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When
you have not had scalding coffee thrown in your face, you don't know
how unlucky you are.
There
are these steps at work, mobile gantries stolen from a steampunk
Apollo launch. You can move them around by pulling these bent,
rusting levers that take the support legs off the ground, and you can
push them on wheels where the bearings are oiled knucklebones from a
starving child.
Push
them into position for the spectacle. Summon the spectators, the old
women knitting before the scaffold, the cackling whores. The other
staff in others words, they are as good as all those, the collective
intelligence thereof. Drawn from large screen football, the only
thing that could tear them away, not even the burning of their own
children would normally stop them watching.
Prod
the fucker up the stairs at sword point while ducking under the
flying lumps of shit I wish everyone else would throw at you while
thinking the man who deserved them might have been me. Put it out of
your mind, Tudor master of ceremonies, the Lords of the Humiliations,
the Chamberlain of Suffering.
There
is a noose affixed to a criss cross of sprinkler pipes and girders
that shake in the rain. It hangs down like guts fallen from the guts
of a disembowelment. Yeah get your neck in there, you scrawny fucker.
The safety cage at the top has been crudely removed by the
cortex-less repair men who's normal function is to bang broken
wheels on trolleys so they are even more broken.
Look up
there. You see your god up there? I hope so. God lies within that
hoop of rope. Push his head in, set the knot behind the mis-shapen
inbred right ear. Give him a second to think, give him a gentle lean
out over the void to the massed “ooohs” of the crowd as they bang
their cans of Relentless together. Then shove hard.
The
rope doesn't drop for long. Who wants to break his neck too soon
anyway? Legs kick out thrashing, and as intended he shits himself
over the loathsome toads from the offices, who lap it up like thirsty
dogs and then turn to lick the faces of their frightened Eastern
European slave girls. Another parasite climbs up his legs, the length
of his body and sucks his eyeballs out saying “I love you, I love
you!”
I kick
him in the face and send his sprawling into a crowd of secretaries,
shit and vomit. This is the best fun I've had in years, and I turned
my conscience off especially. I'd best not turn it back on.
Copyright
Bloody Mulberry 14.12.13
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