Blue Wall: Blown to Bits
UMass student Kit Snake detonated on Thursday, and the greedy innards of Blue Wall are still scraping at the linoleum. How kindly they horde her benevolence beneath their fingernails, scoring their eardrums with it, tap tap tapping their frontal lobes with the residual paste of twenty-two gluten-free birthday cakes.
“God!” yowled one male innard, spitting globs of Mrs. Snake’s 2004 Toyota minivan with ample cargo space, which rolled in chunks down his vest. “Is this Blarney?”
Another, suckling from the hand sanitizer, brandished his shamrock cock.
Don’t you think I’m right? I saw Kit ooze from the walls of the handicapped stall and I asked her: “Kit? Have a sit with me?” and she turned and looked at me and her eyeballs were ghastly white entrails rolling loosely in the serum of a magic eight ball. She scuttled to smell the wall vent.
I lit a cigarette and waited for her skittish dribbling to cease. She slid beside me and whispered: “There are quiet creatures crowding in the lobby.”
I laughed out loud, snorting a plume of smoke from my ear canal. Quiet! It was quieter in Nam!
Kit siphons my thoughts from the ear I’ve primed for her: “Oh God, it’s carnage! But I have something here! An unholy body, a visceral emblem!” and she pulled from her camisole a festering troglodyte, who ogled me from within cavernous eye sockets like a chagrined mother.
“Have you ever been maddened by the evasiveness of self-actualization?” he grunted, black spittle decorating my skin. “Have you ev—” he coughed, his tongue unraveling the length of our perch—“ever cracked your skull into pieces and found there’s nothing but insatiable maggots within?”
At least four times, I scoffed about my malware. Wanting to impress him, I raised him one: “Have you ever broken your ribs for concealing a truth?”
Kit and the troglodyte nearly shattered from guffaws. “Do you love him, or are you just insane?” (says Kit). “Oh, God, it’s both!” (cries the troglodyte). “Can’t you feel the scalpel you swallowed this morning? Can’t you hear the sickening crunch of your chest?”
They had gone too far. My stomach filled with acid and I forced this filthy, blistering hound back down Kit’s shimmering gullet. And then I got the fuck out before he could slime his way out, to crawl into the diaphragm of the sickest, saddest sap there—it was me, I knew it, I knew it all along—and as I vaulted the glistening stir fry tables, Kit screamed through the intercom: “Do you love him, or are you insane?” and everything in a forty-nine foot radius was blown to bits by the truth of it.
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