THE DESERT SONS CH : 3 LA FLEUR DU MAL

[The Urbane Spaceman]

This chapter is dedicated to the Oett, so that he will stop asking about the Snow Bird. Hey, sometimes a fire under your arse will get you up and out of the rocking chair.


This is a teaser.


But it will be fleshed out in two days.


Just need to drink some more about these horrible memories. I’m still alive, and that is the best thing.




DRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRNIKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRNIKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRNIKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRNIKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRNIKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRNIKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRNIKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRINKDRNIK


*ahem*


The huge biker blasted the throat of his Harley along the path that led to Hell.

Do you know what this sounds like? Here’s an idea.



He headed to the Evil Flower with a brain full of freshly smoked crack cocaine, and a belly full of booze. Each cancelled the other out, but they made, for him, the perfect buzz. Such a pursuit is not advised, but that man was not one who would take advice form anyone.

Except for one person.

La Fleur Du Mal.



That big biker Brian drove at the correct speed, so he never hit any red lights. Green all the way. He thought of sparking some green up, he thought of cooking his rock, he thought of necking his bottle, but he had self-control. No need to get pulled over for probable cause. He could lose control at any moment.



He thought, “Those fucking punks. All that snow. They sold it. They got us cash money. What the hell is going on?”


He reached down with his left hand to find his tiny flask, and then he growled. He said, “No.”



“NO !”



Self control. Even when you are in control of your life, you never let go of the direction.

Steer into the skid. Driving this bitch into the gerund.

Live while you breathe.




Live.


Existence is hollow without enjoyment.



Time for a Drink.



*Sip/chug/clink*




La Fleur Du Mal sat in front of her glass table, facing a white brick, all wrapped in plastic.


She sat back and looked at it. She thought of all of things that she had done,


...all to bring her to this moment.



Peruvian flake.


Pearly.


A Boss.


This is someone who considers every possible iteration of the game of Chess. The human brain can process data much more accurately than a computer will ever be able to do.


We have the ability to assess a situation at a moment’s notice.


Intuition.



It is not female, it is not male: it is animal instinct, tempered with human logic.


She looked down again at the brick and sliced it open, all the way, with her razor blade.


She inhaled the pungent aroma of pure Peruvian flake, with the cut of ether.


Ethereal.


She lived while she breathed.



See you in two days.


Resurrection of erection.




---Spaceman Out.



.

[oettinger]

Thank you, finally.

Btw, when drunk my brain gets beaten by a single semiconductor in a game of rock-paper-scissors. Every damn time! Very funny when the 9 volt block running your remote is way smarter than you.