please read this bitch first, followed by this bitch, and then this here bitch. then, and only then, should you begin to read the following bitch.


...a kick drum rhythm, a consciousness's memory of blood from a time when fluid pressed through dilated veins, a lucky eighty percent that fueled a brain.

An idiotic song. Half German, half in English.

Three-dimensional words, moving all funny-like; an idea-filled water balloon, bleeding streams four feet long and six atoms around. Distraction. Transluscency. Remembered eyeballs that can turn in two directions simultaneously.

A screenplay:

INTERIOR
SET DESIGNER'S UTTERLY FAKE RENDITION OF A HUMAN STOMACH

NOISES
shit is hot! hot shit!


THAT GUY FROM THAT COMMERCIAL
Heh, remember stomach? Remember shit? Remember heat?

Very vivid. No sense in asking. Pleasure to have met him. Fragments of programmed interaction, everything from drunken conversation and someone else's words spilling out of Aleister's mouth to the rusted mechanics of a near-dead introvert's attempt at etiquette. Many threads coming back to him at once. Nothing for his mind (not brain) to do but wander back in parallel.

Aleister is constantly piecing together his actual life, separating his dull memories from the varied blinking lights of time with Hosts. It started with the remnants of his life's last and strangest experience

THAT GUY FROM THAT COMMERCIAL
HA!?

wherein Aleister, having fallen from grace, met the kindest soul in human history, a sensual mercy-fucker jointly designed by Kali and Shiva, an angel to Boston's young horny homeless whose name was Klar.

And before he returns to the Goddamned Earth for another pellet-gun knock-down, he remembers a thing or two about his last day, the first in an interminable series of last days:

• the piss-smelling basement of an apartment building
• homeless kids in punk rock t-shirts laying down bedrolls
• walking up ancient spiral stairs with Klar
• nostrils recoiling as the piss-smell meets cloying cologne
• two homeless gayboys, one black and one white, pausing from their spoon-shaped fucking and peering up, frightened, from under the stairs
• a discarded spoon with a blackened bottom
• leading Klar in a false display of confidence to the concrete-floored courtyard
• lying and fucking between idle patches of broken glass

But then comes the burning crotch and itching rectum, phantom sensations remembered from the days of Having A Body. And light, and pulling, and a tear in the fabric of space and time itself, a spiked and velvet-lined wormhole, et cetera, blah fucking blah. It starts all over again.

Aleister's eyes lock into place, then his pelvis and chest. At once he's somebody else. He opens this new fucker's eyes.

Industrial particle-board ceiling, fluorescent lights and beige metal. Sickly pastel green walls. An institution.

He sees shit.

He starts to scream, because what the fuck, why not? But he only makes it through half a breath before there's warmth in his arm and he dozes off...

This time, and for the first time, he's come back old.

more bitches cometh