LANDLINE PASCOM

CHAPTER XI

From the blurriness of his vision he saw the man he was looking for, Mister Cerulean. But the strangest thing about him now is the akin threads he was wearing in order to represent himself. Cerulean, sporting a white collar uniform, with a necktie and his avian mask looking emptily over Simon's dramatic defeat. Still dawning the events that transcended before this, earlier was as vague as his own perception of things, like his mind, inclining to philanthropy. Hating nothing more but the very temple of humanity, he was stripped from the humane qualities he had, and enjoyed nothing more but a simple drink with Death himself, and of fate. Then, the towering presence of this birdman, hulking and empowering with tragedy and preparedness.

Mister Cerulean dirtied his stomach, stepping over his guts as he pulled up his sleeves up to reveal the only thing that had Simon's eyes gouging out. His arm, with needle wounds, and disparity between each spouting of a..... syringe. Simon tilted his head to the right, his sleeve was already turned, and the conspicuousness that demystified him over his friend's markings had his guts sunk when he realized it. A hand yanked his slacked hair from behind, forcing him to look up. A masked man, akin to the mask he wore, almost identical to someone he had met before. It was Mister S, in the flesh, the very pigment of his coloration that had the likeness of his tone yet with the distinction of his motives. A strong grip latched over his left arm, hampering his ground with a firm grip. It was a canine that snagged him, Mister Auburn, with the same raiments as his, holding his arm.

Almost disposing of Simon's lack of affirmation to the basal portion of his strength, and then another to his right. It was tied with wire to have his muscles bulging, and then, between the hands of the one restraining him to protest any further was Mister Coral, with a blank reaction over his face. Syringe in hand, in full volume of that toxin he used to drown over. The needle poked through, a twinge of pain, a needle bite, and then, spouted. The venom was within him, the needle recedes before the potency even swept through. His mind submitted to the infectious qualities of inferiority, his face melted, and his entourage was stormed by haziness, dullness, and statics. Vaporwave, the alignment of waves, the whorl of each reality, the climate of all storms, and then the shimmying of colors. Pink, Blue, Violet, and neon.

Neon is insanity.....neon is insanity..... neon is insanity....

but Mister Cerulean is dripping in neon. The oozing of each dollop of neon, in larger quantities, and then, Mister S's haze that were chromatic, beyond aesthetic as he fell inward, to the great abysmal of his own perception that tended to be malleable over anything else. And then, Simon walked away from his useless body, straying from the faculties, and constitution, and ideation he ever had.

He was taken back, taken back to the reality that was once factual. He remembered how he was a slave to his own society, watching each day dripping like rainbows, and colors, tobogganing to his expectations as he worked as a white-collar employee crunching keyboards, and computers, and digital spaces, and papers, and printers, and coffee cups, and office mates, and cellphones, and paper stacks. This was his own monotony, the very end of his college is the start of his enslavement, and in the real world, it is more terrifying than to justify the existence of a roaring lion or a tiger. The day, of each passing second, of time, of hours, of months, and weeks, of years, it was a fish eye perspective how he became dull and senseless, and hapless to the corporate buildings that enslaved him for lucrative purposes.

Maybe the ELC had a thing to their minds before deciding to take him to their arms with proud arms, welcoming him to the perils of life in exchange for destroyers and tranquility. The fealty of himself that bonafide his existence within the corporation is the grim start of each murder he will take, and it ensues in demand for respect and devotion. In vice versa, his own destroyers, the maggots that infested his visceral and intuition with addiction and jonesing.

Within the eyes of Mister S, he watched as to how he slaughtered the woman of his dreams, rupturing her stomach with a knife, and then, slitting her throat before he could even bawl. Abhorring exsanguination as the moon itself can outrightly justify the profoundness of his tempted constitution. It was him that killed her mother with a fox mask, nor that shot her father with a fish mask to mask himself under the ELC's manipulation. And he was a fool that played with an open heart, and a passion to lure himself deeper to the covent of grimness, and incredulity.

Mister Cerulean, the one that ordered him, the one that coaxed him to incline to this animalistic tendency watched as how Simon bagged them all up with a garbage plastic amidst the cast of an abysmal weather that pelted them with cries, and yammers, and wails. Wetted with their own guilt, the perturbing of each shovelling disturbed the ancient earth, and the blade that plowed through was the conclusion to hide a body perfectly down below. 6 feet, sleek and soaked with rain water. Simon carelessly slammed each body to the hole, leaving them furnished with a disrespectful weaving of each commendable cellophane wrap to hide their visages. The flash of lightning colored the atmosphere even more with the existence of his friends, with its trailing, the flash of that blinding rage that cracked the sky demystified the existence of Mister Cerulean to be himself all along.

Simon opened his eyes with a groan, he spewed on the pavement as the maelstroms and gnarling roots of discombobulation construe him with heaviness to abstraction and alienation. Blood and saliva, he dragged himself up, steadying himself as he fixated his eyes over to the big frames of glass situated in front of him. He was on top of the city, listless, his own temple over their ignorance to the perils of this city. Classlessness, illiteracy, pristinely inclined, obduracy, naivety, with no malice, and to their own temple, it was their monotony, their own stupidity, their own concession to the darkened world that was deemed to mystify them even more. Simon squared his shoulders, the booming of lights, the blooming of rainbows, the blinding dances of neon, them blinking of gigantic towers and skyscrapers, this is the complacency of all citizens. Hiding like children with no malice to the face of danger. The deterioration of his past and present is this, the unexplainable indulgence to lay in awe, in pity, in galling, in gallantry, and in loathe to these people that never knew the events unfolding unbeknownst to their knowledge. His future, no more to be reminisced as his own destroyers ate his constitution up. If there is something that he learned from this, that is to keep the unwanted and fervid eyes to yourself and fixate your own wanting to destruction, there is no escape between up or down, and if you won't prevail then this is your waterloo. If damnation is all there is for him, expectations for a greater change is a subversive thought he would make to comfort himself with weakness and humanity. Outrightly justified to be stupid.

The reverberating of steps from the stairs, the humming of the elevator, and the scuttling noises that his friends made to the fire exit. The intrusiveness of the maw of Pascom waits for him, and the hastiness of his friends were worth pondering as it remained to be fictitious in nature. Neon reflected over his iris, banishing every thought he had in mind. Only the declination to reality would make it taste like a supper, in all factuality, the existence of lies and fiction will remain lucrative. Simon would rather take this vice and delve deeper to spiral in every flight he is to take in order to catch his friends. Banishment of all learned flairs, it is too detrimental to our conception if we harbor them. The whorl of desire, the conjecturing of validation. Perversion would be recycled and extolled, hailed true as onwards nigh to our eyes.

Networks crippled the scene where he loafed. The elevator doors opened, blades were held upright as their expectation became subversive, growing stale as their gusto aligned, vanilla, rotely registering as predators wanting danger to be extolled. Conceding even to this time is an antediluvian wretchedness too good to be held as a gusto. Simon's vision was flattering, and the hypnosis that snagged him almost made his awareness dull. He was The Cordettes' Mr. Sandman, always lost with his pliance for the unknown.