The cat has murder in his eyes and the room stinks of awful decay.
Nothing that subtle.
A knife in each hand and there is piss, sopping through the floorboards.
The ghosts below are moaning their indignity.
No rest for the aging dead.
Long past their bedtime, though.
The band is restless.
The fiddler scratches his bow, reminding the cat what happens if he goes down first.
Guts of his brother start to scratch as the lead fiddle is tuned.
Xylophone bones pop and plunk.
Not quite perfect tones, but what the Christ can you expect from the dead?
Don’t act like they owe us something.
Another reel is struck and the belaboured calamity downstairs is muted by the din.
Sure enough they send someone to cut out the boom, bang and squeal.
The tongue named Silence flops lonely up the stairs and bangs on the door.
The band plays on.
Now in time.
Silence slides under the door and takes the stage.
Wet, slapping percussion.
A counter beat.
Don’t get hit.
He lunges and I sidestep, arms whirling like I’m enjoying the music.
To be honest with you, I am.
He keeps his pace frantic and I’m no dancer, not really.
The cuts are getting deeper and all of the tiny cities are falling out, homogenized with the piss empire on the dirty floor.
Miniature red liquid goblins run riot and the odour wraiths are too stale to do much about it.
Next thing you know, some guy will ejaculate in his death throes and send a whole new kind of party to work down there.
I hope that that guy isn’t me.
Fuck, Louie, you owe me.
Four thin lines to the left cheek.
Eight on the right.
I’m slowing down.
His tail rides high and the cat sprays me with more piss.I yank the elegant protrusion and he squeals.
Back legs rake at me and he’s got four paws swimming in space.
We roll past Mars and Venus and out to the cold planets.
You’ve been forgotten.