Thursday 24 November 2016

Th'angst giving

By the time the surveyor 'd stuck the stake, making their claim on a feast that'd spanned seas & centuries, the bird was well cooked. They shared it amongst themselves in good spirits and chucked the rest in the receptacle. Later, Johnny busted bald bi-ped'd buzzards out back behind the kitchen trying to steal the remains from the bin and shepherded them to a cage in town where they could contemplate the wrongs of their rudely ravenous dumpster diving and sleep it off.

Outside and down the road a piece, they'd been using water pumped in from Flint to blast the Indian-givers a wake-up call. No sleep for the greedy. This soiled solution was a fix from aquatics, differently developed strains at either end of the passage, from ancient mechanics to steady the flow toward the top of the pyramid, to hydrologeology to leach from each every drop.

The crowd control was a military discipline, evolved for efficiency. Besides the blown frozen flesh, upon every rock, standing or prone, canines ripped through to splintering bone. The politics were well expedient, too much going on and into the pockets of the good guys to extract mere mention. The system pure economics, the global currency green. The end of history. The best of all possible seen.

Back at the ranch, the science of erstwhile cathoded concussion still illuminated the proportionally peaceful proceeding of pie filling potbellies. The Bankers' President had pardoned the turkey, tens of thousands more of them'd just come down with the flu as many miles away in the land from which this town of Bismarck had its name. Now'd be too opportune for their final solution. Everybody's watching TV and they don't broadcast that on TV. Even if they did, nothing to be done. The stuff's gotta get to market. 11 to 9 Lions. Always the Lions. And with the oddest outcomes. Next up Cowboys. The human's last stand. The Lord is my shepherd. He maketh me to lie down.