The Atomic Fucker Gets 8-Foot Tits
The stars, violent and ancient pulled fresh November wind across his grey-stubble face, scraping tears off his cheeks. This undid time. DaysÂ collapsed, stone columns – a steady catalog of his years – driven deep into his heart. Regret, starved of attention, simply died.
Seven Davis heard silence for the first time in his memory, although he had heard it before.
In the gap of silence, Seven realized with a soft amusement that he didn’t know what he liked to eat. The words “grilled cheese” came to mind but they were followed by the words “good boy”.Â He saw a yellow kitchen table and rooster-print wallpaper.Â He’d have to come back to this.Â It would have to wait because at the momentÂ his pants were pulled down and a crowd had gathered at the the busy intersection where he was apparently taking a shit on the curb.Â Across the street he could see children licking whipped foam from paper cups.Â Probably a Starbucks over that way.
“Dammit, Seven, we’ve talked about this.” A man with a gold helmet and black boots was talking to him. Seven felt very sleepy.
Text and Images Â© Andrew Auten – All Rights Reserved