Chapter 8
The mother tried to hold the inferno that was the child, held prey in frictionless arms of glass, the mother dusted in a fine sift of invisibility cradled the squirming human, the mother’s breast mechanically forced into the caldron of toothless mouth, while on the other side of the bubble, the monster sat. . . watched
Shielding it’s eyes from the radiant heat burning through the hull slip
In the black grey and pane soaked chamber the child glowed as a moon immersed in milk of burning magnesium
With every arm swing and leg kick casting giant weld light shadow
It’s very spooky in here the monster said to it’s guest, slowly being drained, who, would have guessed, something so hideous and freighting could be afraid
But the Measled Velligree, secretly closed it’s eyes, especially when the baby turned it’s massive face and screamed, with it’s eyes open, nostrils flare and such horrid white flesh with throbbing purple arteries map
I can’t stop looking~ I just can’t ~but it did ~this hotlife movement, with it’s bursts of speed and sudden directionless lunge, this jerky spasmodic muscular thrashing, electrically fortified with delight, every time this being moves the world tilts, is thrown off course with micro ship quake, how could such a race of beings become. . .
And the Proffestor, smiles a slimy unfolding, and envelopes it’s guest,
You have seen enough of my exterior, senor, the Measled Velligree mumbles with tooth, claw and tentacle laced about the sticky twig with eyes ears, noses and mouth, helplessly querying,
I had hoped to watch this human time line further. . .
Ah, yes, you may, but from within my cellular walls framed windows
One, two. . . And then three steps forward, the headless black suit stepped toward the naked shivering girl, held softly in place with blood soaked robot arms as snowflakes the size of diner plates fell like hats on to costumed children’s heads
One two three. . .four the suit opened itself up, vivisected, from groin to neck, revealing a slick pink fleshy insides, quilted warmth, evaporative, wound, gurgling,
I don’t want to put that suit on. . . The girl screams, steps back, trips and is held up, forced to stand, arms raked back, legs kicked wide, feet stepped upon, crushed into the snow pack souped with blood, carbon, black, yellow and squished fleshes,
I can’t put that thing on. . .
Her head rocks from side to side, saliva squirts across her rich black pelt,
One two three four. . .five, the suit turning itself inside out, reaches it’s arm holes out to her,
I can't put that thing on. . . She screams and the suit answers,
You, aren’t putting me on, I am putting you on.
With a spine chilling authorities’ command, she stops moving and is frozen, the robots hold her arms out in front of her as the suit slowly tentatively touches her finger tips, like a dog licking a wound, the girl completely immobilized can only watch as the horror, gently, laboriously swallows her
Creeping over her arms, like tongues of rapists, slapping at her underarms, adjusting her according to some need of tailoring, her breasts fondled, her ribs compressed, her navel probed, and down the curving mounds of her ass, thigh knee ankle heel and toe cleavage,
I’ll be your shoe, now, the robots release her, and she stumbles two drunken steps, and is turned around,
The baby swaddled in grass, snow, blood and bacterium is striped and pressed to her chest, a rutting hungry mouth finds attachment, and the suit slowly closes over the infant,
I am within you, and you are within me~ we are complete~ a union engaged in survival
And the girl dressed now, in black and silver spacesuit, with crest of tree and acorn, sits in the snow, with a plop, on her ass and throws up into her hands, silver, blood and gold
well we did it, you, me and all of our crazy van talk and van life, has ignited a fire beneath my mom, now she too is pulling over to the side of country roads and strolling onto the lawns of maniac homes, littered with the love of failed automobiles
she spotted this little powda blue westy, aircooled, looking lonely, needing a touch of tlc, and buckets of cash~ but sweet jeepers look at that fucking house, where'd the front porch go, and who parks all these cars under the butterfly bush
vans slowly sinking into the earth filling up with stuff that has nothing to do with vans built for camping
