Monday, January 03, 2005

Balcony Man, death tolls, fantasies

There has been some bad news concerning the balcony here. A man has appeared, an angry looking old man, with a bald head and a hook nose. I've just peeped my head out, and he's not presently there, but his table, chair, and ashtray remain, ominous portents of doom.

The Man who Smokes

We are six floors up. I keep reiterating this fact, can anyone say why... I am used to living near the ground, like a rat or a cow. Now I can't help feeling like I live in the sky, a silver-plumed man-parrot, clad in the finest rags, gazing out inscrutably over a haphazard arrangement of leafless trees. But now, now! NOW! a rudeness has descended... (the world gasps)... and this rudeness has taken on human form, a bald, thickset form, yes, this Evil is Man-Shaped.

Before, in the pre-lapsarian days before the Man who Smokes arrived, i would wander freely upon the balcony, sometimes clothed, sometimes not. I would sniff the air, I would look at the trees, I would consider the coldness of the concrete floor beneath my feet.

Now this time has gone.


Ballsed up.

Fucked beyond repair, godammit.

Ruined by the cigarette-puffing Man who Smokes. He first appeared a few days ago. I'd seen the two cheap canvas chairs out there, useless things you'd only sit in with a deathwish or under duress, with cupholders, so you're sure to get a crotchful of flaming hot coffee when the inevitable collapse of the chair transpires.

In my wildest dreams, I'd never imagined a fucker would be sat there once the snow had thawed.

Then, that fateful day, Hannah called me out to see. And there he was, a bald-headed, hook-nosed, tobacco-puffing, malevolent presence. He stared at us mercilessly. I stared back, trying to contain my anger.

And now he is ALWAYS out there. ALWAYS. ALWAYS smoking.

He has given up sitting with his back to us. Now he sits there, staring directly at us. Smoking.

Hopefully, he will have had his ancient immune system weakened sufficiently by the cold weather that the first infection of the year may escort his loathsome soul to the fiery depths of hell, his vacated body shifted into the back of an ambulance by some whistling paramedics.


Blogger tom said...

"skilled at returning from the dead". I'd assumed you were dead, of course. Happy New Year. Are we still friends?

6:29 PM  
Blogger kingfelix said...

If it is possible to be friends still, in light of my various unsavoury actions and inactions, then yes, you would be praised in heaven for allowing me to return to the fold.

5:20 PM  
Blogger tom said...

In the end it's all embroidery. Of course - you know me (I think). Once the tsunami of rage has subsided there's rarely much left behind. Consider yourself enfolded. But don't reply here as I keep forgetting my password. and tell me what's been happening. I've tom boncza-tomaszewski permanently now.

6:08 AM  

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