Cancer is tough, Ma lost a breast to it in '93. Dad says since then, Ma hasn't been the same... Dad says he dosn't want mom's breast back, just her. I told him I felt the same way, but was lying. I want back mom's tit. -Silver Surfer ÜÜ ÜÜ ŚÄŻŪŻ ÜßÜÜŽŽž ÜŻß ÜŻß ÜßÜÜŽŽž ŽŪŽÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄæ ³ ŻŪŻ ŻŻ Ž ŽŽ ŽŽ ŻŻ Ž ŽŪŽ ³ ³ ŻŪŻ Üž ßŪ ßŪ Üž ŽŪŽ Unrequited Love ³ ³ ŻŪŻ ÜŻß ŽŽ ŽŽ ÜŻß ŽŪŽ ³ ĄÄŻŪŻ ÜŻŻŻÜÜÜŻŻÜŻŻÜ ÜŻŻÜ ÜŻŻŻÜÜÜŻŻ ŽŪŽÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄŁ ßß ßß Volume II,File VIIIXX [051195] Writer: Mephistopheles Nathan swerves onto the exit and passes the place where everybody makes a 90 degree turn immediately from the freeway, crossing two lanes of traffic into a parking lot, risking their lives to avoid a light and save 30 seconds. Nate would have risked his life, but he forgot about that place. He jerked to a stop behind a pastel purple Geo something. He hadn't yet mastered the smooth stop, and every brake still resulted in a delay as equilibrium was regained, soon followed the collective 'uh' as everyone hit their chest belt. Traffic seemed not very trafficky today, but the light didn't seem to care, and just sat and sat and sat, forgetting all about Nate, whose hail-damaged, dented, dust-choked Dodge desperately needed freon, the installation of which would kill Nate when tried to do it himself. It would crystallize in his lungs and, in a way, he'd drown. It's a secret, kind of. Everyone really dies of drowning. While the traffic light sat, Nate spasmodically slapped the hair from his face, on the verge of sweating. He has a bench seat in the front, which is strange. It sometimes tempts him to try to drive lying down, though he knew he'd have to remove the door so he could stick his head out and see. Nate would never do it, of course. He didn't know where his father's tools were. Actually, they were under the rust-covered tetanus-guaranteed weights in his garage, but Nate was scared of his garage and never went in there. Nothing bad had ever happened in the garage, but it reminded him of the shed at Leo's house where a spider had crawled on his head while Leo's little sister laughed and laughed. You couldn't walk in the shed - it was dark, and full of toys. Toys and games, rotted and mouldering, the plastic fraying in the strange way plastic has a tendancy to fray and the cardboard game boards bloated and peeling, creating a strong, humid smell of decay. Nate hated that little girl. First of all, she was named Toni. Toni sounded like Tony, which just didn't look like Toni, and Nate simply didn't need confusion like that. Second, her voice was annoying. It was old-slut hoarse, and even if there were such a thing as young-slut hoarse, Toni was still too young. She could be really-young-slut hoarse, he supposed, and she was kind of cute in a way that made him want to hit her or go through her underwear drawer. He didn't mind her as long as she didn't talk and he didn't remember her name. So every time he went to the garage, he felt spiders in his hair and wanted to find Toni and put spiders in her mouth and up her nose, and maybe in her eyelids if he could stretch them out far enough. Then he wanted to make her climb a tree and fall, flat on her back, because when you do that, you can't feel anything, not even spiders in your eyes. But Toni was gone, so Nate sat up when he drove. He dimly perceived himself going sort of weightless in the brain, and blamed it on the Perrier. He regarded the bottle, and somewhere in the recesses of his mind saw that it was phallic. At least, more so than his 44oz refill cup. If they only gave 44oz Perrier refills, he reflected, then he'd be a lot happier. But Perrier was already so bubbly that the idea of it cascading over ice from a fountain was mildly disquieting. It would bubble and foam and eventually engulf him, he knew, dying in a tide of citrus twist, or maybe plain. A horn sounded, and Nate checked the light. He couldn't tell what color it was, but he had gotten comfortable anyway. He heard a wide sound. Some sounds are just wide. It was a train, passing him in the center lane, its pistons pumping like mad. Nate admired their perfect, asynchronous motion as the engines roared by, screeching and heaving. The antique cast to it evoked some television-age nostalgia in him, so he leaned far out the window, seeing clearly the white-faced women dining within the passing cars, or children looking out, or babies sleeping, or mustached men puffing on pipes and reading mounds of newspapers. The vacuum created by the train was pretty strong, so Nate got sucked in and mangled under the massive, stained wheels as it bounced over the tracks at the intersection, just splashing him everywhere. The guy who sold roses had seen the whole thing, and he got into Nate's car and drove away, flipping off the air conditioner as he got on the highway. (\___ ___ ___/) ŚÄ\___ ___/ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄæ ³ \\__\ /__// TNH BBS. [2112] WHQ. NUP: Woodstock. 817.346.3370. ³ ³ \__\ /__/ SysOp: Mephistopheles CoSysOps: Delirium, Sputnik. ³ ĄÄÄÄÄ\_____/ÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄÄŁ [2112] Productions, All Rights Reserved.