. . . I asked to use the bathroom at a Blockbuster Video in Florida.
The employee gives me the key.
I unlock the door,
but someone has already taken a shit in the sink.
I spun right ‘round, baby,
“I’m good,”
I return the key.
I piss in a parking lot 3 blocks down,
and yet I wonder:
Was that a fake shit?
A prank to spread the rumor that the Blockbuster Bathroom is a bad place to be? Maybe just some good ol’ fashioned anti-homeless sentiment. That would be typical for the benighted Perma-Suck State of Florida.
If I went back
and beat the truth out of the employee
throw him into the shelves,
kick him from one side of the store to the other,
unspool long lengths of VHS tape from plastic cassettes to improvise a cat o’nine tails to lash the employee into submission,
steam rising from my body,
would I have brutalized my way to a secret truth?
Would a shady operative of a nameless organization have emerged from a hidden, dilating future door, slow-clapped, and offered me a chance to battle eldritch forces as a member of an elite cabal?
Would I have been trained up to operate a mech suit with both a humanoid shape and a transformable motorcycle mode?
This is, perhaps, how the Supreme Suck of La Florida warps one’s mind.
As you piss in a parking lot upon an enchanted summer evening.
Using pulp fantasy
to erase the brain-stain of a stranger’s shitlog in a sink.
