The dreams of dead men...
The computer screen flickered with the storm. Søren lit another Gauloises and sighed, nostalgic. It was his last pack.
He began to type:
Like tumblestone ram bladders...
Words & phrases (parsed)
Lyrics & lyricism (typos, included)
Picked from the æther.
Three teen girls by side of the road
With ballon swords
And imagined foes
I'll be your
(nothing but a)
Assumed to be a bit of doggerel (a poem to be jotted on a spare bit of parchment and left to the wind, a sharpie and a stall in a truckstop men's room) he emailed it to the whole staff. Subject: Everything is true but the flayed god hears no screams.
He looked at the pile of written requests in his paper inbox. Worse than the email. He looked at the first - a glossy black and white of Mayan statuette that looked to be smoking, breathing out the winds of death. He decided to label it "Codex Huracan". The museum staff were so beholden to his supposed expertise and to refrain from questioning even his most questionable moves. It would serve to confuse, the wise would pontificate and the fools would smile. It would buy him some time. Jerome peeked in to say hello, check what was to be checked. Søren proffered his whiskey to the night guard. It was well past the day that anyone pretended they didn't all drink on the job:
"How's the family?"
"Same shit. Wife keeps nagging that I should switch shifts, that we never see each other. Course if I did, I'm like as not to catch her balling the landscaper."
"Maybe that's what she's going for."
"Nothing that cunt does would surprise me. But the divorce would be hard on the kids. They're too young for this shit."
"Better you keep your separate spheres?"
"While she hoards travel guides and I buy guitars... So it goes... But how's bout you? Still living the high life?"
"Mr. Jones is growing impatient..."
Søren dreamed of running again. This time he was in a pawn shop haggling over the price of a '62 fretless Fender J. But running. Always running.