Often the Right Foot will appear near the beginning of the tape, making such a fuss that the rest of the individuals start to pale with envy. They then fortify themselves with ancient wildflower concentrate and tossing large back drafts around for fun. Too soon the concrete-loving crow appears to pester the volk with his petty thievery. This happens frequently. Flying Cherries from a platform designers bad dream gnaw out of their set top former colony tenements. It tickles the gizzard of the ministry of rank amateurism. Something kinda jumbles in those poorly devised optical illusions seen from the least best point of view. The glowing report tattles; oppressive brain-mushing in styrene stickpart factories. And yet, the city at the edge keeps on keeping on. Tyrone tri-D walks comfortably off the plank. The manic stride of a seasoned campaigner panicks the litmus test of survival. The congenital morning glory sits pickled over the gooey burg in time for noodleshack repartee. He doesn't mind. He's making a killing in blisterpak, "and I don't care what they call it in Manchester.. its tree free and profitable into the millenium!" Horst the folk boy emerges from the gomasai popworks in time to see his quaint valley turned from dullards paradise to playland of the globe dawdlers. Once a gemütlich assemblage of horse and thatch, now a base of operations for the retch of bolly and the scraps of green poly loungers lurching over the channel. Oh how he missed the controlled electromagnetic rumblings to the moist west. They always came and went without changing the scenes or inducing virulent pangs of guilt. How could they... the incomprehensibility of it all. But that tinge of guilt prompts him out into the waste. There he encounters boxes of paper and rot, dripping with mist, abandoned of any particular purpose. Behind every wall is a series of lights stacked two by two. Too far to reach without urgency and enthusiasm. Not much of that here, except for the agents and their mush... The last of the village skeptics is under the stairs awaiting his. With melancholy glee the pumpfman drones his tune for the oblivious captive (its unclear whether he's in the next cell or on the next page). Those agents rarely take 'catch you on the flip-flop' for an answer though, no matter how dense mister musicians pleas. By simply wrinkling his brau, folkboy transforms himself into a rejected corporate logo and photocopies himself to a sheet of ivory bond. A breath and a wisp of cliché transport him under the door and past the guards where Sadly sits waiting the talk-serum. Yet another facial twitch and the bear becomes an amiable Nootka print. The agents hardly detach from their methodical prep long enough to see the two crumpled balls swish and scrape across the floor to freedom. Escape on a slip of onion skin and fast clipper to HK. A fine plan if they can bankroll the boarding pass'. FolkBoy decides to max an expense account he sniffs off the edge of his pulpfibre. Conserving the pocket lint, they take the metro to the Swiss Riveria and stay in a hõtel full of peepers. Sign this waiver and stay free. Cuddly animal voyeurism is very trendy on the satelites. But.. "Look Martha, he's roomin with sum kinda creepy nutzi symbology...!" Tiled lounges crawling with screaming NAFTA baby's. Hordes of grumpy mums filled with salty peanuts and sparkling water. Sadly wonders how it can be that this boy can change from solid to dry pulp in the wink of a lash and they have to take aluminum tubes all the way to the former colony. Life's weird that way. Meanwhile Ace battery executive Tenkai Yagi is in alertfull dreammode in his magnetogorsk factory. Years in the discount dry cell business has left him wanting more than the occasionally fleshromp in vladstok. Not that he would cheat on his partner of 20 odd years; namely, a healthy obsession with cattle mutilations of the american southwest. To

Ian Campbell
Copyright © 1997
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