LANDLINE PASCOM

CHAPTER III

Back at the place, there was Simon again, on the sofa, hitting heroins and reefers, destroying his beautifully indulging intellect with gateway drugs that he craved upon, almost having an overdose scenario where bongs, and rolled out joints of cannabis indica lay in submission to his addiction, both were simultaneously huffed, and puffed like it was just simple to him. His head, messed up, and his demeanor, all loosen, like a carved out bark of hardwood, jimmied, and aged from the excessive use of keys for freedom. Beside his room however was a loud neighbor he often saw dragging bodies, or even hefting sleek boxes with a very ruddy stain in which something red would ooze out on drips. It was a woman that had these packages to be arranged, sometimes they were cool boxes, however, the contents were ambiguous enough for him to discern.

Oftentimes, when he's out there looking at her, she would often give him a responding look to his ogling. Then a flash would come, of squealing pigs that din to his ears, and then the sound of flesh, sticky as a slime being dragged somewhere to paint a grimy reflection of fear, and mental anguish. Agony for those she might have killed, beyond that, a mask of a pig that he recognized.

Miss Puce, with her hair slack at the back of her nape. Miss Puce, a pig butcher, a sadistic masochistic individual of unknown origin. With snorting noises, and its subjection to violence, Miss Puce became waif of morality, immorality, or even the perversion of life. Now, on her mission to make a snuff film to gain revenue to certain sites such as:PascomnianSnuff.com, or Killma.com. Both sadism, and extremely encouraging oral sex with knives, flesh, and masturbation. She was the MGMT's Little Dark Age. A peculiar lass that would pique your interests, and then one minute, she was there, pushing her ajared creaked door, getting inside, hiding in plain sight to avoid suspicions, but she knows who he was, and to what he is, although it was Simon that didn't know who he really was.

He may have been the guy that passed on this hall to clean, or the driver from the taxi cab he had called, or the pizza guy that satiated his hunger, or maybe so, that guy who can make needles lucratively inclined. Nonetheless, Miss Puce had her own agendas to attend to, but that tantalizing beaming of her face, that pig mask- that sow, it was something else for him to even comprehend in the first place.

Simon hit himself with reality again, this time, along the existence of these stained walls, and the opaque windows, and the clattering floor, and the fire escapes made antique by the years passing. The smell of burnt leaf, and the boiling point of blown bongs, the spurting juices from needle points, and the droning noise of fluorescent lights. At the back of his mind, the constant laughter of ridicule, naivety, and the erroneous existence of himself condensing mistakes, lapses, faults, his incursion to self blame to gain self control, and of destruction.

To hit rock bottom, if he was falling, but on how Simon sees it, he was just an ordinary schmuck without a purpose in life, and if he is indeed falling, wouldn't be his ground the endless abyss of dubiousness where his own reality is always a sheer comfort other than an escape to these haunting and anxious walls that mocked his own masculinity, and boldness? That's the reality of all men, to be hounded by these dogs of maelstroms, to continuously comprehend everything, to waste a fortune nigh to be attained.

Femininity is tomorrow's reconsideration, people are soft as cheese, masculinity is never, people are as mellow, and backward engineers rid the streets of strength, and rob these men bred for war with purpose. Now, they take shelter upon acknowledgement, men don't need acknowledgement as far as he could tell, they need nothing but self destruction, and to further upon the nearing end of everything he knows. The great beyond, where leaders will crusade, and soldiers will march for war, to show true animalistic intentions, to give forth upon such battle never to be fathom. Howbeit, no one like himself could deny that a great battle is first perceived inside a man's heart. Have your father beat your own self, bash those doors with your head and you'll know peace, have mothers pamper your troubled heart, and you will know weakness.