ZID VI CHAPTER OCHO : BIG TIME

Remember what happened last night? Good. Now tell the world.

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The Urbane Spaceman
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ZID VI CHAPTER OCHO : BIG TIME

Post by The Urbane Spaceman »

What wonderful sites to behold.

The breasts were released. Animals were freed from their cages, and the night glowed with warmth from a little star that became a red giant. Purring occurred in close proximity and howls erupted into the night.


The band played their music. This brought people outside, and the son of the owner of the ranch ignited a bonfire out in the back. This is a Françoise term for “a Fucking huge pyre.” Ya know, like a funeral pyre.


The shadows cast from young demons in front of this great fire danced on the growing clouds above. This was a beacon in the night, in the flat, desolate desert. It was the marker for more and more people who drove to it, like mecca for the punks.


This here sounds like something that the punk band would have played.



The huge punk rocker held court for them lovely ladies who lined up for lines, and he glared at those who tried to push and shove their way into the queue. This caused them to fall back, regretful of their bad manners. They made penance by trudging to the back of the line.


And then, others showed up. Finally, the miscreants, the troglodytes, the forgotten toys on the island of misfits arrived at the door, and scratched upon it to be let in.



And yet, others showed up as well. Word had gotten out, you see. These were not punk rockers, but they were not nice people either.

No one was a nice person, except for the son whose father owned the place. This fact troubles me to this day. Oh well. Calls for a drink.

In honor of those who put up with the rest of us, and sometimes they take the fall for us. Sometimes they pay for us. Blah blah blah. Time to count down.

3.

2.

1…

GLUG GLUG!



Ahhh. The world is a better place now. Let us go forth.



So, the folks filled up that place, and the giant punk rocker with the angry baby face did something odd. He put his brick into a hidden pocket inside his leather jacket and whipped out another plastic bag. This happened so quickly, so deftly, like a cheap magician in front of young children, that no one saw it.



Except for me, Joey, and Sean. We looked at each other and knew. This new bag was all cut up, stepped on: diluted. Later on he would tell us that it was cut with vitamin B4, which is innocuous to inhale. The reason was that it makes the product go farther.


This is how that punk rocker made his real money. Lure them in with the good stuff, and then switch and sell them the weaker stuff, so they come back for more and more, with diminishing results.


That is what happened. And then, the big man nodded at us. It was our turn to sell our wares. Can you imagine that? You know, when ZID makes an appearance at a party, it can cause bad things to happen.


ZID magnifies what you are feeling.

But if you are already feeling good, then that is the feeling that continues.

It was a very accurate map, constructed by a punk rocker who did not partake of ZID. He had done it enough to know that he did not like it. He did not enjoy the feeling of a different reality.



Why?



Perhaps it was because he had enough trouble with this true reality. He was a very different individual. Some folks have surmised that he was not born with a normal perspective. This might be true. We will never know. All that we can do is to judge a person’s mental state by their actions, their behavior.



Especially when they are no longer with us. I personally think that he went back to his planet, or his own island in Maldives, or to his own quadrant of perdition. Maldives is the coolest, so let’s go with that. Rest his soul, however it was spawned. Amen.
I will drink to him now.

GLUG





ZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZIDZID



*Ahem*



Well, some of them punks understood this ZID, like an old friend who has brought the party. But them jocks and their cheerleaders, well, they had to be told what to expect.


“You slip this under your tongue and leave it there for a while.”


“It smells bad. Can I drink something to take it?”


“No. Just leave it there. Move it around, this tiny piece of paper, or drink fluids, then it will take longer to activate.”


“Will it taste bad as it smells?”


“Yes. But in a half hour, you will become a powerful man. You will be able to drink booze for water. You will find everything to be much, much cooler.”


“You are sure about this?”


“We are on this now.”



God damn the pusherman.




We sold out of our wares like this.


This was how we became the kings of ZID in our new nest of power.


Why did we do such a thing? Well, we were damned punks. An apology here to the son of the man, and the man himself, for what happened to his residence. I can never live this down.



This is why I write such a true tale under the moniker “The Urban Spaceman”



It is because I am the Urbane Spaceman.



We are minion.



.

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