LANDLINE PASCOM

CHAPTER II

Remaining inside his apartment, there was another man in the same place as Mister Coral's, earlier today, but the man, unlike Mister C's fluidity, is none other, he is only a man with a wordless landscape amidst this pastel abyss strewn with maelstroms and dilemmas. He was sitting on a single chair sofa, propping his arms below, the same man that had nothing but silence watched over the fish man as it let itself in.

The door pushed open, there was an ominous creak that filled the room, an infectious sound that left anyone tantalized, or even so, appalled, but the man was complacently unperturbed, even if he strode inside the man's quarters. Only a petrifying gaze was enough to establish presence on both of them, visitors by familiarity and placatory. But as they both watched each other, their insides, roused with a dance, a rhythm that kindled their hearts. By the entrance, he was cohesive, a tad of steadfastness to make the man waver, only a hollow stare flourished, rendering to his innards hapless. After all, a fish would attentively hide upon the face of danger, and so, Mister Coral stepped inside and closed the door upon entering. But the man lay in an adjacent space, drifting away, still sitting on the chair.

Turning to his left, there was Mister C watching him shyly, but prevailed, as Mister C would often go back to his own quarters whenever each job was ploughed through. There was a loud fall that reverberated throughout the whole room, bouncing back and forth before ceasing to be heard. It was a small apartment, with two rooms, abreast, in contrast, metaphorically facing one another in the opposite direction, with the rest room on the left only a small open space, enough for two people to carry on. A small kitchen beside the comfort room, furnished with a sink, a stove, a small fridge with a potted aloe vera on top. The loud gushing sound of the toilet stool, compared to the swirling haze inside the man's head, was all different compared to when he caught Mister Coral first hand after his gig outside of the place. The car was parked outside, however, it was confusing to say the least how the keys were in his pockets moments after the fishman went inside his quarters. He is loafing, at the very least, dawdling his time, idly weaving simple thoughts that are destructive over time, but nearing his image, he had a callous face, and a bitter heart to feel every thought with ease. As captivating as it was, he felt ecstatic as that simple gist inside his mind fatten his own perception of reality. The man, that had slacked short hair, had a sharp nose, who had a round face yet with a meager complexion, with his eyes round with semicircular shades underneath, the thinnest of lips, and eyes that pierced through anything like darts. These qualities shape the man that wore a sleeveless shirt, partnered by a stretchable pair of gray pants tinted with a smokey white hue.

His name, Simon, at least that's how he met himself, and to the others, they call him Vincent, maybe so that in a different perception, other gals would call you Vincent. On how he met himself, it was a gloomy weather, a downcast, where everything hit him rock bottom. In later days, Simon would often read books, namely, one of Chuck Palahniuk's masculinity inducing books: Fight Club. However, they are all words, a bunch of hollowed out men being kissed by their mothers before sleeping to bed to deny any of the aspects of reality they harvested from something phenomenal, obsoletion, trivialized perception, a capricious gusto, fastidious as his mind. It had been like this, his own world, less than zero, flat, bland, hastily done, haphazard, dull, gray, ashen, he cared less about himself more than he cared about the whole world. A big ban with a thin looking, enjoying himself under the company of water, but at work, gin. One of the corporation's most valuable networks that often commingle simple acts of completing the said business proposal with ease, but now, it was Mister Coral's job to accede.

Mister Coral, a man that used to live beside his room, 148, now 147. How he moved here, he forgot, must've been that he had forgone the irony of having a friend, but under the company of the fishman, he had found himself in a realm of thinking, as in, musing, as in, orchestrating, but what? a music? might be that a plan, but to his own acknowledgement, he deplored the existence of Mister Coral. There are times how his head would often manifest as a realistic piece of fish head, namely, tropical fish, that weirdly breathed air, yet, when a single blink of an eye, retains the originality in which can be seen as a paper mache wrapped around his face. His own actual look, never to be determined, for it can never be seen by anything else, but to Simon's discernment, he had seen his face a long time ago, yet with this, he hoped for nothing more but to stare at the staleness of his own face he used to conceal his face.