phone calls from the dead

harold thought senseless violence was poetry. he enshrined bad times in his mind. faces broke and crumpled, price merlot spilling out below. he was another biker who liked to bicker. between his queen’s handlebars there were horns that lead down to a stag’s head. it was dead but sometimes he could hear its voice. it told him who to hurt. it knew everything but it was a quiet creature. glassy eyes looked like blips of oil. there was a lot of static in the sky that night. the stars were pixellated, generic dancing in 16-bits. some jackal named jackula bit him when they were brawling. hal gouged an eye out. he didn’t give a fuck about nothin.

electrofuck sat at the bar, ailment drinking from a pitcher of heineken. dreadhead spoke to him about how the zombies were comin. he was ready for em, he was gonna fuck em up. but if only one was walking down the street, he’d let it go on cuz he knew the cops would set a nigga up. the government had conspiracies, piracies with people in cells. the romans first found zombies and locked em up for 40 years til those fucks rotted to death. the cdc even wrote what to do when the zombies arrive.

dread said he was a redneck, though he didn’t look the part. he had a motherfucking mohawk. he was raised on acres of land. told to shoot anyone who walked in on it. when he was seven, he was ready to send fools to heaven. he knew how to make turtle soup. said you had to boil the meat or it was toxic.
Junk stomps down the streets of Good Luck City in his Tron boots. Maneki Nekos wave at him from various store windows. Tiger kites and paper lanterns hang above the alleys.

He turns down Michael Jackson Street and sees a box of blood below a green dumpster. The dumpster is marked with a sign that says Master Management. A mummy in skinny jeans sleeps below it.

“Welcome to tha jungle, order
” some ginger tells him as he walks further along. There are leafy nets above the buildings here. Some half-baked hero smokes hashish in a bubble tea bar.

Paris shook her ass fast to the music. Dubstep, melanoma
drugstep played between the sets of karaoke singers. Her hands held the back of a chair. Some black guys in the back yelled, diagnosis
“You go girl!”

She was wearing red shorts that made her ass look larger. It was like an apple, sale some wolfmen wanted to bite. Luke danced with her, sweating. A pure, drunken joy emanated around them.

She had a generous heart and bought him a bottle of Magic Hat #9. It was as sweet as her thick lower lip. They listened to rap when they drove to the bowling alley. Pharcyde’s video played on the Iphone, “She keeps on passing me by.”

Black man with metal leg sang Motown. Some fine young thang sang “Turning Japanese” by the Vapors. He smiled and shook his head to the beat. Luke sang “Rock me, Amadeus” in English.

Dr. Good Nyte and the Midnight Ramblers wandered down sepia hallways and stairways to heaven, sick
chewing on leavened bread. In the white room with the checkerboard floor there were fifteen plastic dolls of Pogo the Clown. A gentle breeze twinkled the wind chimes as hazy baby blue curtains shimmered.

“Doc, website like this
what we gonna eat today?” Tyrannosaur spiked up his bleached blond hair.

“There are machine parts and car hearts melting in the scrapyard,” Dr. G. waved an orange and yellow flag. It had a bear in the middle of it.

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