(just to keep with 'ze's suggestion, I've collected all of the posts into this one so we can copy it to each successive post, making a more readable piece)
He was in the kitchen grinning at the antics of "Sponge Bob Square Pants" as he peeled the banana and shoved it into his mouth. His attention was on the spongey antics on the t.v, so he didnt think about the hallucinogenic banana, now irretrievably on its way to his stomach. On his way to his dilapidated Davenport he let out a long, contented, satisfying sigh, as if to say, 'It was a great idea to call in sick.' Last night he had met the girl of his dreams and argued politics until they were both drunk, disorderly, and grinning like goofballs. If he had bothered to look in the rearview mirror he would have seen himself still smirking, but in his reverie would still have missed the black Studebaker, and it's three burley occupants, starting their engine simultaneously with his. One moment his Davenport was a comfy, if ratty, old couch in his living room and the next it was a 50's era car with tuck & roll upholstry firing on all eight cylinders. The eerie, disjointed feeling of spinning without getting dizzy was creeping up his thighs, as he frantically struggled to focus on what was real and what was becoming his own reality. The girl had been hanging with a redneck lowlife sitting in a darkened booth at a table covered with fresh fruit and hypodermic needles. His temper flared as he continued piecing together the broken shards of memory, his mind pierced with splinters of images that reflected twisted pictures of booze, drugs, fruit, a girl and a 30-gallon hat.
Had her interest in him been a ploy, a pernicious ruse to test the mad cowboy's psychotropic groceries?
Last edited by masterofNone : 11-01-2002 at 02:11 PM.