Cereal Novel: Third Bowl
June 5, 2010 in Blogs
Another police copter for dolls. Close. Too close. Not at all quiet. It shouts.
“Hands up. Do not move!”
Yet you cannot stop.
A step right. Bang against a wooden door. Tumble down a set of steps. Wait to be captured as you lay like a broken doll at the bottom of the steps.
See the copter. Like an avenging angel it is highlighted against the doorway. Two. No five. No thirty-two. A fuzzy mass of police copters all chanting in monotone.
“Sank. You. Arab.”
The copters chase you into unconsciousness as your throbbing head receives blood to pound more from your feet lifted up the staircase above your fractured noggin.
The world. Or wherever you are, goes away.
You wake, still life of pain, blood, drool, and tears on a background of damp wooden stairs.
Crawling, after you find the internal memory file that has the schematics for this operation, brings you to your knees and hands in a puddle of oily water overlaying a pale pink floor.
Looking about is a mistake and neccessary. The room spins, and swells, and suddenly you add vomit to oil and water.
In the side of your mind a cool, rational voice that sounds like one of the textbooks you read in college asks a question with no particular urgency.
Isn’t a head injury plus vomiting a bad sign? Not shaking it off because that would mean more vomiting, you find it easy to ignore that problem.
The room is somewhere around twenty yards long, and ten yards wide. It seems to shout in instinctual clues ‘basement’. A number of multi-colored boxes, some sort of art, more nativist and naive than sophisticated and modernist or realistic has pictures of food being harvested and seals being clubbed on icebergs among others less decipherable. Sinks for dwarves remind you of the police copters claiming they had sank an arab or something.
How is it that you understand them, but not anyone else? Perhaps you’re in some dialect heavy area in New York City where everyone speaks Old Country. And dogs smart off to humans.
Hmmm.