LANDLINE PASCOM

CHAPTER XIII

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Demolition teams were unnecessary as Mister Coral, Mister Auburn, and Mister S weaved each stick they made with skins, safety handles, wicks, and powders. Mister Cerulean had the calls ringing, with the line speaking to him in an ambiguous approach to decimate everything. The masked man furtively glanced at the table, the making of three mad men is something to watch, better than being clutched by the sloven tendrils of the sports network.

The barbaric and dimwitted take of stealing balls and sex, how unfortunate that they are toyed by the system and have these so called listeners revolt and cause havoc in regards to their exhausting and abstract routine to brandish their talents, flairs that are awfully seasoned by the time. The best ones last until they're shabby, the last ones die and often retire, they are remembered and praised. No more like national heroes from the war who are gifted with medals, and uniforms, but most importantly, the great package of all is the adhesiveness of pain, and trauma, and misfortune, and blame.

PTSD is a calling all must have, and as for Mister Cerulean, he has that trauma, sort of, until now that he knew how to rectify and pacify these people that jonesed yammers and wails. He gorged with his fingers, crunched the numbers, and exchanged to foreigners that outdid their bidding. From the mask of all things, the propagator and pioneer of destruction, the Fish that swam cautiously within the shallow waters.
Under his presence, this throng of hateful individuals are oiled and lubricated to do everything he is to say. The sun is up, humiliation starts, and all is to take it, yet one is to understand and dawn, and don its presence. They would intuitively listen to these whispers. Maybe mayhem is the answer, and if revolution is absent, what would incite be?

To live is to be fed with lies and democracy, to exist is to free ourselves from the corporate shackles that constrict us from liberation. But if mayhem is the answer, would this place be wonderful if all buildings are burned, and all structures are ruined, and all rules are broken, and all peace is gnashed, and all things are dismantled? The Fish waits for its time to come. The sticks were passed to Mister Coral who inspected these concocted demolitions for mass destruction before stowing it away. In time, they will be used, but until then, all is stored and brewed. Before that time comes, explosions would be benefitting and crackling.

The Fish stared that same window on the wall, above all buildings was this empire that cowled Pascom with blindness, within the society of falls, it is the pus of all abscessed infection. From his eye, he saw how the world is better left or if all shackles are ruined, and all people are slaughtering each other. Governance is of concupiscence, and if hunger and insanity is on the table, a celluloid for it to be perceived how these animals would kill in the name of justice. Mister Coral is taken to his present matters, he lugged himself with this stuck in his hand and placed the last piece to the corner of this interior. Designed by wholeheartedly philanthropists, they will soon know how the dissemination of destruction is as potent as the rawness of a mortal wound, and this place is only of fatuity to avert their eyes from joy.

Mister Cerulean handed him a silenced pistol, as for the two, they already had their dinner. Clubs procured on sight, how ignoble of their queen to arm them with toys they are too stupid to use. Sarcastic. Mister S massacred these hence men that bounced back and forth when his club bats them on the mouth, their jaws, ruined by the force. However the Fox, he played with them until his own hostility plied with his expertise to see blood, and hear moans. Ironic. Intuitively, the Bird was watching them as it all unfolded with brashness and bloodshed. Cesspit, heap of maelstroms. Mister Coral gripped the gun and barged inside of an office where the remaining satyrs laid in awe to their grandeur entrance. Point a gun to their head, they are already dead even if they protest. A loud bang echoed through, and there was him, Simon Vincent, in a perpetual landscape of hell. The walls are crumbling, and maggots were caulked from the seeps of these aging walls. It was terrible, and in total disbelief did he witness such an alienated aspect that flourishes inside of this place. He's almost there, only a few steps and heaven would be night. The roaring lasses wanting a piece, and the thunderous rampage of their deceitful reproach. The flight roared upon their steps, only metallic blades clang upon each lining of the banister. Coral stood in front of the office with a smoke trailing to the nuzzle, he was caught up by the gunshot wasted upon these two fuckfaces that stood before his way. Alas, obtrusively gazing upon the cesspool of all cesspools. The antediluvian wretchedness that blossomed from this malign body of matter and gravity, and evilness.