Ludwig took the short route down the toilet. With his pants around his ankles and holding the stump of his left arm, he took a long dive through the vines and into yesterday’s paper.
“He’s a dirtbag, a commie, a shite,” she says – she being her, the one, the all, the wretch.
Ludwig took the short route down.
We, the human race as you know it, are the bear clawing at the cliffside. In twenty centuries, troglodytic ant-people will throw virgins from the edge of that precipice in the name of cheap diapers and cheaper diadems. They’ll flail in their catatonia, a breeze blowing back their hair in a Hollywood Boulevard snapshot pose for the ages.
Handy Hal, resurrected on a death ship on the dark side of Andromeda’s fifth arm, will read Ludwig’s fate in a Dick and Jane style hardback.
“See Luddy fall. See Luddy fall. Fall, Luddy, fall.”
Ludwig’s mother was a cockroach of a hyena – slick winged and virile, a hambone dangling from chains looped around her carapace in double helices. He sucked ichor from a rigid tit while the dog-faced homemaker imbibed his essence through the proboscis extended outward from between her diamond sparkle eyes – impaling him and his visions of grandeur.
Handy Hal sees poorly drawn Kirbyesque caricatures of Ludwig’s father in various comprising positions with Russian diplomats in a twisted, fucked up, living art sculpture of Ouroboros. The text is in red, but blue crayon streaks the page in shades not dissimilar from the blue stripes on his jumpsuit denoting Handy Hal as “fresh”.
“Trouble?” the instructor man squeaks.
Trouble. A word, a spittoon filled and tipped and slipped in. Broken back, hardwood, gypsy hoedown in giggle-squiggle Giclée.
“He’s a dirtbag. A commie. A spittoon,” she says – she being her, the other, the doppleganger, the wiggly-fit twitchmonster at the edge of Luddy’s visions.
Handy Hal’s circumspect crèche-minders pilot the Great Machine through a star and all hands go limp – pencils rain to the floor, lead flows, and time waits.
In the parhelion mirage, Ludwig’s countenance floats in akinesia. He’s a mythical man, a mythical myth, a trombone solo in the wasteland of overconfidence. Hal’s eyes widen and inflate and he takes in the scene around him.
The scene is old and cold. Has-beens strolling up dive stairs in fur coats and Converse knee-highs. Writers hold up the bars with their darkened souls, misunderstood. Broken women paw at the latest hopscotch-fucking douchebag Gable, twirling mustachioed pomposity like the Teuton who invented the thimble.
You don’t find art here in the wonderland beyond.
Handy Hal grows up to be a blogger. Handy Hal manhandles the helpless harpy-sharp followers into handouts for has-beens masquerading as never-weres … or … reverse that. You give him credit for weaving the woven word of wicked recycled wealth. I beg, therefore I write, therefore I yam, therefore and hitherto referred to as sweet potato divebomber widows.
The bombs fell in time with the placentas. The bear falls in time with the failed salmon, the unfit, the weak fishtail fuck. The star is poisoned with iron and steps on stage one last time – sun dogs in the wings holding wires for the grand swan dive finale.
The pipe is clogged, and Ludwig sticks like semen in the back of the throat. Fall ends, and summer begins. The trees fall off the leaves. The water runs up the leg, fills the sac. Perhelion mirage dissipates, and again.
Handy Hal turns the yellowed page.
“See Luddy play God. Kill, Luddy, kill.”
Ludwig stands up and grows a pair. With three hands and a handful he wades through the has-beens and the never-weres to take his place at the end of the bar.
“Talisker, neat,” he heaves.
Gravity bends the brass – pint glasses sail past each other in the night. A woman paws at Luddy, mistaking him for a douchebag.
“I thought you were eating something else,” she says – she being him, Handy Hal, the resurrected Messiah, who sewed up her hole and grew a pair.
The glass spins, the scotch sizzles as it coats the foodpipe. A gulp, a breath, a heaving sigh, and Luddy eats the world.