RED PARALLEL

Chapter 18: Skipping n' Tripping

Half his feet had his socks on, half didn't. It had been a damn pain in the heart realizing his kicks didn't fit no more. Yet, it was a good chance to buy... Yo, with which money? Working didn't work out. Newspaper delivery boy? No. He got lost so many times that he was deeply embarrassed. Market? No. He had actually picked his own lunch from the shelf and kind of stolen it, which wasn't a good idea. Grass cutting boy? No. He broke the machine on his first 'Imma run in this fucking grass' race. Babysitter? For the sake of the babies and for his own, he didn't even think about it. Traviz wanted money to buy larger clothes, but there was no money. That was the downside of not having his rich father around. He thought about crying, but then he remembered he would feel a pain in his stretching bones if he crouched, so he aborted it.

The Crib 'donated' him some trash (Aaron didn't help him, this time), which obviously felt ridiculous. They were large enough, okay, his six feet body (Jessi mumbled something like 'I knew it', but not so enthusiastically) sort of fit inside that trash. "You look great," Nate said, half laughing, seconds before receiving a sweet punch from Traviz's fist. It wasn't his intention to punch so hard; the arm had gone farther than expected. It would go to the infinite. Not only his arms, but his legs. His head. Everything.

"Your exaggeration is impressive," Owen said.

"I'm not. I'm serious," Traviz would retort.

It was damn true. The Crib was suddenly so tiny and cramped that he wanted to take all that piece and smash down. Why not build a cool fresh building, huh? That thing was stinking to death...

He was stinking. Damn, it was so hot, the sweat was like a hello morning and a good night. Always. On his back, feet, arms, armpits... Armpits. What the hell. He would usually wear sleeveless shirts, but then his armpits would go moist and then the smell. That shit. That hot rotten sweat mixed with piss and milk from last month. When he first sprayed a deodorant, well, he sprayed right onto his face, by accident. How nice. Speaking of accident, if in his early childhood it had been part of a nice and cute and stubborn hobby, now it was so ridiculous. He didn't even want to drop tables or chairs or people! Not now! He was so pissed off with himself that he had no spirit to nag people around. He was constantly starving, attacking the fridge like a demented zombie, and he would still feel like a dead jelly. Nasty and lame. A total low and weak performance.

Speaking of performance.

Levion had taken the most tragic and irrational decision: to drop 'young participants' from the circuit. Meaning: Traviz couldn't compete anymore. No battle, no nothing. "You can still battle at the streets," Nate pondered. C'mon. He was about to make a great move, to show the genius dancers at Levion that he was the next star, that none of the others mattered, and then he got a cold punch right onto his nose, in which a nice pimple was rising. He was devastated. He dropped the dance. But he did make an effort; he battled. Epic disaster. His feet would scramble, he would lose balance, his arms would shake around like gay wings, he would... Ugh. He thought about asking Nate for that 'let's fix this damn feet' thing, but somehow, he couldn't. He couldn't dance, and he couldn't cry.

Why, heavens, lord of sakes, mothafucka God, why doing this? Should I die?

Well. Maybe not yet. He had some new adventures. In first place, his dick. In second place, his dick. In third place, his dick again. Everything was a great big shit of a dick. Damn, his dick. Like, yo. Hiiiis dick. His. My dick. My dick. His dick would understand the unfairness of the world. His dick would talk to him and tell him that his life was still worth living. His dick would even say 'congratulations' for the nice job, spilling a happy and desperate milk. He didn't lose his special aim, so he would play 'shoot the cum' at challenging distances. That was the good part of stretching members. His dick was the dick. The great weapon of destruction. If he could only destroy something.