Sticky Stuff

question-blue   I was on my own spinning idle threads. That only takes a weighted body so far down the road. None of the proscribed directions, not the rights nor the lefts, the jabs and the counter punches, nor the narrow lines that refuse to wiggle loosely, led me where I wanted to go. The owls in the forest were still hooting after dawn and the cows were coming home to roost in the mud that smelled suspiciously like typical shit. If that was blood dripping from my fingers, I can’t explain why.  Simple, base logic. It makes its own sense with no artificial additives required.

That’s where spinning often leads. Webs get woven. Sticky stuff stays put. Traps slam shut. On-ramps facilitate mergers with traffic barreling the wrong way.

confusion 2

I knew something had to be up when I crashed on that highway. Fragile bits of information scattered like sno-cones of lightning. Inflatable numbers spilled like stinky beans. Many vital parts failed me, brakes, blinders, defoggers, voice. My suspension of belief system was shattered beyond recognition. It left me feeling sore when I turned my head, coughed, and faced the wrong way. Family doctors look out routinely for aberrations like that. Wantonly, I spit, and looked back at whatever was sticking to my ass. My body language was left hanging on a makeshift gallows. Too far up the down side is a sight not to be lightly beheld. Or illuminated. Unless that what, not a where and surely not a why, was a how, a process that did not compute, and the cough turned up more blood with no explanation attached.

broken nose

Spinning out of this world of people, places, and things, into action oriented verbs with built-in modifiers, such as probe, blend, buy, spew, swill, reek, bulge, bully, sell, singe, retreat, constrict, or surrender, serves as a cover-up, sort of, for many of those common mistakes that neglect to save much face once broken.

I said, loudly, “What the fuck.”

big mouth4

It was just my luck that the calendar happened to fall upon one of those 63 days so far this year on which I was due to appear in the Court of Santa Cruz County, either criminal, civil, or uncivil, which was hard to maintain straight, like duh, with so much treacherous comings and goings willy-nilly on the horizon, and answer for one of the three kinetic transgressions I failed to recognize in due time since January.

It wasn’t enough to be filled with self-diagnosed contempt. I had to go out on the big stage and prove it.

“You’re late.”

“Only so far.”

The pause did not refresh. What had once been a dark gleam in a pushy mother’s eye turned opaque like a cloud of rapacious dust mites.

The Judge snapped, “What do you have to say for yourself? Be careful.”

There was so much I had to say. Who was kidding whom here? Language was inadequate and denial was always a big issue once exposed. That’s what I call being careful. Plus, there was so much more that required self-editing. I had been frivolously neglecting my figure-eights, the single most basic building block of the multiverse, in preparation for an unknown missive later to become spasmodically murky, for which not enough renown is universally acknowledged, and my hips if not locked were blocked, and my neck gave me a bleeding pain in the ass that I felt certain was due to an imbalance in oppositional duality, mine but not mine alone, which caused a higher likelihood than moderate of severe imbalance in all communication. Like, fucking duh.


A travesty of a professor of politics from a nearby famous university postulated that balance is a coalition of standing among many common forces marching on foot, but everywhere I looked for support there was only me. The second most basic building block of the multiverse, contradictions, abounded.


I said, “Uh.”

It was once again the wrong thing to say that followed the wrong thing to do. What comes first when there is no beginning and no end and chickens scratch but don’t count their precious number of eggs? Escape prior to detection is surely better as an alternative when no answer maintains an adequate beat using a machine that grooves, along with no rhythm, but lots harder to pull off in my experience. It’s also hard to fit a deceased body into a box when the cause for the demise by acclimation is none of the above.

I attempted to sidle close to my paid and apportioned apparatchik whose lustreless sharp teeth matched the opalescent buttons that snapped cruelly shut on her hard leather case. She kept a respectable distance, though. The raw entrails of the case contained rare corroborated evidence that could be used against me in the wrong hands. Her voice, which seemed to be unattached to her body, hissed, “Where do you come up with this stuff?”

I neglected to mention the raw writer I maintain in the basement on a diet of half-salary, half vegetables, who sleeps fitfully on the floor and works for no benefits because he thinks he’s funny. What a douche.

I said “Ha ha.”

The Judge chimed in, “I’ve had it. That’s enough out of you.”

I spent much of the night, still idle, in jail. It wasn’t so bad. I’d been there before.


About marclevytoo

writer of fiction
This entry was posted in humor, satire, Uncategorized, writing, wtf and tagged , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

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