Duck Man Writing

An army of byzantine robots thudded by, Indian File in the cold night rain. Their nostril breath misted aournd their heads like space hats, their ratchet elbows swinging loosely as they issued piercing shrieks to the odd passers-by and winos. Rain sizzled in the gutter beneath the neon-streaked glare, a voice visiting from Andromeda inhabited by the little old man stepping from a cybernetic hamburger building turned to gray his vision of security to the town of his Youth.

Inside, Duck Man, having redoubled his good-timing efforts, was belting himself in the forehead with a nuclear bingle stick as he witnessed a woman's wrist and hand appear around his waist, grasping for you-know-what. Her silken grasp. "I am now entering the party dimension," he thought and he began to gulp BDs straight from the pitcher. "More toot, dammit!" he squawled.

"It on your mouth," he said.

Soon, the party dimension was being rapidly achieved. Sex booze drugs. Sex booze drugs. Sex Booze Drugs.

"More! More! More Party!" he yelled, having danced from one lipstick smeared month to the next tootin' tokin' chuggin' sippin' droppin' and drippin'. "Ahgamafa gatta pahty pahty!"

From Duck Man's point of view everythings going then except maybe "turn over now!" he squealed in near panic. The first one plunged in. Party down, party dowwwn. "Drugs! Drinks!" he implored the crazed dancehall of his mind. "I'm partyin' here! I'm partyin' here!"

As he slept on his dancefeet, he dreamt wild-ass technicolor party dreams, mumbling "Party down, mama.."

Men were pushing large objects down forgotten hallways all over town. The edict was to.....

Some forgotten bullhorns were unearthed below a demolished tuba factory outside of town and a religion based upon these artifacts gained an immediate foothold amongst the town's migrant wino population.

Duck Man awoke. A voice spieled over a bullhorn as tubas played and winos murmurred. Not good.

It looked like the party was over and the oblivion of wino religious tuba fever had supplanted the anything-goes atmosphere of the last 100 years.

On the outside Say the words cold distance closure neo-reality True essence explosion gathered back

And then....And then....And then......the bird whiffing past like all get out blistering the air into nice ozone-smelling patches squawk squawk his eye frenzied and rolling back into his bird head. Whap, off flew the head.

Where the planet of warring zombies, winos? Hire me. Silence. Taste, touch sybillant syllables. Curly moustache.

A cold wind whirled around the humble log cabin into which Duck Man was falling. And still, "Let's kill everyone you damned fool, sir." Something brown fell and broke on the sidewalk. El Dorado. Ugly women. Rip. Tomato. Subtle, yet gruesome. Grouchy trashman grease smears.