08-03-2020, 02:56 AM
Shark—Sharks—Vampire—Boat—Fist
The trouble with living in a hole was, Jack thought to himself, there is only one way out. Jack didn’t live in a hole, of course. He lived in a flat in Lewisham. But he thought if he ever did the single exit system would definitely be an issue. He could, he imagined, dig out another escape route. But then it wouldn’t be a hole, anymore. It’d be a tunnel. And who would want to live in a tunnel? Not Jack, for sure.
—Could I get you something to drink? The waitress asked, tapping her pen on the small notepad she held in her hand against her chest.
—That would be delightful! Victoria sang back flicking through the cocktail menu. I’ll have a… um…
Jack wondered about the prospect of living in a tunnel and light pouring in from both ends—from multiple ends! An explosion of options. An explosion of enemy advances! His heart started to beat like a fistfight and beads of sweat began to manifest along his prematurely receding hairline.
—Hare Krishna. Hare Krishna. Hare Krishna… he repeated to himself under his breath. Hare Krishna. Hare Krishna. Hare Krishna…
He thought of clear blue skies over vast snow-topped mountain ranges. Of cool forest lakes under fat silver moons. Crisp blue twilights around the fluttering of first kisses. Hare Krishna. Hare Krishna. Hare Krishna.
—A Cocksucking Cowboy, Victoria triumphantly decided, clapped the menu shut and passed it back to the smirking waitress.
—For fuck sake, Vic!
—Ooo, someone’s in a mood, Victoria chuckled.
—I’ll have a pint, Jack sighed in defeat, falling off his chair and scuttling under the table.
—Have you ever read American Psycho? Victoria groaned.
—Have you?
—Get up, she hissed.
And once all the pretentiousness had subsided Jack wondered what beautiful torture jealousy had in store for him as he rummaged around her handbag.
The Penguin Book of French Poetry 1820-1950
His renewed spirit sank into his stomach as the realisation promptly hit him that Victoria really was just as ghastly as she seemed.
The trouble with living in a hole was, Jack thought to himself, there is only one way out. Jack didn’t live in a hole, of course. He lived in a flat in Lewisham. But he thought if he ever did the single exit system would definitely be an issue. He could, he imagined, dig out another escape route. But then it wouldn’t be a hole, anymore. It’d be a tunnel. And who would want to live in a tunnel? Not Jack, for sure.
—Could I get you something to drink? The waitress asked, tapping her pen on the small notepad she held in her hand against her chest.
—That would be delightful! Victoria sang back flicking through the cocktail menu. I’ll have a… um…
Jack wondered about the prospect of living in a tunnel and light pouring in from both ends—from multiple ends! An explosion of options. An explosion of enemy advances! His heart started to beat like a fistfight and beads of sweat began to manifest along his prematurely receding hairline.
—Hare Krishna. Hare Krishna. Hare Krishna… he repeated to himself under his breath. Hare Krishna. Hare Krishna. Hare Krishna…
He thought of clear blue skies over vast snow-topped mountain ranges. Of cool forest lakes under fat silver moons. Crisp blue twilights around the fluttering of first kisses. Hare Krishna. Hare Krishna. Hare Krishna.
—A Cocksucking Cowboy, Victoria triumphantly decided, clapped the menu shut and passed it back to the smirking waitress.
—For fuck sake, Vic!
—Ooo, someone’s in a mood, Victoria chuckled.
—I’ll have a pint, Jack sighed in defeat, falling off his chair and scuttling under the table.
—Have you ever read American Psycho? Victoria groaned.
—Have you?
—Get up, she hissed.
And once all the pretentiousness had subsided Jack wondered what beautiful torture jealousy had in store for him as he rummaged around her handbag.
The Penguin Book of French Poetry 1820-1950
His renewed spirit sank into his stomach as the realisation promptly hit him that Victoria really was just as ghastly as she seemed.