Here is SideArms, Col, lt. SideArms (although
which brand of intergalactic military classifieds remain elusive, adding to his
inscrutable aura of intrigue) at his Writers desk with quicksand pools of grime
hatched under his eyelids like propulsive exhaust fumes signifying defeat.
Although not a writer by trade, he calls his office his workshop, plotting out
stratagems, moves calculating the enemies exact position and how to quell on
coming advancements. His skin has more or less of a bronze, baked, seltzer
water feel to it. With his helmet tagged off and situated in the corner, on top
of heaps of foreign lexicon dictionaries, Side Arms hair is a scalp-cut
plateau, his eyes offering Erin’s islands finest emerald. Coffee is heard
gurgling in the background. An early Henri Matisse graces the wall with an
optical splendor if near sighted colors splattered into perfect, molecule
appropriating space. He hasn’t slept much, nor eaten much in the last five to
seven days and is (covertly) a hypochondriac, Data, privately informing him
that what he has are wormshells hatching from childhood ingested cosmic
escargot when Sidey gets the jitters. An Alarm clock reads three-thirty morning
time, East Coast back on earth, IN air city Time seems to be more or less
arbitrary, and Sidearms has always harbored a hardcore fascination with the way
his comrades from Earth (Earth, translated as Spectaroddengorrenger, from his
home solar system, unknown to even him most days, Wet dream light years away
from earth and Hubble eyelash blinks. He is exhausted. The theory that time
corresponds to earthlings as a gravitational rapport between a gaseous solar
object and a willing yo-yo, industrial heap of rock, never much made since to
Sidearms. In Sidey’s pluriverse, Time is inculcated from the moment prior to
conception, sperm cometing with centrifugal reconnaissance into an even more so
burrowed sun, cored deeply inside charmed planets of flesh. Fuck. He feels
inadequately about his troops and about the pending mission, which Juggernaut
has referred to more than once as a Kamikaze (Orgon, thinking he meant Karaoke,
brushing one of Speedballs magical hemp free elixirs and breaking out into a
Tony Bennet accompanied Jazzed variation of Just In Time)-Tired. Earth coffee
just never does it, to endorsed-The coffee set was a gift from Dakota when she
was teleported back from Paris, doing underground espionage on Shredder for the
CIA, located in Davenport. Dakota is sometimes called Codie by those whom she
loves, including Paul, who Data has been scurrying about in the Med 7,
injecting enema’s to verify Pauls Native American ancestry. Digital Justice’s
quarters are three corridors down, and he can be heard riding out the late
night hours popping Video game cartridges and splattering curses on the walls.
There needs to be a way out. Above the Lt’s writing desk is a quote by J.
Conrad, earth writer, and one time maritimer about finding out what sort of
individual you are through work. He states that no man likes work, but that
work gives each individual a dime’s flip at discerning who or what that
individual is as a person and just what that individual is capable of
overcoming, of achieving, of assign to
(in Sidey’s case) not only the human race as a whole-but the cosmos.
Work gives an individual identity and also makes the laborer extremely
fatigued. Tired. Fucking tired. A quote
Maxima gave him from Heraclitus is stabled directly above the Conrad quote,
which reads simply that WAR, is the father of all good things. Maxima has
recovered nicely since Juggy correlated her moribund, feeble health to that of
sugared Chinese road kill. Orgon never seems to sleep on the vessel, he almost
always doses off on the battlefront, though. SideArms was from a galactic field
where aging is conducted more or less internally, the body accompanies this
growth and then feeds on words and ideas. A hammer is being dropped somewhere.
Wolverine was heard racing his Canadian Harley around the corridor twenty-four,
looking for a tourist tryst, or maybe just someone to briefly share the story
of his life with for a sad, brief pre-dawn moment. On the sky deck, owhen one
watched any near Solar object burn off inexhaustible amounts of atomic energy,
one gets the feeling of always watching the sun rise in a weird way and, if one
is in love, one feels that the solar mass is equal in proportion to that which
is presently burning inside of them right now. SideArms calculates that the
Shredder is more than capable of disemboweling his entire cast and company of
paramount fighters simply by peeing. His shears are similar to that of
Wolverine, though Wolvies is toothpicks in comparison. Shredder sightings
happened almost a year ago in spring, earth time, at a raucous gathering where
he stabbed Juggernaut from behind. It was around the time Air man malfunctioned
and sent his vessel plummeting on top of Manhattan, covering the entire city
like a cheap umbrella in a torrential spring downpour. Juggernaut told SideArms
when first they met that he was the president of the United States, and then
offered him something called a cigar from some old fashioned Island scattered
off of the state that reminds SidaArms of an aged phallus earthling. SideArms
graciously accepted, sniffed, had Data analyze, and then smoked. He now can’t
seem to kick his cigar habit for the life of him. Juggernaut and Sidey hit it
off right away, going to Something Juggernaut called ‘Dinner and a Movie’-a fifties
restaurant (which still to this day, befuddles the Col. Because most of the
establishments patrons where between fifteen-nineteen, earth years). Much of
earth culture perplexes Sidey-some fascination with the last two days of the
week. Liquid poured from bar slabs into each other like ablutions-shriveled
dances dotted with weary fatigue. The cautious entering and exiting of humans,
staving off conception. Juggernaut used to take Sidey on road trips, into
rivers on canoes which had invisible wholes bottomed in them. Once Juggernaut even purposefully showered
SideArms helmet with precipitation from a geyser-something SiderArms to this
day, has fully yet to forgive. The story about how Wolverine entered this cadre
of elite and arcane is a little different. In Canada, where SideArms was
performing a classified mission, he stormed an innocuous fortress, and Wolvie
haggled the fuck out of him, staking the claim that the fortress was his home.
SideArms immediately encountered Wolvie in a vicious attack, until he saw a
strange lady living up stairs, claiming by birthmark to be Wolvies sibling. His
sister, already betrothed, wanted nothing whatsoever to do with Wolvie’s talk-a
lot Alien, no matter where he claimed to have traversed, through, out and into
the brink of universal quilt…..
So the story goes on…
The three of them have since become
the closest of almost spiritual companions. Missions tackled in dense
anti-gravitational morass abutting propelling solar freeways and acid creeks.
Once Wolverine lead the way on a lights out mission, into a cavernous black
aperture mysteriously found half-opened on a solar-cider plateau plane with
greenhouse climate. Wolverine plunged in first, claiming that he could smell
that this was the source and for that some reason, the three of them needed to
dive in together and re-garner something that was lost to them. Juggernaut
swore that he visited this place before he was juggernaut, and claiming that a
clown dragon lived inside. The three of them descended and somehow lost ten
years. Ten fucking earth years, finding themselves washed up on a beach, waves
skirting the seashore like tubs of tallow immersed in grease sodden fat
rollers. Juggernaut, coughing black shit out of his lungs, not knowing why and
then realizing that part of his old, abandoned team had died, and that new
members had been born. Wolverine, as well, woke up into a wall-scribbled past,
pieces put together by a stranger cradling something that snorted French fries
and Kool Aid and which she claims is his. Sidearms, still probes into the
tunnel, trying to explore what it was that could have occurred-what trajectory
took place. Smoking a cigar and sipping coffee from this planet he fell into
and out of (weak stimulants……..)
There is a lull in Aircity. Sleep
is entering veins and dreams are being biologically altered through chemical
imbalances.
What SideArms doesn’t like to
reflect over was that, for a while, the three of them lived for planets tucked
in between empty zeros. Years went by and some sort of relapse triggered in
their memory. They had forgotten that each of them once held some unique
possession. Juggernaut sported chariots and polishes armor; (Wolverine, later
claiming that Juggernaut had been set up by one of Orgon’s
imprecations-sleeping under something called the Caterpillar curse). Wolverine
fell through failed mission and failed mission, although he never forgot a
mysterious person who popped into and out of his past like french toast,
burning like a phoenix, and then flying off, only to skim his lust and burn his
ardor off in dreams, waking up back into a stunted reality to a mild gambling
predilection and corporate pyramid shticks. SideArms, too, entered mission
after mission and came back instantiated, bandied and broken hearted, not
knowing what happen-not knowing where the fuck to go next….
All this occurred, by the way,
several, several years ago, earth years, while we were all quite young.
***
No comments:
Post a Comment