(Note: this is a chapter of experimental fiction and not, in fact, a review of any other work or a factual account of anything. I'm adding it as a blog post just for fun)
DENSE THING
Chapter One: A Fast and Fleeting Food
Some harsh and feral laughter must have echoed in my brain. It was too late- too late by far for subtle references and hand-me-down quotations. I had no alternate route to take except to slit the throat of my current captor and make my escape. Was it the impact of that hot concrete against my frail and estrogen-addled body that knocked me out, or was it the sight of the blood geyser which had sprung from my captor’s throat? Oh, well- there’s no telling, I supposed.
When I woke I was surrounded by large iron-workers of the city, these being of the female persuasion. After prodding me to my knees they begged confession of me and I was only too happy to oblige. After regaling them with stories of my own confused sexual and pharmaceutical exploration, they handed me my penance: it was a suppository of unknown effect, to be administered only after being bestowed with a full set of acrylic nails. Over the next half hour I was treated to a lovely manicure after which the pill oddly provided me with an additional sense of well-being.
Over the meal which the butch women provided, I inquired several times as to the purpose of the pill dissolving in my colon. I was met only with blank stares and so turned my attention instead to the food. There were rice noodles with a thick green paste, the spiciness of which made me reach quickly for the vanilla milkshake.
“It’s a recreation of the five dollar milkshake from that one scene in Pulp Fiction- only the ingredients were scarce and quite hard to find so it probably would retail for far more than five dollars today if there were still a universally accepted form of currency”, an iron-worker named Val informed me.
“It’s also vegan”, said another.
I nodded appreciatively at this and gave Val a concerned look. She had short black bangs and her hard smooth face featured a bright smile but dead eyes. I sipped at the shake again and fought the urge to remark on it being a damn good milkshake. There was no telling who worked for the Quentin Containment Force these days – this could be a classic case of entrapment.
I finished my meal and begged my leave. Before they let me go, though, the iron-workers insisted that I take some for the road. Val held a large burlap sack open at the end of the long table we were seated at and the other women slid everything upon the table into it. When it was full with noodles, paste, drinks, plates and cutlery Val tied it shut and handed it to me. I buckled under the weight of it instantly and thought for a moment my spine might not recover. I managed to get out from under it, though, and so bid my generous hosts goodbye as I dragged it behind me towards the hazy sunset of that late summer.
When I woke I was surrounded by large iron-workers of the city, these being of the female persuasion. After prodding me to my knees they begged confession of me and I was only too happy to oblige. After regaling them with stories of my own confused sexual and pharmaceutical exploration, they handed me my penance: it was a suppository of unknown effect, to be administered only after being bestowed with a full set of acrylic nails. Over the next half hour I was treated to a lovely manicure after which the pill oddly provided me with an additional sense of well-being.
Over the meal which the butch women provided, I inquired several times as to the purpose of the pill dissolving in my colon. I was met only with blank stares and so turned my attention instead to the food. There were rice noodles with a thick green paste, the spiciness of which made me reach quickly for the vanilla milkshake.
“It’s a recreation of the five dollar milkshake from that one scene in Pulp Fiction- only the ingredients were scarce and quite hard to find so it probably would retail for far more than five dollars today if there were still a universally accepted form of currency”, an iron-worker named Val informed me.
“It’s also vegan”, said another.
I nodded appreciatively at this and gave Val a concerned look. She had short black bangs and her hard smooth face featured a bright smile but dead eyes. I sipped at the shake again and fought the urge to remark on it being a damn good milkshake. There was no telling who worked for the Quentin Containment Force these days – this could be a classic case of entrapment.
I finished my meal and begged my leave. Before they let me go, though, the iron-workers insisted that I take some for the road. Val held a large burlap sack open at the end of the long table we were seated at and the other women slid everything upon the table into it. When it was full with noodles, paste, drinks, plates and cutlery Val tied it shut and handed it to me. I buckled under the weight of it instantly and thought for a moment my spine might not recover. I managed to get out from under it, though, and so bid my generous hosts goodbye as I dragged it behind me towards the hazy sunset of that late summer.
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