On the matter of 'the Wading Car'.

 

Of the three times I was escorted into the wading car at the foot of the vestibule's trestle, I seem to remember the second most clearly. My rare ankle condition was healing nicely and therefore I thought nothing of donning a Cooper Star in the center of the forehead to inhibit my baser pastimes. The tiniest card, which I carried in lieu of a trick, always emitting its characteristic hum, sat nestled in my bum as if all sore points were now a polished filigree of Church intrigue. But this was of no moment since, in my effort to imbibe a dollop of daily B-stock, I had forgotten my secret name for a silent 'pretend' horse who'd guarded my portion of the sacrifice that would soon enable my entry into an occulted hallway, unknown by those whose pressure could never suffer the installation of the last tri-plected lens in out possession.   

The fluid on the floor of the wading car was warm to the touch, sweet to the taste but with each rasp of our driver's sleeve, was seen to admit to the possibility of foreshortened lauffeurs in shapes that our memories could scarcely well conjoin. I remember a piece of toast balanced on a headrest, swaying to and fro, almost appearing to launch a mite-sized crumb into the gap where I held a semi-permanent grulch. This was my own tiny secret, the relic of which our bond was plain for even the most sullen of the guards to apprehend. Each seemed to move an ochre-dyed finger to create a striped trail in the movable atmosphink. But I knew it could not last. I could tell you now that the breathing was solid, but that would leak my game and risk breaking the flask that is dearly held, when not at all.

So as the rattletrap proceeds, and our falsely jolly bonhomie peters into a loam of silent buggery, I'm reminded of costs incurred and denied, defied and deflated, fellated and enthralled. Therefore to inscape the common flaw, while comforting a maddened willow, will amount to a hope given to foreswear any evening's Chapel stick. It's a bridge and there's talk around that you may have bought it. I could give you a hand but that would mean the end of civilization as we once knew it. If there is any bragging encountered while we approach a manageable mound, it won't be the first time. In fact, at a time like this we need every human critter to scatter the lines to escape a bane. Willfulness broaches our infighting. Willingness, however, empowers the victorms to shellac a miniature table and sue for peas. I'm happy if you still can't tell the diffadence. And in case you still haven't guessed, now your name is Wally.

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