op (maldito) wrote in rooms, @ 2015-04-22 05:44:00 |
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Entry tags: | !marvel comics, *narrative, shane alexander |
Narrative: Shane A
Who: Shane Alexander
What: a fucking narrative
Where: hotel stuffs, then Marvel
When: after this
Warnings/Rating: Alexander language
It was like a fucking dream, yeah? First, shit went black, flannel blanket disintegrating into a suck of air and weight of moonshine all that of fucking moonbeams, and Graham and Clementine nothing more than afterimages on the back of eyelids. Then, fucking frijoles negros like there were fucking beans shoved in his nose, the smell was so hot and close, and it was home—like, Elizabeth home or whatever. Like twenty years were rewinded on some cheap-ass VCR, tape stuck and fluttering, lost, yeah? Half a second, babies crying, a fan whirring and stuck on some oscillation, clicking metal and plastic, motor killing itself, gears grinding to smoke, a man yelling some shit at his kids through too-thin walls, and the squall of a fuckton of boys roughhousing, elbows, scabs, curses misused out of fucking ignorance ('you damn!!!,' someone screeched in prepubescence, answered back by a chorus of obnoxious laughter and a loud 'fuck you!')— That shit blipped out too. Fucking gone or whatever the fuck, without even the loss of sound or pressure. Like someone hit fucking mute on the telenovela with the beautiful fucking twins crying on screen, sad they fucked the same man. Vegas came with bright lights, like it always fucking did, and a strange sense of rain, yeah? Shane had about thirty seconds there, dropped into the middle of the fucking street on his bike, horns blaring, lighting up the nerves of his goddamn spine with sound. There was the squashed roll of a filter between his lips and he flicked the truck behind him off without thinking, like he hadn't just been shuffled through time and space, from fucking zombies to his brothers and baby sisters, to some fucking moment on the Strip who knew the fuck when when some dickhead in a Ford F-150 was trying to drive the fuck up his asshole. All of it familiar or whatever. Like he'd gone through the shit before. Like he was being led by some Cheshire fuck through unimportant moments. Like maybe he'd been fucking bit or something, and that was what this was? Him losing his goddamn mind? He fought it. And it was fucking seconds later he was in Marvel—New York City cold where Vegas had been warm, and that god-fucking-awful Stark Tower rising up like a sore thumb slammed in a book, yeah? And all the fuck Shane could think was, the fuck? And that was before he noticed his stupid fucking journal was tucked beneath him on the bike. |