same as it ever was (talking heads)

Monday, September 19, 2005

Exquisite Corpse, End Game


editor's note: exquisite corpse is actually a surrealist game. I was quite unaware of this fact when I started playing. Anyway, I'm too lazy to re-print the rest of the story, It'd take too long. Instead I'm going to reprint my five last contributions to the story. I'll put the sentence before mine, my sentence (in red), and the sentence after mine. The reason I didn't have more sentences was b/c I was in Mexico when the game started and the next weekend was Labor day, so I was not by my computer for much of the game. Anyway, I put a link up to the entire story in an earlier post, check there if interested in reading the rest.

I stifled waves of nausea brought on by the smell (chyme and viscera mingling with wet dog and CK One), "nonchalantly" running my fingers through its mucosy fur as it spoke to me. "Get me a Happy Meal, no pickles on the burger!" it barked. This demand filled me with a nameless dread and instead of indulging the creature's sickening lust for McDonald's, I raised my knife and plunged it through the monster's eye, spraying optical fluid and blood across the room.

A moment of clarity erupts from my deranged panic, as I behold the Louis Vitton French boutique assistant sales clerk collapse into a pool of viscera and cerebral spinal fluid. I'm thinking free samples by this point as the surrealness of the situation settles around the ever-expanding pool of death. I am frightened, I am disgusted, and I am sober.

The fear, the senseless loathing, and the memory of the self-deprecation of the entire Smiths catalog (which I had been listening to earlier on my i-Pod) all pointed to a certain failure-but I paid these Cohenian thoughts no mind as I prepared to steady my artificially enhanced trigger finger. Girlfriend in a Coma played in my mind as the Xanax blurred my thinking. The strange urge for a Marlboro followed.

I kneel down for a closer look, breathing through my mouth and choking back a scream. I love to choke, chokey, choke, choke, choke. I tightened my grip around her neck.

I started to question my mental sanity: "Was I going insane? Did it even matter if I was losing my mind?" I'd actually like to leave it behind from here on out. I locate the keys to the red convertible and make my way out to the car wondering whether I'd resemble Thompson at all if I picked up one of those long cigarette holders.

editor's note (2): Like I said, we win a signed copy of Lunar Park for winning this thing. I hope BEE puts some shit like, "I'm out to find you fuckers so I can drill holes in your heads" or something to that effect. I'm sure he'll just sign it.