Pearls, Bells and Knives

He woke up. Dream fragments rustled by, slipsliding in the wakestream. He reached for a few, caught none of them. Looking around, he stopped the clock mid cough. cellphone really. He'd set the alarm to scream like a rooster in heat. The most horrible sound he could find on it. Pressed the button, strangling the digitised cockerel, coughing it off mid-crow. (Poser1: Why do roosters crow and crows caw? Dont the crows feel a bit dispossessed?). Dream fragments rushing headlong... umbilical cords. and kives. many knives.

He reached out, blearily groping. Glasses. Glass. Water. Door. Times of India. A sampler:
"International News: Britney Spears decides to have baby"
"Northwest African man to get shoes for being so tall"
"New study shows cigarettes are good for your skin"

Diversion: The Times of India is the largest selling National English Daily in India. Readership stats... um. large. But I have a sneaking suspicion that the majority of readers buy this 20 pager ( approx. very approx.) for about five pages worth. And for only one reason.

Supplement. he grabbed it and shuffled into bathroom. Matchboxes huddled on the windowsill like little mammals trying to keep warm. He grabbed one, flicked it open with his thumbnail. A little brown matchhead shot half out of the half open box. Me! Pick me! Spontaneous combustion! Oooooh!
Flame lit, he puffed his cigarette and settled down to pot and paper. Half naked supermodels loomed ominously, thrusting strange shaped protrusions at him. One of them seemed to be saying this: "IF YOU DRINK CATCH CLEAR, IT SHOWS. BWHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA".
She was wearing a red thing and a blue thing. The red thing may have been a top, but you can nevr tell with tops these days. They have a tendency to do strange things. They can creep. They can ride. Up. or down. But mostly up. And may be sometimes own. Twinge. Lust. Guilt. Sex. Dreamscapes floated past him, and he recognised the dream fragment from the previous night. Picking at it, he turned it aorund, an it shone at him, with lust and shame and sexsexsex....
Meanwhile, voluntary actions decided to let the invols take over. Manifold creaking noises from the porcelain pot (commode? queensenglishe be dadblasted!!) rhymed and masked the wet noises issuing from just above. he he had scaped. he had zoned. And it was like the last cannabis plant on earth had taken root downstairs, and was spreading through his nervous system, greensleeving the blood corpuscels and paiting bob marley faces on the little platelets. Finally, wet pearldewspittle ssssssssseckxposion n.n.n.n......... . . . . . . . . Reborn, deathdream no more. I kill you with this gift of fertility to the Gods. Isaac betrayed once more. Everywhere, every second, the firstborn of Abraham (or was it Job? Or someone) was offered again, in assorted spermcount quantities. And it was like everyone of those odeipicide offenders out there had screamed out the Halleluiah! (Mendel [ or Handel?]) in his head (monstrous cacophony of cherubs, death, destruction, dream, despair and delirium... and desire)........ and then, surcease... clarity. and an astounding oneness with the universe... all was love... sex.. love... sex... like being the existence of an idea of an osho on sex lecure... and then the guilt set in... claws dug deep, and the knives twisted an inch....

In the meantime was born a small turd named Jerry. But he died a sad, lamentable death in the frigid potwaters. Pity. He had loved his dad so.

Amidst all this, the bedlam that is sad coffeestain reality, the bell rang.

For a man torn between guilt and ecstasy, to a point were boundary lines ran into nondescript grey, the bell didnt ring...

it EXPLODED

in a supernova of white hot water down the front of yer wanker, ya turd, Jimmyeah.

Bucket drained in a few handfuls of cleansing the body, the mind forgotten, he shot up, flung on his towel and swept away.

The door opened slowly, cautiously, ominously, like the mutant doors in those Freddy krueger movies...

And krueger looked out at him....

It was a long deep stare. ...:
The stare tol him this precisely: " AAHAHAHAHAHA ===sonnyboy.. . . I dont NEED put knife in you... I put it there the moment you dropped steaming and screaming from your mother's whatchamacallits... Im twisting it now.. like THIS)
And the pain shot up like a lance through a skull...

And the voice told him this: Why do I smell cigarette smoke... hmmm?

No. not meant to be. Not due for another six hours.

And he stare told him this: "true boy, true"....