Sandwich of Respite
By: Scott Sousa
I was calm, collected and ready to roll. The stack of pink and yellow was a sign from the Creator; Don't fuck with me and you will be rewarded. I took a bite and an explosion of onion and mayonnaise overwhelmed me. The cheese like a razor blade to the tongue. I was bleeding to death and happy. I lost control of my body, convulsing, covered in a white, sticky goo. An orgasm of the mouth. Tongue jizz.
If God ever existed she would have manifested herself as a ham and cheddar sandwich with a pair of giant tits. She would have loved to be eaten but would have hated to get fucked. So I kept eating her. She was loving it and I'm in love.
One bite at a time I escaped from the forty-hour-per-week mentality. Heroin addicts envied me. It was like attending a luncheon with Buddha, Christ and Garuda. I left full and never looked back.
The Search
By: Scott Sousa
In a tiny dark room stood two men, one from the organization, the other was born with tiny ears and the ability to get the job done. They stared out a large window looking out at the universe. They used his tiny ears to listen in on microscopic worlds.
"What do you hear?" Agent Dunbar asked.
"Shh..." replied Heywood, aiming his right ear toward the target. He heard voices. They were all clamoring for attention, screaming, whispering, singing, booing, cheering, chanting, exclaiming, sighing, whimpering, whining and some were even sleep talking. "It's hard to make out who's who."
"You need a filter."
"God, no, please, no more filters," Heywood begged, cowering into a dark corner.
Agent Dunbar pierced his skull with a hypodermic needle full of a yellow liquid. Paralyzed with pain, Heywood collapses to the floor with the needle still stuck in his skull, occasionally twitching.
"Quit screwing around. We have work to do." Agent Dunbar pulled the needle from Heywood's skull. Heywood regained consciousness and stood up, dusting his pants off. He re-aimed his ear.
"I hear him," Heywood said.
"What's he saying?"
Heywood said nothing. He was listening to himself and Agent Dunbar a few minutes behind where they existed at the moment. It no longer mattered what he heard because he already knew what was said.
Sausage Youth
By: Scott Sousa
The sausages of our youth reflect out gaping lack of humanity.
We were young.
We were reckless.
The sausages we ate injected saturated fat and cholesterol into our philistinic hearts.
We kill ourselves by lacking to care.
"But sausages are good. We'll live forever," you said long ago.
Now you're dead.
Death by sausage? Not quite.
It was a McNasty car accident that did you in.
If adjectives had ethnicities, 'nasty' would be Irish.
The car accident was (No No No) nasty, but Irish at the same time. Consolidation. McDonald. Nasty. Hence, McNasty.
"Not Donald Nasty!" the midwife shrieked seeing the car accident in the distance.
"SHA-RIEK!" a passerby said laughing to himself.
He had not thought of Applied Chaos and "The Butterfly Effect." What you do does indeed fuck the future.
A man calls the police. Says, "I think someone's in trouble."
"Okay, calm down, sir. What happened?"
"I heard a man outside shriek."
Congratulations, midwife.
You wasted taxpayers' dollars. What are you? British or a just a bitch? It can't be both. No way, José. One way or no way. No how.
***
The cause of our "sausage youth1" comes from our hatred for everyone else. It also comes from our undying love for everyone else (while we hate ourselves, obviously).
We cannot end like this.
We must move on.
"And we must become vegan."
"Shut the fuck up," an attractive woman said.
Somewhere behind a one way mirror an FBI agent watched the scene unfold. She was suspected of weapons smugglings but could never be convicted. Sorry to ruin it for you.
No, it's okay.
Good because I'm not sorry.
God damn it, Fred. Shut up.
Fred nailed the accelerator and rear-ended the car of Donald McNasty.
-
1 The words of Dr. Gerald Accordion carved into a toilet stall.
Man on the Moon, Part Two
By: Scott Sousa
Diego parked the cab in front of a café and punched a number into his cell phone. I didn't understand a word of what he said. My high school Spanish teacher with big tits failed me.
There were two men sitting outside watching us. Normally I don't like to stare but my eyes locked with theirs' and there was no turning back.
"They are ready for you," Diego said. "Go inside and order to espressos. You will be escorted from there."
Carl paid him and we walked in the café. It was a dirty place but much nicer than some of the other places we have found ourselves in. The cigarette smoke smelled more expensive. We picked a table near a window and sat down.
"This is it," Carl said.
An overweight man with a curly mustache came to take our order.
"Two espressos, please."
"Si señor," said the overweight man and he motioned for us to follow him. He led us through a door in the back, down a dimly lit stairway.
A hand came out of the darkness and got Carl, and another got me. A rag went over my mouth and the sweetness of chloroform filled my lungs. The dreams began almost immediately.
Lilacs and whiskey in an extravagant hotel suite in Las Vegas. I was on top of the world but no matter how much I begged could not get room service to bring me a glass of whole milk.
Panic set in. I ran out into the desert but my legs melted in the heat. I became a puddle, stationary, looking up at the sky. A kitten sat next to me, purring, staring at me with a curiosity only a kitten could possess. It began to lap me up. I was the milk...
Man on the Moon, Part One
By: Scott Sousa
The alarm rang and we slowly peeled our skin from the bed sheets. It was hot and our balls were sweaty but that didn't matter much because we were in Mexico City and there everyone's balls were sweaty; The place stank like it, anyway.
Carl had dragged me to Mexico to help him pick up pain killers. He had never done anything like this before. "On T.V. they make it look so simple," he said, "You just cross the border and go to the pharmacy half a block away." Half a block turned into over 1,000 miles into the heart of this perverse jungle of modern badlanders, farmers and uninteresting villages where you could never quite tell if everyone was happy or sad. Our day trip had lasted well over a week at this point. No body's got the quantity Carl wants to buy, so they tell us to keep going south.
We hailed a cab. "You speak English?" Carl asked.
"Of course, meester," the cabbie said.
We got in and took off.
"Where you headed?"
"Do you know anyone with pain killers?" Carl asked.
"Pain killers?"
"Yeah, vicodins, percocets. Pain killers."
"Oh sure, I know someone who can help you," the cabbie said smiling.
"I want to buy a lot, can this person handle that?"
"Sure, sure. Diego can get you however much of whatever it is that you want."
Carl smiled at me.
"Okay. Great. I have a prescription a doctor wro-"
"You won't need a prescription. Nothing requires anything in Mexico, meester."
"Fair enough. What's your name?"
"Me? I'm Cesar."
"Pleasure to meet you, Cesar. I'm Carl, and my friend here is Davis."
I met his eyes in the rear view mirror and said, "Howyahdoin."
"It's going to be a long ride, get comfortable," Cesar said.
He nailed the accelerator, zig-zagging down narrow city streets, racing red lights and yellow at anyone within earshot of the cab who might have been thinking of getting in our way. We were finally making progress and after today we could go home.
Change in Judgement
By: Scott Sousa
707-B. Designed to kill bed bugs but it works better as a pork marinade. I smothered my pork chops in it and lit a cigarette. It tastes like motor oil but I've never been a great judge of food so I'll disregard what my mouth is telling me.
I smoked a hit of D.M.T. I had lying around and here's what went down: Nothing too exciting.
I fucked it up. Didn't smoke enough. Choked on the smoke and exhaled too soon. Missed out. Sat at a differing angle. Changed my judgment, said, "fuck it" and went to a local bar to forget about it all.
I'm not sure if I experienced residual effects from the D.M.T. but shit got weird when the French girl with the accordion got on stage to sing about penises. Then there was the other girl, Melissa. She was cute but I lost track of her in an unconventional burrito. Sad claims to make but this is how it happens. Beg to differ? Fuck that. This IS how it happens.
The Photons of Our Being
By: Scott Sousa
"These lights flashed in the sky and I swear it was a U.F.O."
"A U.F.O.? How do you know?"
"They were big lights. Trust me. I know it sounds crazy but they zig-zagged and changed colors and then they disappeared."
"Look, Mr. Sellick, it seems like you're describing a fighter jet, or perhaps a weather balloon."
"A ha! A weather balloon. That's how you government men describe it on T.V."
The shrooms were kicking in and watched the lights on the RFK twinkle. A few weeks ago I started a clerical job with the United States Postal Police and now I'm being labeled a government man like I actually give a shit about lights.
"They talked to me, man."
"What do you mean?"
"They spoke to me, telepathically or telekinetically or what ever the hell it is. And even though I didn't want to respond they forced me to."
"Did they waterboard your sense of integrity?"
"It was like deep down, I formulated a response, but I didn't want them to hear it but they heard it anyway."
"How did the conversation go?"
"They said, 'We have come from Uranus'," he said laughing uncontrollably.
"You son of a bitch."
We laughed some more and the occasional person would walk by and see us sitting on the roof of this black car and they would hear us laughing and talking and they would stare at us but we didn't care.
The lights on the RFK began to sway and they lifted themselves, changing shapes.
"Holy shit..." I said.