A Rainy Morning in Hell
Rain falls from the sky in great acidic drops; they sizzle and steam when they strike the ground. Asphalt bubbles, and the pavement is still hot under your feet.
Small children play mumbletypeg with a switchblade they got from their mother’s intimate apparel drawer. Inside, besides the knife, they found Iron Maidenform bras, leather thongs with poisoned thorns, razor sharp stainless steel sex toys, and an autographed promotional photo of Sylvester Stallone as Rocky next to Rudy Giuliani dressed in drag, starring in “Rocky XXXVIII: Iron Fists at la Cage aux Folles.” When you pass the toddlers on the street, they rush over and begin gnawing at your ankles with their pointed teeth. It is then you recall you have a date later in the evening to see a movie with their mother.
Craven crows, perched on the sagging roofs of buildings, swoop down now and then to peck out your eyes with their black beaks. The pain is excruciating, but a part of you is glad you can no longer see the atrocities around you. Almost immediately your eyeballs grow back, the horrors return, and the crows lick their beaks, anticipating their next feast.
You travel to the same job every day, where you spend eight backbreaking hours putting blasting cap firing pins in bombs that will be patriotically dropped on brown people. Randomly, a faulty cap explodes, searing you with pain as several digits or a limb fly across the building (always injuring another worker). The member regenerates and your demon boss growls at you, “Get to work! Whadda ya think this is? Vacation?” Once a year you get a paid vacation, and you spend it crawling up the anus of a whale.
No one loves you. No. Really. No one loves you. Not even your pet dog.
You earn just enough money to miss paying your bills. Some months you think you’ll have enough to pay for electricity and turn on the air conditioning; then a brownout occurs.
Tap water tastes like goat urine. Coca-Cola will sell you bottled water for a portion of your weekly salary, but it tastes like sheep urine. Everything potable or edible is lukewarm. All food, by federal mandate, contains maggots.
You have to attend church on Sundays, where you listen to a rasping preacher scream about the perils of hell. No one ever speaks of God.
Did I mention no one loves you?
George Bush is president. Then John McCain.
