11.19.2004
Domino Monsoon
Can't see a damn thing! There's water pouring from the sky like it's the Great Flood. A constant river of rain clouds his vision on the dark highway. He rides a motorbike, an Enfield Bullet. Sitting between his crotch and the gas tank, is a small bag. Faint but clear vibrations travel through his groin, are warmed in blood, and sent up straight to his brain, like a signal amplified.
The noise of torrential rain, a TV set gone bad. It sizzles with no surface and random data. You can't even hear if someone screams. In mortal pain, as it is, the throat folds back onto itself, choking the owner further.
The only variations are the waves that come with the flood. It rises and falls to it's own rhythm, heaving and carrying the weight of an entire sky. The rider tries to breathe with the rhythm of water-needles hitting his bare skin. The puddles and potholes break his concentration, jolt him, and he remains on his way to the caves.
He could have been at home snug and warm in bed, but he has he ventured out in this raging storm. He could have been at home watching the late night movie on HBO, downing another bottle of flat beer, but he had to call now. In the middle of the night. In the pouring rain. Half asleep. Unscrewed.
He reaches the caves, kills the engine. No sound except the dull drumming of the rain on his bike, against his back. Nothing answers.
He fumbles at the hot box attached to the rear of his bike. His fingers clutch at something wet and soggy. One part of his brain tells him its futile screaming, no one’s going to hear him anyway; the other part is just frozen with shock. He takes the box of soggy pizza out, and adjusts his baseball cap.
Good. Something. Tissue paper. Oregano. Chilly Flakes. Your Pizza. Big fat bill. Late? Shit. Free Pizza? Yeah, right. We take 300 bucks off, that's it. Your bill is goddamn six hundred. No fucking tip?
Fuck you too, Domino’s, the customers thought.
¶ 2:19:00 AM
The noise of torrential rain, a TV set gone bad. It sizzles with no surface and random data. You can't even hear if someone screams. In mortal pain, as it is, the throat folds back onto itself, choking the owner further.
The only variations are the waves that come with the flood. It rises and falls to it's own rhythm, heaving and carrying the weight of an entire sky. The rider tries to breathe with the rhythm of water-needles hitting his bare skin. The puddles and potholes break his concentration, jolt him, and he remains on his way to the caves.
He could have been at home snug and warm in bed, but he has he ventured out in this raging storm. He could have been at home watching the late night movie on HBO, downing another bottle of flat beer, but he had to call now. In the middle of the night. In the pouring rain. Half asleep. Unscrewed.
He reaches the caves, kills the engine. No sound except the dull drumming of the rain on his bike, against his back. Nothing answers.
He fumbles at the hot box attached to the rear of his bike. His fingers clutch at something wet and soggy. One part of his brain tells him its futile screaming, no one’s going to hear him anyway; the other part is just frozen with shock. He takes the box of soggy pizza out, and adjusts his baseball cap.
Good. Something. Tissue paper. Oregano. Chilly Flakes. Your Pizza. Big fat bill. Late? Shit. Free Pizza? Yeah, right. We take 300 bucks off, that's it. Your bill is goddamn six hundred. No fucking tip?
Fuck you too, Domino’s, the customers thought.
¶ 2:19:00 AM
