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Fangs In Flight: The Real Degree Of Falling Fear
By Mikey, Hipsterpad.com || |
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It's 3:00 P.M, and I've lost my smile in a pile of disgust. This disgust could accumulate to 5-8 inches in a wretched attempt against my well-being. My truck reluctantly ignites and thumps into reverse like a fat child who was refused a bean bag and forced to hate earth.
With five miles under my rusty belt, I now engage in my favorite vehicular game of skill and contest, pothole slalom. Contenders of the sport range all ages. |
The only requirement for participation is an active expression of contempt for all sensory input throughout your round. Games usually last a minute at most, though I've heard of them enduring the length of a bastard's life on spiritual parole.
My round ended 10 minutes prior to Rust-10s arrival at work. Rust-10 is my vehicle, and it often discovers new ways to drive itself. I do not like this truck and I wish it the worst. But it does provide me a reasonably safe seat, guarded by the angels of oxidation and remorse. Rust-10 fumbles into a parking slot and resumes her filthy nap.
Five hours pass and my disgust is piled high and wide. There is no end in sight and my unfortuante shoes have transformed themselves into hopeless snow sponges. All I can think about is destroying capital snowmen with fire fists and cast iron terror. Something must pay for this. Rust-10 refuses to grip its ice queen whore road as my blood pressure detonates into a panic of seared hope.
I question my ability to return home. One half of a mile is behind me, along with various snow divets and growing degrees of despair. This is the end. The rest of my days dwelled within this tainted intersection. Quite possibly the only time I'll thank somebody for hitting me like a son in quiet grace upon his first shove into 2-wheel freedom. No assistance arrived though, these locals do not drive Rust-10 siblings willing to sacrifice their bodies for community street health. These individuals operate 4WD snobs who embrace their efficiency through Dante's 9th circle. Damn demons nearly ended me in their impatience and swift halting. Swarms of minutes encompass my agitation with heed in white knuckle while devastation mutes its potential with a fluttered return of control. I smile in light, the damp scheme recedes. Fear now dissipates as the correctional beacon illuminates my turn toward lethe, for faith and cheer to rear, and a grail to bless an evening.
- You've been watching Mikey Malchemist -
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