from I Blew Up A Regional Aiport
I blew up a regional airport. There was debris floating down indifferent. A frothy tourist emerged unscathed to gallop towards destiny. Who can’t limp in this weather? According to some freestanding muscle down at the ashy former bathroom, hamstring reverberations echo no matter how cavernous the terminal. I don't believe it. I didn’t believe it. I failed to consult my hostages. They would have preferred earplugs & an escape duct. I blew up their preferences. They glittered through the air with the insistence of a detector detecting metal.
I wasn’t expecting survivors. Then sad but hopeful violins cut in, so I knew. I went looking for them immediately but couldn’t see through the flames. I focused on the potential melodramatic energies & suddenly there was a baby squirming in its dead mother’s arms. I snatched it & threw it for the fire to gorge on. The violins continued. I searched out all the babies, murdered them in increasingly bizarre fashions, wrote prophecies with their ashes, & went mad from stinging ears. I searched out all the music, hindered its progress with a pat down, tied tethers around its wings, & exploded it from inside out.
Hostages generally fuck harder than a bag of flaming bunnies & when they’re done they dribble out sobbing promises they’ve been promised will carpet the floor. They sometimes maneuver away from orgasm. I crease & organize them into manifolds because I’m exhausted with the drainage.