the stars. Day-dreamin'. Death almost always occurs to giggly old men while they indulge in such shady boyhoods.
"Mr. Blankman, do be aware!" I shot with a lack of thought.
"Just thinkin' about a person," he dreaded. Eyeballs poppin' out in my general passageway.
"You didn't mean that," I said. "Liar… liar… liar…" I chanted like a drop dead stone-washer baggy jean. I almost sounded corrupt; I put myself so far into it.
"Please," he said pawing at my nipple-shaven fingertips. "Let's forget this dreary dog and pony puppet show! I want to take your sticky shit and smear myself inside! I wanna dip my chocolate into your almond butter! I wanna transfix all night."
Oh my! I thought. His leading the dog right to the water nearly shocked my socks on! I was expecting a whole evening's afternoon of this. Maybe it was the earlobes that did him in. I had but no choice.

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He soccer-balled the checkerboard over like an army rifle. Little pieces of biting checkers snapping their way halfway across the solar system.
"And now," he said, lifting up high his left index… he soccer-balled me over into the pit of biting checker men.
"Oh god yes!" I said. "Reinvent yourself! At my expense, no doubt!"
Holding up his wall. Kissing his posture. Almost a-closing-in/to-a-transfix-an-in. This cowboy here felt a warm tingly overture in my greatest of tendencies. The glass is half-empty, if you follow the logic.
Blanky had shivers crawling up his no-goods and was desperate to find himself a place to put it. So many options. But you wanna work yourself up progressively for maximizatious optimus merandus. This key-note host was fairly more willing to have an on-lookers perspective to the whole tasty burrito. Just see where the sauce lands.
"You-a-flappin me long time!" he kept saying in that time capsule of space. One of those things a creature could say in the thickening of it, but would giggle instantaneously were it to be a tape recorder's public display.
His doo-dad was hallowing my flim-flam. And I'd never quite felt so taken.
"Mr. Blankman! I do declare!"
(The spaceship was flying on "auto-pilot" thank God.)