17: Relationships for the underslime

Two security guys stood on show outside the HurtyVibes Recreation Club.

Security Guy 1: [Whispering] It’s The Detective…

Security Guy 2 nodded into his muscles and cleared a path from some surrounding human foliage so that Cadbury and Selia could move forward.

Wearing his thickest Detective’s overcoat Cadbury came up with Selia half on his arm, adorned in a body hugging violet crush dress. The two sliced through a small crowd that was lingering with unclear intentions outside the club, and were birthed into the womb-like environment of the HurtyVibes lobby.

Once inside they rode on legs up a flight of impressive burgundy stairs, only to reach the top, nod at what were presumably more security staff, and then descend a seemingly symmetrical set of stairs.

At the bottom the scene of the HurtyVibes Recreation Club unfolded itself.

The Club consisted of a massive room, that could probably hold 10,000, though was not densely populated at the moment, surrounded on 3 sides by a continuous set of stages, subdivided in a haphazard and perhaps ad hoc fashion. At various places in the main area there were elevated sections that could have also been stages, however they were holding visitors. Some of the elevated sections had their own elevated sections, and it was to one of these that Cadbury walked Selia, along the way nodding sternly to a number of distressed looking individuals and some groups manifestly from an underworld or overworld organization.

Suffice to say Selia was glad to arrive at the destination, which was relatively regal in nature, even being demarked by a rope and a small hanging sign: “FIFE”.

Cadbury: Let us party.

Their area was empty however gave a great view of the surrounds, which Selia perused.

A small party of what were certainly lawyers was assembled on the raised section below them… she could tell that they were lawyers based solely on their habit of drooling whilst standing excessively upright.

Below that, on floor level, the crowd was of all types, their primary characteristic seeming to be that they didn’t do anything especially intently, which included watching the stages.

On a stage to the left of them appeared to be a computer laboratory, with a square table of computer equipment and people operating it, and generally acting like scientists. It was not clear if this was a performance, part of the club administration, or sub-leased office space.

To the right was a stage with an empty, clear, hemispheric bubble, maybe 10 feet in radius.

Then, in front, maybe 50 feet out and raised from floor level but below them, was a stage area that seemed to be preparing for some activity.

An awkward looking man suddenly stepped out of the crowd, leaped onto the stage, struck the floorboards with a series of thuds and rolled. He lay there for a full minute, encouraging the thought that seemed quite likely, that he was badly injured.

Marquis: I am badly injured.

Marquis: [Getting to feet] But it is alright, because new injury does not matter. New sadness is beside the point. New failure is a bath of circumspection. Let’s hop into the hot tub with the Poet, people…

A hot tub is wheeled out and the Poet became naked, exposing a gangling, sublimely ridiculous body.

Marquis: [Grinning as he gets into the tub] I am The Marquis. You can call me Marquis.

The Marquis was getting marginal attention from those in his immediate vicinity, and reduced focus as one moved away, until a cusp was reached where people were equally close to the Flower Impersonator (The Imfloralator) who had entered the Bubble on the adjoining stage to the right and begun doing a surprising accurate impression of some Foxglove.

As the Poet I have failed before I get into the Tub,
I am 2 parts Idiot, -1 parts Genius.

Selia was strangely riveted by the performance of Marquis, whilst Cadbury had become preoccupied with a bug that had landed on his hand.

As the Poet of course, you can see, I am all alone in the Tub,
Though I will say that I could have had a girl, a real zoomer,
But I didn’t want one because, well, it wouldn’t have fitted with my per-son-a,
And it wouldn’t have fitted nicely in the Tub.

A robot waiter appeared to take orders. Selia ordered an Imploding Orgasm (50% Gin, 50% Lemonade) and Cadbury ordered a Detective’s Special.

The computer equipment on stage left had begun projecting imagery of archaeological digs onto some surround screens, along with streams of output from data analysis programs. The small crew of faux scientists typed at keyboards as though inflicted with some form of manic dysrhythmia.

There’s blood in the Tub, it’s gushing!
I’m cut and brooding, menstruating, peeing red for you,
Because I’m the Poet, and this is the Tub,
And I’m flushing my pain into your life’s sewer.

The fluid in the Tub had turned an ominous shade of dark.

Cadbury: Rampant idiot parading around as a fool!!

He was talking to the bug that was now mockingly doing circuits around his head.

Relationships, you know, they’re for the underslime of our so-called joke civilization,
Why cut your veins on the sharp edges of someone possibly even worse than you?
Cut your veins on your own veins, I say, I do, I say
I work alone, I am the Poet.

The Imfloralator had morphed into a Flytrap and was attracting more attention with violent, spasming attack moves. Simultaneously a cloud of bugs appeared to have been released into the Bubble.

Cut your veins on your own veins and bleed bleed bleed into a carafe fashioned from the flesh of your heart,
And drink your love for free, like me,
I alone am the Poet,
And I am the Poet so I may remain alone.

Marquis The Poet began to slowly submerge himself.

Now watch me go under.

As this happened, the cloud of apparently flesh-eating bugs was attacking the Imfloralator with some passion, though he was fighting back by trying to eat them. He also had become covered in a sticky substance that slowed the bugs down, however they appeared to be both outnumbering him and outmaneuvering him.

Meanwhile, the archaeology  data seemed to be reaching a intense peak of analytical euphoria. The screens were strobing rapidly between 3 dimensional mathematical structures and reconstructions of carnivorous dinosaurs.

The scientists had gone into uncontrolled body spasms.

The club was filling with a haze.

The robot waiter arrived with their drinks.

The Imfloralator screamed in a shrill and mortal pain.

Marquis the Poet disappeared below the surface.

Cadbury killed his bug and ate it.

Selia stood and ran.

This entry was posted in The Case Of The Missing Self and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

8 Responses to 17: Relationships for the underslime

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