I’m Frank Mason. I work around the clock on a decommissioned research facility, protecting the untouched remnants of a bygone dark age of government testing. I’ll do this until I die. For now–rather, I should say for the duration of this story–I was lounging on the davenport at home, smoking a joint.
Last night, I had a vision
My entire furniture future was all polyester, stuffed with treated cotton. It felt good, I guess.
Ripping a fart, I stood up from the couch where I’ve spent the last six hours sitting, watching television. My stained teeth itch. Some tobacco smoke could kill that right off. And it should. I have little tolerance for bacteria, or more despicably, a fungus. I feel that I’d rather eat HIV-infected mosquitoes. Do those exist? Do I?
When I was in the war, we used to have this saying, “Don’t look at the flash.” When I was just green, I would wonder what that meant. After serving nine years of active duty in the nuclear deserts, I had it figured out pretty quick, when a nuclear blast was detected a few miles Southwest of our position. All at once, I was overcome by a mad rush to the iodine tincture buried deep within our packs, under the sleeping bag, and soup kettle, and lastly the cigarettes and ammunition, at the bottom among the suicide pellet and a letter from Mom, stained with tea. Regulation shit!
The roaring of engines could be heard overhead.
Hey son. We love and miss you. When you get home, we have a big surprise for you. We can’t tell you what it is now, but you are going to LOVE it! When you get home, you will find your old room like you left it, and a nice TV with your computer all set up and ready. Your brother says hello, and your little sister has started dating a boy…she is growing up so fast.
The rest is in there.
For now, the acid trip has taken a new direction. Since the recent explosion of chemical testing on refugees and involuntary Section Eight retards, the whole corps has become a creepy, hollow place. Our commanding officers no longer look us in the eyes. The dogs seem to act as if we are inconsequential to their well-beings. Even the birds stopped flying overhead. A well-greased rifle is your best friend. The trees are melting. Nature is beautiful.
The roaring of engines is heard overhead.
3 replies on “Steel Lion Morning visionary blues”
Ya nigga leave the scifi ?writing to ?fishfag, it ain’t your bag. People and the places they are be your thing, despite your hatred of most of the human classes of our species. Oh, ugh?, you dug that pile of steaming crap ?out (so called manuscript).
Ps- That shit should only be used to light a camp fire? next time you visit the Smokey Mountains. Just sayin’ ☄️
What the fuck did y’all do have hate radio suspended. Did Barrett Brown haz a mad and throw a fit over y’all poking fun & making satire at his constant leftist fail, & cause this issue, asking for us hateradio haters, fam, & friends!?
WHY ARE YOU GOOD OLDE (WHITE) BOYS ALWAYS BE PICKIN’ ON ME *said in sh(r)ill lisp