Kindred did not know of the tempustrictures, the squuezing of time in seven dimensional terms. And so it caused a dilemma at 39 So. State.
An archer in the old Stevens Building tore time as the arrow hit his target, a huge bastard wearing a Lush Rimbo skullcap and paisley tie.
No Escape button to delete and start over tabula rasa Lushly loose, no thread trapped no magnetic spool of being jammed by fate's fluke.
Over and again, Robin Hood meets Oliver Hardy, timelocked, the same sceneseen 73 days themp clump yell thwip arrow tip Huffington Post-made.
Yet, steps away, life went on, the fight went on, no one seing the worse to come, minor skirmishes for kiosks or subway entrances, new homes
The temportals had dropped like sheets in a morgue, borne on Lake Michigan winds, the Red Balloon Baron watching the MoreOrLessWarOf2012.
Time layers pillowpoked the Trump Tower antennae, RKO beepbeepbeeped scenes from MONSTER OF SIERRA BLANCAS into a hundred pedestrian minds.
They ran screaming, unmissed by the teal construction workers and pizza pie delivery men. Then the Hancock, the insides became discotown.
Burly security guards bumping can you take me to, Funkytown? Nanotube Bandits took a chance to rob three banks. Time was in the air, baby.
Time spread like a blanket and Kenosha, Wisconsin went Neolithic, just likethat snap snap. Cave drawings made you new mayor chick magnet.
Kindred and Sunday, K Tate and Lala, out and about exploring post-war Chicago. Kindred and Sunday naked on top the Grant Park bandshell.
Explicit images blurred like an amateur stag film. They both laughed at the absurdity of it, Kindred's gut was what should be blurred out.
Well, that's what happens when you flaunt it full view as BigMother MapViewer drones overhead. Like reporting news with a gun at your head.
K Tate and Lala were more generic with their affections and their affectations. No blurs there, the sun shone in the flowers in Lala's hair.
Yet, madness was afoot. The State-Lake Theater reappeared where the Oprah Building had stood, the WLS affiliate borrowing 3rd floor offices.
Timewaves passed Art Institute dorms, replaced with destitute SROs and electrolysis doctors. At least Ronny's Steaks #3 was back in place.
Blue skies changed as Tesla coils rose from Snow Route signs. The sandblasted building went back to non-landmark crappiness, Chicago's own.
Culhane as Mr. Saigon in UNKNOWN WARTIME backed by wicked witches and cats. Now greying to dark wounds and stapled body parts. Grunting.
Blocks away, the timewave hit the Drake Hotel, and back from death he came: Pall Mall Mitchum, star of sixty-three films. Carried a big set.
Hawaiian shirt bound, scotch in hand, Pall Mall the Mitch needed a babe on each arm and one playing with his head mop, elevator time, bing!
He passed Bjorn Clooney in the lobby, not knowing one had played the other in a biopic made in Sweden before Scandinavia fell forever gone.
Boppity bop baby I don't care I do NOT care just ruffle my hair let me grab your waist honeybun. Mitch realized he was dressed like a golfer.
CLICK TO READ NEXT CHAPTER
No comments:
Post a Comment