SUGARM “Wasted” (Hard Disks)

In a cloud balloon, expletives are struck through, letter by letter, their hides tanned by a birch switch. “Got a screw loose, that boy does. We don’t speak that sort of language in this house. Always got his nose in one of them fantasy books.”

He is speaking unscientifically and nonsensically and unrealistically while bending forward, too far forward, in a blazer two sizes too small. The tear line along the back of the blazer is to be followed. To save costs, they appropriated the tear line for the purpose of visual “winding river” stock.

Where, actually, does the winding river run? All over the map and then some. The infrastructure is not built for this amount of traffic. Government-sanctioned digital sinkholes, sort of like automated trapdoors, take care of a few or more amphibious automobiles a day, at random. “Smell that? Naw, you don’t smell nothing. I got your nose boy. Honk honk.”

The professor, self-appointed expert of intersectionality, asks the questions ‘round here: Can you dance to a vacuum cleaner? Can you measure the defects of the diamond in ten seconds while holding a pound of worms in your mouth? What, in your opinion, is the minimum number of controlled substances in grams that warrants incarceration? Are you “at-risk”? If selected for survival, can you build a “lean-to”? Which of your teammates, in your opinion, is best equipped to do so? Are you up for the challenge? Can you get hard?

The one wielding the switch is on guard, ready with his dialect.

-- Rick Weaver