Warwick : an account deux
By pip 0 Comments
big fat swollen rains start to splash into the pavement gathering connecting pooling to reflect that foppish subversive
Warwick in a grey broken light. the suicidal littered bodies collected on the tree wheeze groan and spit their discontent
as paramedics swarm the branches for bodies. Saw tooth cops with blunted features glare brutal looks at poor puny
Warwick his tattered shirt encrusted with grime blood and sap flips them the bird. they write down his plate number.
that's when the first body explodes a meat headed juggernaut of a man stumbles from the medics wrenching his collar
tears open his shirt a red light emanates from his chest vibrates then makes a sound that rents the very fabric of the air
paints the crowd the streets the birds over head in bony goo. Scenes of hysteria in blood myst as 49 red lights flash.
the sound barrier POPS to warwick and a rusted piece of metal from his car the world has become statues as he does
49 exploitative surgeries with the rusted scrap then ascends in a spiral from the earth fling the pin head bombs into satellites.
then half the country loses phone service. "Fuck My Life" Warwick mutters descending.