The Wax Conspiracy

Management reserves the right to refuse

Curiouser clicked to the last track. The hiss burning through the lonely house. The drip of the bathroom tap echoing through before the hidden track slipped into play. They sat there staring at each other. One, a dog. The other, a cat. They reached out toward each other and felt each other's faces. The bleeding started as soon as each sunk a claw. Silence again. This was not the version with the extra track.

They fell into each other's arms, missing completely all depth perception. They laughed. The floor gave way. They continued laugh. Running fingers over their faces they felt each wrinkle, each indentation and pockmark. The bas-relief of adolescence. Greasy to the touch, a hint of drying blood adding a scent. Wiping the oils across the window pane they created their own visions. Fata Morganas born of sadness and hours on the toilet listening to the backsplash and arguing parents.

Now oohing and aahing they listened on as the next album dropped into play. A concept album this time. One of those mechanical beasts where the artist becomes a wadded up ball of despair looking for a coming of age through the destruction of the upper-middle class. Basically, a dubstep record nobody wanted. Which was all of them. The beat dropped and with it they fell again. The floor, a harsh mistress. They started to laugh but then caught their own tongues.

The choking started.

And then it stopped.

The hiss started up again as the plovers came down the street. They stood around and cooed. It was cold and their mouths were fashioned only to breathe in warm air. They needed to hurry and clear away the knives and haze. The smoke was heavy. The distress more so. They used their wings to flap out the smoke. But you can't get rid of smoke once it hits the fibres. Just like you can't pour vinegar on the floorboards to wash out the spirits.

You can at least try to sell it for the haunted factor alone.

They held a joint funeral for the pair. It was cost effective. They didn't bury them in their suits.

Those will always be property of the amusement park.

Ethan Switch

Written on Sunday, 9 June 2013

The Wax Conspiracy

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