Kant Say

fib3     The Kid was hoofing it back to his car through a concrete tunnel that smelled like dog shit, cat piss, rancid cooking oil, and the original adobe bricks pitched as weapons against the carbine carrying conquistadors. He was wearing his expensive Italian shoes that hurt his feet, and pleated, itchy wool pants stitched in Bangladesh. He was only partially distracted by calculating the big numbers in his small head from a big day in sales when he experienced a brief unsettling episode of a recurring event, often mistaken for a deep thought, asking where am I? Some recurring questions are perennially hard to answer on a satisfying, ongoing basis. Why wool pants on a hot day in August? It was a highly meaningful personal question worthy of an imperative answer with its derivation deep in the metaphysics of his sweaty balls, but was it universal as well? Or just another contradiction. The cooking oil he smelled was the deadly, hydrogenated kind that clogs arteries, grows nodes, and corrodes bones, the wily cats descendants of mutant coyotes. But, that wasn’t it either. Wool and L.A. are almost never a good combination. He already knew that categorically, which is why he did not recklessly ask why more often than absolutely necessary. It was just as easy and satisfying to blame the heat and smog rising. Sort of.


About marclevytoo

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

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