LANDLINE PASCOM

CHAPTER I

Invigorating as any city would be, amidst the clouds, or the chaotic traffic lines, maybe the murky and gritty picturesque of a yellow outline smudged around each wall that looked like a pee stain. Maybe so that through each glens, there is a gunshot to be heard, a new victim to be put in a casket, and a gun needed to be discharged somewhere else with discretion, and a rapscallion, or even a pilfering mug running away as coppers sought after him.

Dopers smoking rolled up reefers, hookers banged by taxi drivers, and the sweet smell of condoms snuff by effeminate students being hammered from the derriere. Owned under the moonlight, even so that a police beating is being demonstrated to those street gangsters slogging turf after turf, precincts, and places. The smoke clears, we are above the heavens, we are gazing at the Pascomnian heights, restless with crimes and dramas. Neon lights, and the haze it brought segued perfectly. Nearing to the streets, lampposts were flickering in certain mews that not even a walking lass is safe from the voracious appetite of sex predators, or even so, child molestation being filmed while some greasy and barbaric faced lad is humping gracefully to a tight entrance, the anal of a first born within this sophisticated society defined by Plato.

A study of cities, a perfect replica of what the ancient empire of Rome had achieved, but to this? Why did we become waif of our conceptions? dulled by suffering and wanting, sure that we are blessed with consciousness. And through that excessive ploughing when sexual hours roused are veins, we are still consciously yielding to satiate our guts. At the end of each line were telephones, delving deeper to what this stale society can give us were numbers being punched repeatedly. Emergency calls, traceless calls, even the ludicrous calls made by grannies are just worth fawning. However, at the end of such a line that trailed deeper to a simple crummy apartment was a call never to be expected by a man.

About 5'6 in height, lean, and owned a very fashionable hairstyle, a dropping straight hair lying slack. Jet black, lustering under the beam of fluorescent bulbs. Wearing a coral suit, this mysterious man sat on his derriere for a few hours before finally coming across a phone call that blurted the other side of his line. Slowly, choking down his hastiness, he grabbed the handset and put the mouthpiece to his lips, gently pressing it as his other line prepared to give him the details for today's notice.

"Mister Coral," said a woman from the other line.

"As the network of this call, I am to introduce to you to some local people that are willing to "help" our organization. Please by all means, meet them at the Pacifica Avenue, Lower Pascom. Do remember to give them our warm welcome in extent for the corporation's indulging elation."

Down goes the phone, slipping right through his hand. He jumped right up, picking his clattered clownfish mask hanging by the nailed divider Mister Coral went out shortly to visit some of his cronies at Pacifica Avenue.

* * * * * *

The night was booming with people, hookers smoking a few blocks from his place, still, bearing frivolity to this sight seeing he went around his parked SUV outside and went to peel through the dump highway of his apartment. Passing through buildings, sporting himself with music that blasted the speakers with a nerve stimulating vibrant melody, even without words, it clattered Mister Coral's innards as he began speeding thoroughly. He was Jasper Byrne's Ghost Drives. Narrowing his descent to the inner gaily entourage of a neon's brush across Pascom's complexity. He arrived at the scene, nowhere to adhere but the spaciousness of the highway, and the brushing of clamorous people wearing threads that are stale to his taste. His senses nudged him, a few spaces to the side was a telephone booth. There was a weird feeling tingling his visceral the moment he laid eyes over that pristine booth, unoccupied by anybody else. He parked the car perfectly to a painted space before alighting, furnishing himself with some of those music that gave him a tenacious music syndrome, he then walked a few paces towards that booth to occupy its remaining hollow spaciousness with his mass. Holding the phone close to the fish mask's mouth, there was a voice that talked to him. The ring was muted the second he listened to the receiver.