Laced

laced
by matt ronquillo
Tim Kerosene had me out back on the porch talking with him about the long cranial whispers we’d hear when the whirlwinds ceased, like I was some kind of resident here like him.
“The last tornado’ll die valiantly in a river propelling persuading and bleeding out the ends of it into our global oceans past, making the people scramble for any liquid they can find and we’ll finally be unleashed from our cylindrical containers rolling around on drugstore floors and we’ll giggle and swirl when we’re sliding into those desperate throats with those whispers urging us down like burn burn burn.”
But I’m only Tim’s interdimensional dealer, slipping past the wardens, hauling coke and nicotine laced salbutamol pumps around but trying to make a few bucks and I don’t come here often so I just give him what he needs because if there’s one thing I need it’s another cornucopia of trivialities to the third or fourth power, none of this all-consuming, barren emptiness shit people round this way always rattle on about.