LIVE – R013

“Those who control their passions do so because their passions are weak enough to be controlled.”

William Blake, QuotationsPage.Com, 1757–1827

Aleister, you are supreme! Black slacks, nice. Belt of leather, suede, soft. The shirt, regency blue… What’s that logo, the patch? Vitor Weiss parsed a deeper blue circle on white, vertically divided. The left, a green glyph, clover? The right, meshed gears small, large — of gold, crimson. I detect a scent of perchloroethylene?

Dark windbreaker in hand, Aleister Parker slid sideways and netherward. Gracefully merged with the sleek Corvette Grand Sport, Obsidian Black. Perc? Percocet? I’m a bum, not a junk-head… He glared at Vitor. Vitor clarified; perchloroethylene, the shirt… cleaned, dry cleaned? Oh… I had to rummage about for what fit me. Some state or federal task-suit. That blue logo, badge, like one of those zen symbols? Look! I found a new toothbrush! Toothpaste — Advanced White!

Aleister grinned. Vitor shuddered. The 2012 Corvette rolled out placidly on the Michelin Pilot Sports. It was off-season at Skyhaven, alongside the gleaming waters of the Atlantic Sea.  Near midnight; a couple of townie cop cars would be cruising up from the steel drawbridge, rolling north past Parrot Cove Cliff; up to the next town, well-groomed —spaciously spread, dutifully defying the damp sea air. There the old wealth dined on martinis, filet, and dull words; took their meds; turned in early without seeing the stars.

After one-o’clock, 01:00, south-end by the steel bridge, the bars would let out, the gaming establishments would purge. The cops would guzzle their double-espresso Dunkin’ Donuts Brew — superb; there would be righteous re-training for brawlers, speeders, and weavers. But… Now was the time for Aleister, Vitor, and Vette.

Aleister, your children, we should drive and get food for them! Remember that’s why you were the highwayman, thief to me; until your change of heart? You still have the cash, Fifty Twenty Five One. That gritty slimy paper. Food for kids?

Vitor, that was all a lie; there are no children, kids, there’s just you, me, and a perished nation. I was expecting that steel bridge with the boulders — thoughtless, hard, and slippery — would be the proper site to stop my world… Jump.

Vitor suddenly floored the Corvette Grand Sport. Immediately they were ninety miles per hour headed north on US Route 1A, already past Parrot Cove Drive crossing the border realm of the rich people. Jump Aleister? Jump like the Corvette Black? Here, take this in your hand. Squeeze gently as if it was a small furry puppy! Squeeze… Gentle…

The Monkey-Mind-Machine felt comfortably warm to Aleister’s wind-numbed fingers. Tingling… tiny tentacles, needles, micro nano probing slender lines feeling like tiny flea bites. Don’t drop don’t let go commanded Vitor. If you are a scaredy-cat and relinguish it to the breeze, my Angela will be peeing in her pants from shock and loss. Clutch Angela’s gift to Vitor, to Aleister!

Aleister obeyed. Stood up. Fortunately there were no seat-belt laws and the Vette’s convertible top was still down and the wind factor at nearly a hundred slammed him! He grinned, blinked like a parrot and hollered. Cheerful utterances, but the air velocity scrubbed away all the consonants. Happy Howling Aleister-Wolf. Who are you Vitor?

Angela’s friend. Take clicker and keys she said. Share stars. Provide hope.

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About Richard E & Mary L Marion

Independent Writers
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