Wherein Captain Mission makes the discovery that by micturating into the aether one’s visage becomes moistened.
Try to cover up, but you can’t. The wind howls through you, but you try to cover up, the clothes, they do nothing.
A cheap summer dress whipping around in winter winds. At first the piss is hot, but only for just enough time to make your skin happy and warm enough to really feel the cold bite like ice.
And that’s when I sit down on a camp stool, tighten the scarf over my coat and pullover, and pull my hat down so it won’t blow off in the wind, and smoke my pipe for the next two hours. The wind does my job for me. All I have to do is look you over like the dirty piss soaked slag you are.
And you whimper, and whine, and begin to shake like an epileptic Minister for the Environment dancing during an earthquake when his head finally turns into a penis and ejaculates his spine out of his forehead. Every five minutes I make you touch your thumb with your pinkie, and you can, but you’re less responsive every time because your mind is wandering far from me.
When the coals burn low, I walk you home. You stink of piss, and I remind you about what kind of girl walks home stinking of piss underdressed in winter. I shower you in tepid water until you smell clean, but you’re still elsewhere, and wrap you up in a blanket and fuck you, fuck you hotly, you feel strangely corpse cold and you’re vacant. Its impressive.
I hold you until you’re warm, and until you return, and then after and after. Its strange to feel so cruel and satisfied at the same time. I also know that pissing on a flame puts out the fire and makes it steam instead; but I still think of it.
Location: hiding in a shanty while a tidal wave of Hindu foreman run past trying to get Gordan Freeman on my arse
Location: mashing up trains of thought like records during a battle, and trying to chart the territory after being blown their by his thought.
