I started picking at the scar on my arm …
The one from when I broke it a year ago …
The surgical scar, where they taped my humerus back together with aviation tape and form-a-gasket and bondo …
I pick at it, and it bleeds, and I can see the metal wire, rusty, covered in fleas …
You would say “Dan, stop messing around”, but I heard a sound and moved fast. It couldn’t last, not the last of the JERG-WIZARDS, mixing elixirs and ancient pudding. And just like that the smoke cleared and I could see the bare bone and I groaned in pain as I shoved broken glass and wood chips in the wound.
I pulled on the broken plastic clamp holding the bone in place, and scratched at the remodeled bone with my rusty pocketknife …
It spoke, the bone, cursed flesh and marrow:
“The first of the KLUNGIT-ARMIES, being led by LORD JANGIS, is moving on S’compton … they just sacked Grinken Town.”
I’ll blame the SECTOR CHIEFS and the coyote herders.
I’ll take account of those DINGLE farmers, sharecropping the broken hearted no man’s land of BOBLIMPTOCK … Ungoobulating their women folk, greasing their boovulas.
And my bone is CHILLED MAX ICE …
And I pick at it for comfort.
