Domain of Adam
• • •
“Now how in the fuck am I supposed to say that with two lips on my head??”
The Bookmaker looks at me strangely. “How–… with, two…” He shakes his head, that head with just as many lips as mine, and I can’t help but feel like I really am just a gorgeous example of the hue-man species.
“Listen, don’t worry about it. You’re not even going to see him.”
“Why not?” I look around. “And just what the fuck is going on here??”
“Entropy – that’s the, uh… physical way to pronounce his name. It’s not his name, but it’s something, and fine.”
“See, he already slung this planet out of The Blacktop, Tungstok. We’re in a whole new universe right now.”
“Hot liquid shit!”
“A’ight,” decides The Bookmaker as he lowe’s his legs from lotus. “Cut it out, cut it the fuck out, you’re going to cut that fucking shit the fuck out right the fuck now or so fucking help me Rattlesnake I will goddamn spread your fucking atoms across all of shitting Sto’town.”
The Bookmaker is… right. The joke… it was pure gold. I don’t need to keep shining it.
The Bookmaker topples.
“Listen, you fucking… see, the real bitch of it is: you’re perfect.”
“Baby, you don’t have to remind me.”
“The ‘man whose image I was made in… yeah, you are one hundred percent that character.”
“Booky,” I say, tryna slide in cheesy, “what the fuck’s the beaten earth?”
The Bookmaker flips a length of his hair at me. I fly callously through the trees until I burst flailing through the canopy.
It’s morning, early September. The wind blows and continues to do so coolly, giving the leaves cause to jump and jive. Hardly a cloud, all open blues, a little bit of haze on the horizon but that’s all right, that’s okay, that’s just what it is. It’s one of those mornings when you wake up shirtless wishing you had a fur coat, THEN, the moment that steamy tea hits your gut and the frost of the night melts off easy, THE moment that sunlight slices its way over the curve of the Earth… one so-perfect morning. The perfect morning to be out in the woods – when everybody else ain’t fuckin’ here, hard stop.
I crash through the canopy like a gelatinous mass of birdy batshit. A branch catches me by the eye sockets – both of the fuckers, puts me on the real flip’n’spin I tell ya – and rips my shits clean out. On the bright side, I don’t have to see myself splatter against the dirt like the piece of shit I am… although usually I fall from the bats, not the birds… hm… better than not falling at all… uh, what?
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