The Wax Conspiracy

Plush is the trophy room

Peacefully the pillow yet sinks. The muffled guffaw gets quieter and the thrashing settles. A little bit longer still and the quiet burps out that one last gasp and into the wail of waiting sirens. Duck down, as comfortable as it feels, stretches out time. Time we no longer have to give.

Saliva picks up the edges, a drool here, a drool there, and clean up is just a mess because now look at what you've done. It's just rude is all. But from here we carry on like a Beur passing through Customs and wondering what accent to affect. Either pick one and stick with it, or just stay at home.

They wheel out the body eventually, taking their time to clean up some of the debris as they plodded through the garden. It rained last night, and the sod was only starting to get its fingers into the deeper soil. It was on sale too, a bargain, but then it's only a bargain if you don't spend your own money and just use the notes that were left in the wallet.

The pillow makes for an uneasy cushion. It doesn't sit right with the bone hitting straight through to the cold ground. Or maybe someone needs to pick up their lunge game and flex it through lunch. Can't sit on what isn't there. It's a ritual, and now we're done.

The parents of the couple were not fans of their children's dalliance into miscegenation. Inner hate pays well, but it's hard to find those with liquid assets to make good on the promise.

In truth, language is all we have here. And a verbal contract is always up for as much interpretation as you think.

Ethan Switch

Written on Tuesday, 5 May 2015

The Wax Conspiracy

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