87 Daddy baggage

The changes were subtle and Methane Man said nothing. Not yet. It might just be a tempuripple, a quantum burp. Interactive lake squall.

Back in 1954, he had floated high above Fullerton Avenue, silently watched a swirl of Lake Michigan, a suction of dumb fate, move forward.

Slapgrab eleven fishermen rubberbands, returning only three. One man caught a big one, then threw it back out of pity but still took a photo

and eighteen minutes later he was hundreds of feet into the lake, horizons of blue, like 2012 Manhattan, the building fragments Dick O teeth

Methane Man's memories co-existed as one, alkane and parrafin molecules riffing off one another in the confines of the suit, JFK died today

RFK died last week, there were no turbines in Methane Man's brain, he was simply shapeless and formless, the exact opposite of Joy Motel.

Let them enjoy their father and son reunion, let Lala wanderfrollick, Chicago already rebuilding itself, the dead helping the almost dead.

One of the first things Methane Man had sensed, then seen, then knew was wrong. Kindred past his deathtime nodoubtno. The spectrum was true.

Corpses were always teal. And yet here they were upright and moving with decision wearing construction hats or baking pies or shining shoes.

This city had crumbledtumbled in 2009, Methane Man had been in New Zealand then. An impeached governor, a bad toupee, a cult of clout.

Anarchy in the streets worse than the Dem Con in '68, the OJ verdict, the Bulls' six trophies held high as homies burned cabs & storefronts.

Kindred taking a brainsnooze, K Tate now with his LalaLove, look! at the blue sky caressing the blue water not seeing the teal dead at work.

Newsstands were back, using his paraffinic vision, Methane Man scanned to see if Tales to Confound was still in print. It Girl, TimesPast.

SalSalt Quarterly. Reality & SciFi. He was saddened, the only place someone had read his true name. V'aliss. He was no superhero. MM, pft.

Anonymous forever. Yet he could protect these three. Snapsnapsnap three times on the brainpan if you want me. It wasn't the brainstreams.

He understood how those had worked. Corrupt, clean, in-between. Crissycross, blipgone in 1968, he waited for their return, nowhere to go.

Back in 2012, thought it was expected, after all. Chicago and not NY was surprising as was the added daddy baggage. This was all wrong.

He could see hear the tubular whines, workers quintupled by upandatom random dead, more. Rumbles of war, an occasional biplane, WWI again.

Not so bad that dinosaurs would visit from Japan's Lost Isle, not so bad that Trinity would flare up retinas like the Chicago Fire x 100000.

But enough. Floating high, he saw the misanthropic visagery. How long before the unreality wafted to ground level with the teal rebuilders?

Memories happen all at the same time and he watched as a summer sprinkle made K Tate and Lala prance, yet before they had appeared, before.

That same summer shower had happened last week. Time was fracturing. The Red Baron flew as a bright kite. Televisions all tuned to JFK death

If only they would pay attention. The biplane was replaced by the 1964 UFO with reptile man at the controls. Then he saw himself yesterday.

Day became night, awake became sleep. Silence became scream. K Tate was surprised that the shriek had come from Kindred's fatherly lips.

The big man was shaking. Looked like he was crying, made Lala look northward. He said the sky tore, ripped by fingers: Dick Overtone's.

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