Death Hotel

It’s summertime and the sun’s going down and I’m walking west on Rene-Levesque. There are no cars on the street, no people in sight. It feels like I’ve been walking forever. I need to get somewhere, but I can’t remember where I'm going. So I’m just walking.

There’s a tall row of corn growing down the middle of the street. The cornstalks seem to stretch off into the infinite distance. They throw long purple shadows across the pavement.

The air is warm and still as I walk past empty skyscrapers.

A small child is standing amongst the corn and rattling something around in a plastic bucket. He tries to shield the bucket so I can’t see inside, but I walk over and take a look anyway.

He’s got a bunch of bicycle parts and animal jawbones in there.

Posted by philip at 11:49 AM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Last night I dreamed I was playing tennis with Sandra Bullock.

I don’t remember who was winning, but Sandra had the serve and it was taking her forever.

“Hurry up and serve,” I yelled across the court.

Sandra started twitching and making funny little jerking motions with her head. She raised her racket in the air and brought it down again.

I kept my stance at the baseline, feeling tense.

Sandra held the ball in front of her. I could see her grip it tightly. The bright afternoon sunlight glinted in her cold, flashing blue eyes.

Sandra Bullock doesn’t have blue eyes!

I ran and jumped over the net and went running at her and I swung my arm as hard as I could and I smashed her right in the face with my tennis racket. The strings of my racket cut into her flesh and passed right through her face, splitting her head into a molecular grid. Blue energy from Sandra’s plasma-brain surged through these cracks in a blinding flash.

Sandra’s body lurched and struggled to remain upright. The tennis ball in her hand was a ticking hand grenade. I leapt backwards, covering my face. The bomb exploded and I was thrown back hard against a chain link fence.

I lay on the edge of the court, unable to breathe. My back was hurting. It felt as if all the air had been squeezed out of my lungs.

Through the dust and haze of the explosion, where the robot Sandra had once stood, I could see a crater in the ground.

There was an armchair in the middle of the crater. A baby was sitting in the armchair, smoking a pipe.

I woke up choking and gasping for breath.

Posted by philip at 12:38 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)

Death babies send crying sounds on TV over satellite. Babies communicate by crying. A wet diaper in every mailbox in Canada. Babies everywhere Fed-Exing dirty diapers to all citizens. The baby war has begun.

Morale is low as many find it difficult to inflict violence upon an infant.

Pitchforks selling out at hardware supply stores. The baby war has many casualties. Where do they come from? Where the fuck are all these babies coming from?

Pregnant women. The womb of the earth in an Arctic laboratory deep underneath the tundra. Baffin Island, maybe Ellesmere.

Babies are born in the cold from stolen sperm of Nazi war criminals.

Posted by philip at 02:00 PM | Permalink | Comments (0)