On the shelves of the second hand book store with no direction and even less in misdirection. Lady at the register plants a foot on the counter and yammers on about domestics. Too bad "CLOSED" on the front door is facing the inside. Moths fall and roll into dust and carpet bolls.
From the land of the non-register, where aliens and probes go deeper than the tube at the clinic as the doctor squirts more lube on his gloves. For the ease of the operation they say. A smile is most disconcerting to the method and procedure. Area 51 by Robert Doherty. First in a series. Of what, matters not. End it here thank you kindly. Drown it all in Groom Lake.
Warning signs of stickers, markings and pungent odours dirtying up the nasal cavities. Cough up a splutter with the yellow pages of wear grimy to the touch. Beware the imposition of the exposition and the people in the mud. Standing with script notes, crib sheets and all manner of cue cards. Rote one two with a keg of rose rum too. Drink up already, before the weevils take all the face skin for themselves. They're quick critters they are.
Between plot points glaring in the middle of the sun, in the middle of the night no less, medical examinations with rusty needles and chilli pepper enemas take it easier. Five ten legs don't fit too well into a five even spread. Dog hair and all. Inclinations to itch hitting the seat belt. Curling up the choke and spotting nothing more than the very characters, every body likes to take the steps from here to there and back again. Flat sense of intrigue in between.
Contort on the table on the seat in the back in the middle of the heat. Eyes cloud over with sweat ripping rash and fever dreams of black eyelids of deep vein thrombosis. Keep up with the water intake, wipe the brow to supplement. Walk up and down the aisle without a box cutter handy for severing the food from the packaging.
Excruciating insistence on spelling out each and every thought. No hint of hints. Rival the proposition to enjoy the steady flow on from scene, characterisation and a little in the form of development. Of any kind really. Nothing here outside moving whole buildings and vans from point A to B. An exercise in watching the whole world unfold with detail beyond credulity and enjoyment. More on the supple movements of discs slipping and popping.
Turkey sandwich with lettuce and mayo makes the fill between the empties. Not the tinnies. Mayo picking up all the flavour and leaving the turkey to hold the hand of the lettuce as the brain cracks open. And out from the end, all a hurry and askance toward the next avoidance of a resolution.
Exposition much? Dues ex machina any 1? All that ram rodding, where's the plot flow? Back seat of the car. Break out with a hit of spots.
Reviewed on Thursday, 6 December 2007