by soil deflected



Fate Merchant and his inebriate associates, lit pink in daybreak’s broad angle, pose.

They have become accustomed to cameras, the concept of privacy willingly forfeit, self on display and archived somewhere on some remote server. Darkness and light may measure, divide, and tint atmospheres according to macro and micro cosmic or cosmetic spatial properties, but human privacy, however petty, no longer exists.

Supposing Fate strolls off alone toward a National Forest, his path to the trailhead is already tracked. So also, today, he emits an electromagnetic pulse, no implant even required, each individual biometrically providing unique imprimatur until decease, and this organic data filed remotely by satellite, “for your own safety” and, as a matter of course.

Due, in any event, to some puritan lapse, the drinking age has been reduced to 18, an age at which the notion of contributing to the delinquency of a minor ceases to carry much of a threat.

Street side self, inebriate selves on display, in company divisible one by one plus one minus one, gender determinate male, sexual apparatus, indeterminate, inside auto, three watch fourth pull handle, release latch, push open passenger side rear door, swivel ass and, place right foot on curb.

Eyes squint at angled easterly glare, glaze refracts blazing pink faces deflecting from the hood of burgundy automobile.

Mundus subterraneus secant, who lives, lives by soil deflected and, thus, elemental and atmospheric courtesy. Ryder Ponder, last located scarcely prior to seven, lifts right arm and pummels with fist the door of Barney’s stout saloon seeking breakfast of tube pickled offal plus pursuant, and preferably flammable, fluid.

Obsolescence of newspapers but a visual demand for another onslaught of incessant distraction, Ryder twists then tugs at a locked knob. Thumping his hypothenar eminence against the unyielding door to Barney’s saloon, he vehemently seeks intestinal tube pickled offal plus combustive rinsed gullet.

Behind him, a burgundy Skylark idles and reflectively distorts his wasted physique. Ryder’s inebriate associates squint sedentary midst another pink triggered dawn already cracked.

To the useless question posed by driver, Ollie Fivestring, regarding the time, Fate responds “sometime in the near future.”

Two thousand years plus the birth or death of some fuck known as Jesus,” Syd Nitchevko counters.

Down to the microsecond,” Ollie says.

Who’s in charge of the narrative content?” asks Fate.

Don’t matter one fuck,” says Syd, quickly scanning seven corner mount cameras. “Everyone wave.”

Cameras record unwashed burgundy Skylark depart containing three adult males at dawn waving, sometime and always set in or beyond the near future.

Left alone on the sidewalk, Ryder repeatedly booms meaty eminence against Barney’s door.

Open up,” he bellows.



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