We apologise of the delay. The fireworks got out of hand. Drinking and a flare gun never mix well. Neither does a circle of depressive drinkers and a gun which you pretended to load with a single road. Drink enough, someone will be motivated enough to break into the camp of the traveling circus. He or she will be set to unlock all of the cages in the hopes of setting the animals free. The animals were probably asleep, which is why they fucking charged this person when they heard the rusty war-screech of an anarchist lush and bang of a heavy gauge lock being busted open with a stolen fire axe. You should have seen them run, it was kind of beautiful. You could put Vangelis to it.
The electricity went out. But that’s because of the pool party someone got the bright idea to throw upstairs. There was no pool, so they blocked every drain with old clothes they found in a spare bedroom. Then they turned on every tap full bore and even dragged up the hose, like some overgrown python. Eventually it all collapsed, the top floor breaking and then gushing and rushing down to the ground. Thankfully no one was hurt. The original owners will get a shock when they return from their trip abroad.
Meanwhile in a room, it’s ceiling hazed over from all of the smoke, six people wait anxiously passing a gun around each other, hoping to be the first to Valhalla, and not to be the sucker that comes last. They idly cheer and clap each other, between drinks, urging them to pull the trigger.
I think there are waaaay too many roman candles. This thought floats through several people’s heads, but their minds are like teflon. The idea does not stick while each of them search for more explosive material.
When they hear the sirens, they do not panic, they cheer. It came in with the beat. That was the sheer Schrödinger luck of it. They just kept dancing. It wasn’t a smoke machine. It was actual smoke. The lights were still going, but half of it was faulty electrics burning away the only available exit. Maybe it was the ecstacy, maybe it wasn’t the collective pharmacy in each belly. Have you ever wondered why there are oxygen masks on air planes, why there is ‘Duck and Cover’? Makes it easier to establish a better frame for recovery from a disaster. Easier to find your body in your alloted seat or underneath your sturdiest piece of furniture. As I said, it was easy for authorities to clean up after that warehouse rave.
They had too much furniture. They were hoarders after all. But they didn’t have a place to sit. All of the chairs were piled high to the ceiling. They really could not use the beds any more. It wasn’t just the lack of matresses, but they were vertical to make room for cots and wardrobes. They slept in two tall boys. And when they wanted to screw, they did it on a coffee table, where they would have to squeeze underneath a dining table. They lived happy lives in a labyrinth of their own design. But when disaster struck there was no escape.
Too many fireworks, somethings going to go wrong with this pile. The thought just doesn’t stick. Neither does the fact of how they managed to find so many in such short time.
I’m getting off topic. There was a delay, because the electricty went out. We use it to make our publication. It’s all on computers now. In the old days, it was to be pumped out on a type writer, carefully and patiently spaced late at night, while the television was playing out dark white nose. Then carefully cut the pages with an Xacto knife and paste them down. One might discover spelling mistake or an error in the grammar. But fuck it. There was no way out but through. Though the photocopier needed juice, it was during the day and the library was usually empty. And hacking it for free copies became a breeze. It was just simple attention seeking at first, but then it was crazy attention seeking. That’s why all these things were done.
The group are exhausted. Like worker bees, they got busy and built a pile of things that blow up. They decide to celebrate their haul, by passing around bottles of dark liquor. Someone came late, but brought the pièce de résistance, a vintage British one inch flare pistol.
Smoke continues to fill the room. There is not more noise, just an impatient silence. The hammer slams against the chamber. The ‘Click’ echoes against the temple, and rings in the head. No Vahalla for me. The pistol is passed around. They have not realised yet there and never will be any bullets.
Accidents happen. Like that time you sent of a prank letter, only to think that when you sobered up, it really did seem like a ransom note if read in the correct light. You wondered if they would take it seriously…
And then you wondered if you could write another.
The panicking, escaped circus animals wreaked havoc with authorities trying to evacuate selected city blocks. Disturbed by drunken activists and then further terrified by the explosions and the fires, they charged people trying to leave their burning dwellings and those still partying out in the street.
All of that dense wood, pine and oak, would only fuel their funerary pyre. The heat and smoke overwhelmed them and all they could do was hold each other.
There wasn’t much left of the liquor nor was there much of the people either when that flare gun overshot the apple and sailed majestically through the air, right into the heart of fireworks and homemade explosives. There was the moment, where everything froze like a photo. People staring into the pile, waiting while time slowed down for what was to happen next when everything ignited at once. The shockwave konocked some of them to the ground mostly, sparing them from being burnt by the heat or their limbs snicked off by the shrapnel.
In the smoke-filled room, the party of suicides have realised that there are and never will be bullets in their gun. They have wasted so much time sitting here hoping to die and now they fear they will live forever. One of them, alone has the courage to step up, grab the pistol and whip each and every one of his friends into Vahalla’s hands, beating down on their skulls. Realising what is unfolding, they each give out their thanks and prayers. Covered in the blood and now alone, the sole survivor needs air away from all this smoke and death. He opens the door and steps outside, only to find that the horizon is aflame and chaos echoes through the night. Like stepping into a Bosch painting, he has entered Hell and goes mad.
There was a delay. We get distracted sometimes. And then things get out hand. So we have wait for every Dick, Jane and Charlie Chimp to be rounded up and put back in their cage. Once the fires are out and we can survey the damage we’ll get back to work. At least, until we are distracted once more.
photo by nintaro