Powderized, windswept vistas. Gremlins who are hidden in the sky are looking down and weeping. The weeping reactivates the powder and again, new mountains form, also. Big Jimbo who is meanwhile munching on an alligator meat sandwich cocks and eye at the fog in the bog where he heard a quick splash. It could be the mackerel leaping or it could be a swamp weasel falling prey to a swamp lizard. Either way, there could be meat to shoot. Meat to shoot is meat to eat. That's the nature of lunch around these parts. Oh, the insects. Too many, too hungry. Would like to have hands the size of card tables to swat and squash them. Would need to swat oneself into oblivion. So, better to just get bit until the bites atop bites don't feel.
Chapter 2
Big Lizard weeps into a napkin as the black skittles fall into the drain grates. Those skittles contained hydrocarbons. It's humid in here. It's a women's sauna. There is heard the sound of a Grain Belt being cracked into. And then a series of glugs.
Chapter 3
From out of the mists, Carlos emerged. The sound of cymbals crashing and the sight of 41 miniature penguins doing the Dum Dum dance. The out they wheel the seniors. How dare they. Carlos in a purple sweater vest and his hands holding a neon yellow Frisbee with jewels glues to it. Space Frisbee. Complicated. Pools of gravy in the street. This is a post-celebration celebration. There is a pushing sensation as the goretex rips and in flows a sense of foreboding. The sound now is the cooing of a dove. The sight is a penguin with a baton grinning fiercely into the camera lens. Then there is heard the sound of puffins scuttling on metal. The audio could be piped in. Mothership. Slogans. Carlos spits into the sky. The penguins sit down into the gravy on the street and lay down. A performance. Wimpy.
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