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 our 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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Current Conditions Seem Likely.

It was as if I could remember leaving a small piece of artificial foam--it had been a sort of keepsake--just inside our neighbor's garage door, but all I was really doing was rehearsing an alibi I needed to tell with a straight face when my name came up in discussions of the latest societal contretemps. My place in the village seemed somehow even more precarious than it had in the previous two years of wilting faces on all those who would contribute even a petty farling for recovery at the speed of wind. My otherwise cheerful mien was cratered with a concern for a sly business person whose petals formed the backbone of a likely exercise in holding forth to a silent tradition of piece through strength. I would tell all the people who asked about my place in things that none was to be had even with a mildly abortive effort.

A church that I'd been asked about on more than one occasion was now a ghost of its former shell. The cannery in the next town over never had it so good but you couldn't tell that by looking. No. You had to approach in disposable slippers and then take a knee if you thought someone was about to make a sound. Only then could you be sure that your task was to be seen as anything other than a rank substitution. Now you could afford to take an idle moment to arrange your accessories more appropriately. If anyone thought they could tell you where to apply for insurance against  persistent crackage, they would risk only moderately off-color comments. To which all you had to reply was, 'Yeah..... could be...'

When I decided to drive my car without the normally required anti-bacterial gloves, that was a turning point. It seemed that one of the images I recalled defacing was of an orphaned pony that went on to win a coveted position in the nascent animal autocracy. This did not earn me any points when it came to holding my own in the speed dating hierarchy. Which is why I never showed much interest archery, knitting or metallurgy. Now that we're home again, the bastion of internal displacement has scorned a pleasant icon of derision. And this is why I still claim to love the sounds you make while eating your favorite snack. Oh, and one more thing, have they ever thought about doing anything with your hair?

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Pacifism is not the answer.

 

Now that the accused passivists who form what's known as the rump of the Surviving Branch (think genealogy here, kids) have gathered together bits of colored paper to increase the merriment quotient in our abandoned hotel, those of us who remained behind for our own good can see that parts of our faces start to swell (around the burn marks, as you might guess) and our voices, when we're inclined to try to talk at all, assume a fellacious quality. If, when I turn to the right to get at a rare seashell caught between the tumbrels of reticulated isotopes which were imported from Iberia to improve our eyesight in darkness, I'm accosted by a silent witness to bankable atrocities, my first instinct is to trounce a lonely soldier in a multi-layered  storybook shanty and delay his entry into a bygone clinical trial which comes as a surprise to a representative of the Introducer's Association.

They have bargained by our side for multiple durational periods and had every reason to flee the premises even after their specimens were lost in the War. There are tracts of vellum which prove the opposite but a well known anti-ageism activist has absconded with them and they won't play ball. This leaves us no choice but to evaluate our functions with a cold, hard staring contest into the vacuum of spacious accommodations for leisure-time activities everywhere. And it won't get any easier after this. For the simple reason that we serve meals while memorizing sports trivia and engage in sexual relations while violating Federal parole statutes. If it makes anyone feel better, we could offer them a chance to grow more apologetic while they age with grace. Or would that be too much to pretend to ask?

We ask because it never fails to occur to those of us entrusted with secreting a prime ingredient in our hoop-skirts that the metaphorical dome under which we labor during prime viewing hours is liable to collapse the articulated shards in a shamble of bromads. This would not be the result which those of us on the inside have lobbied for in all the years since I sold a compromised witness into a nest of vainglorious mickterflarbs. And it doesn't get any sweeter than that. You can tell by the way they switch the label in nugatory skylights. All the directions are absorbed and a lone drop of digestive bile coats the Slanting Desk with the sheen of intra-uterine masturbation. Now we will adjust our handkerchiefs for the road ahead and scare the bejesus out of the intransigent revulsionists who scope our bride. It'll serve them right. And then we'll sit down for a tasty supper. And then we'll die.

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Bedpaths to a Transcendent Laminate.

 

Over on the stellacted service rim where I'm buying (or trying to buy) a month's worth of toculent shielding, I sense that a rarely seen novelty re-enactment is about to begin, in earnest this time, before I can even start to make do with whatever holdings I've been lucky enough to preserve from before our Nasty Troubles took a turn for the worse.

It's a boldly shaped iron affair that I use to separate the bins in my workplace into categories of innate usability. It's apparent that the off-red items will help prepare our final ship, even if a stray grin is a price that no one in their right mind has any business paying, unless you count a local person who we've all agreed not to discuss at this stage of our lives. Because time is short and not for idle slippage.

The woman who has sworn to listen intently with her two forward feet planted within the perimeter of a secular archway (this was years ago) can be heard, even now, trying to disguise her dawdling for all to see. It's apparent that this won't fool anyone. Our houses are contaminated with ricketts but she's not the type to strike a pose. The penchants we cherished have been surrendered. No duress. No spam. Do you see?

If the embellishments that were pre-announced for our zone had given us the pleasure that all were promised, then a baleful method of halting forward momentum in a smoothly wicked anomaly could have been ours for the asking. And none of us ever want to be seen to be 'asking for a friend'. Two will get you five that an acquaintance with whom you once dined has now made an appalling decision that will bring the two of you to blows. But the wind is not yet ready to cry. We will grapple and then work together to topple an illegitimate regime—strangle it in its filthy crib if needs be.

You can count on us to insinuate a sounding whirlpon through a dangling set of jhontic cords. This will hold sway in our inky motion, like the telling repast that some feel is their native birthright. Could this constitute a link to a mapping site? Only if we surrender our dedication to holiness at an affordable price. Stability is a must. Please remain quiet. It gets better from here. 

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The house's location remains unknown.

We, or at least two of the people I've been told about, have been asked to spend some time in a woman's house. The woman in question is known for a certain brusqueness, but we're all about handling it in a way which helps your average wonderful character resist the urge to take a spin. This could prevent some from circulating a Course in Healing. You may have seen it at your local Extension. In case we observe folks getting riled, we aim to sit stiffly, maintain eye contact and pretend to fold our programs while taking needed precautions. It's all a game of averages. Two will get you one that when we get out of this, my sparkling countenance should require no commentary. It will be obvious. Not one of us will have to pretend to be tired, in spite of ourselves, I'm afraid. Someone is always 'going' again. Now the trip could fall directly apart in our hands. A quality will have to give way. Talk is cheap. Validity is a bungler! Cry if you must.

As one of our Elementals is trained to avoid parlor abuse, any secrets uncovered are to be willfully shed like innocent fluids at the call of a notch. Naturally the season is rife with slanderous undercurrents. It will achieve nothing but the overthrow of the reigning apostates of mildness. They've had it coming since before any covers were coveted in a convent. The place where this woman works is a known location. Her demented family associates are scattered here and there as if no one had given a thought to a unifying triumph. It will protect them unless we get there first. In that case, all of our former Teamleaders will be asked to assemble a smartly dressed cabal to chip away at any remaining vestige. Why does it seem like all who bare their incessant insolence are forever protected even as a practitioner of oneupsmanship is pleased to lance a pudding square? They will leave it with us. We won't be like the others. And that's (not) a good thing!

During one of the final episodes I can be seen sighing while sitting on the passenger side. There are hints that a pair of brothers are due to escort a shipment of depleted uranium to within a mile of Corpus Christi, Texas for the 'meeting of a lifetime'. If, after a cliffside residence has shifted improbably, we decide to sign away our stake in a real estate investment trust at the drop of a hat, a prelate who we tow to safety can be expected to renounce any further action points without which the drainage of an ambitional whipwreck can no longer be assured, unless the fighting is revealed to be 'all in fun'. Those kids give me the prodding to keep my facial aspects under the watch of a secret army. They won't budge. 

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Is this a sign of danger?

 

A question has been raised and the answer is 'no'. But, yes, the fact is that we have been getting dangerous counts on higher readings. And this was well before a structure in our immediate flightline needed to be disfigured. If any bonded alerter could be counted upon to take distress calls seriously, we may order a one-time-only Boller-Master be applied even if notifications become a tardy affair of kid gloves worn only on the top swing of lateral insertions. It's been quite a study to don my sky-blue safety smock inside buildings owned by the Lethal Haverstock Corporation. Usually I'd approach someone on site and ask for a signature in lieu of a personal fellowship claim. Now that I've been evaluated as the 'cream of the crop', I can well expect an iron graphic stud to be wedged into a permanent underside placement cofax. You can tell them I sent you. There will certainly be no response to semi-official inquiries. That's how they manage to keep bridge loans off their pending statements.

The date of our supernal no-fist qualifier is on temporary rolling status. If we meet a preliminary setting inside a boron shade-fill, we can tip all vessels in our favor and go on to wreak a grim pylon on our palladinated ochre stunt car. This will allow certain 'things' to roll into view on the thirty-fifth anniversary of our homecoming to a one-time kidnapping-in-progress. I hasten to add, this was for a student video concerning affordable housing mandates. We took our young daughter to a radiant display of locomotive undercarriages during halftime at the Rosebowl that year. She pledged that her days on the lam were severely numbered. And that's in groups of threes, fours and sevens. This makes all the difference in the world. Some may call it 'a trick of light', but we prefer to think of it as a granting of the penclough redux. It just sounds more inspirational in that league. She will thank you later than is justified. But that still won't buy you (or anyone) more time than is strictly necessary. Get over it. 

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Message for interested parties only.

 

If we prepare a space directly adjacent to a cardinal point to receive a familial trance of directed energy, then all indications are that one of the Russian tambits from a lengthier protein string should be surrendered at height with no one traceable for absent duty. All around, in whatever camp we move, enforced signage drips with a plague of discoverable valiant juices. Each drop that we harvest is now to be sewn into its own micronutrient shell. 

The Lecture Hall becomes a scene of oblontic harassment, all the more serious due to the seasonal nature of one Circus Boy's contagious gesture of 'plaint and delay'. We encumber him with our naughty oxides and trust that one or more of his keepers are even now settled at a Shintago Blending Lab and arranging for the Boy's transparent older sibling to display some of the netting he uses to catch falling renal debris.

Those who command our colors into any obvious tangent can enter the blameroom only with the expressed, written permission of Major Heat Grayball written all over it. How they will know that our history has a checkered past, isn't something we particularly like to think about as we approach the younger victims. Their solidarity is key to refurbishing a subatomic meeting room facility. Each year at this time, some of us are reminded of the periodic return of generic pipsqueaks, all their flustered comments and the way their hair attracts the best smelling women on the Base. I make sure to write down the locations of the most incessant varmints of my third wife, Darla Pencroft-Basmer. She has such a way with arpeen tri-clops, that you would think she was born with one circulating in her very troubled fluids. And, the not-so-surprising truth is that you'd be right. But that's for another time, not unlike this very one.

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