There was a man named Mason Jarr.
He lived in a rusted touring car.
He gave lots of speeches
and dined upon leeches
and on one occasion a liter of tar.
The triffid queen arrived on Earth for an inspection tour, and the loon was granted an exclusive interview with her.
Loon: Welcome to Earth, oh Queen. How have you enjoyed the tour so far?
Triffid Queen: Frankly, I am shocked to see how easy our task of conquest will be, what with the self-defeating activities of the idiotic dominant species. I didn’t believe the reports, and that is why I came to see for myself. You really are quite stupid, you know.
Loon: Yes, I know. I’ve always been dumb. It runs in my family. When do you see the final takeover happening, Your Majesty?
Triffid Queen: Our triffid lives are measured in thousands of your years, Earthling. We’re in no rush. Happily, we’ll relax, wait, and allow you to do the job for us.
Loon: We might change our ways.
Triffid Queen: (laughs and laughs and laughs)
Bing purchased the coat and the pants and some bait at a bait shop in Portland, Maine.
Bing found this coat:
a. in a garbage dump outside of Portland, Oregon.
b. hanging on a nail backstage at the vaudeville palace in Portland, Oregon.
c. marked down to 85 cents in a thrift shop in Portland, Oregon.
d. and those pants in a bait shop in Portland, Maine.
You follow directions, no questions asked, and sure enough, in green neon, ‘Dolly’s’ sputters at you from above a dark wood door crisscrossed with black studs. In you go. The lounge is lit dim green by inverted conical sconces parading around the walls, providing a mood of languid submarine despair. A long bar on the left, booths on the right. Sculpted patrons at the bar loom unmoving over their drinks. A piano, a saxophone, and drums occupy an elevated alcove and combine to weave a slow moving sadness of sound. You slide across the black vinyl seat in the first booth. The bartender establishes eye contact and raises his unibrow, an unmistakable silent version of ‘What’ll it be?’ You take the crystal orb from your pocket and hold it out toward the bartender. He nods and jerks his head once to the left. You look right and see the green glitter of the beaded curtain masking an opening in the wall at the far end of the bar. You take a deep breath, slide across the vinyl, and stand up. The sculpted bar patrons move not a muscle as you travel the length of the lounge. The piano player smiles slightly around the cigarette hanging from his lower lip and sending a snaking thread of smoke to disperse in the murky green. You part the beaded curtain and step inside.
There she is. You die.
i linger longly low and loud
beside the savage cloud
enervated
i reap dragons
to haul away in fiery wagons
alas
my heart
it sticks
the candles have no wicks
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Doc's Lunacy
5 of 5 stars to The Great Train Robbery by Michael Crichton goodreads.com/review/show/55…
