THE NUDES LIFT SHIELDS FOR GALAXY WARS

Jordan Krall

Robert Smith was sitting in a pub, minding his own business, and scribbling prose poems on napkins though he knew they’d turn out to be complete rubbish: love this, loss that, surreal image here and there, tentacles and blood, cold cavernous imagery symbolizing his ex-wife’s vagina.

It’s all just shit.

He needed his mind right. Smith worshipped productivity. His mind moved a million miles a minute and he knew why. Despite the medication (legal and illegal), despite seeing the psychiatrist twice a week, despite the constant walks up and down Sentinel Hill, Robert still could not escape the realization his time was up.

Those goddamn dreams that turned out not to be dreams. He remembered being sucked up from his bed like a paper doll, curling into the air as if his bones were wet newspapers. Oh no, those weren’t bloody dreams, Robbie, they were some nice fellows taking you on holiday.

Right, mum, right.

He finished his pint and threw the napkins down to the pub floor. Let some other pathetic fucker find them, read them to his girlfriend, let her think he was a genius or some shit. Poetry was for pathetic wankers. Robert vowed he wouldn’t write another line for as long as he lived….which wasn’t going to be much longer.

The walk to his car was warm but still chilled him to the bone. Above him, the stars winked like sinister old men with motives, ancient and profane. That wasn’t far from the truth, Robert knew.

He looked at a large stone someone had thrown into the road. In the starlight he could see his name carved deeply: Robert Smith, paper doll torn to shreds.

 With a shake of his head, he erased the words and kept walking.

The thought of his getting into his bed to sleep was no comforting. He considered finding a place to rest near the old Campbell plant. There was a patch of woods there and he was fairly sure they wouldn’t be able to find him.

But who was he kidding? They would always find him.

They’d find him, fuck him, torture him, and turn him into a million monstrosities until they finally dropped him back like a pile of wet laundry. So what was the use?

Yes, he’d go to his house. If they were going to finally take him forever, he wanted it to be on his terms. When he got to his house, his neighbor Donny Howland was outside watering the lawn (who waters the lawn at ten to midnight?) and Robert gave a final wave to the man who, despite being an annoying neighbor, wasn’t that bad of a guy.

Once inside, Robert poured himself a glass of milk, added honey to it, and sat down on the most comfortable chair in the house. Then he put his headphones on and started listening to his favorite song.

Billy Idol’s New Future Weapon.

By the end of the song, Robert Smith could feel his skin burn and his bowels heating up like an oven full of fecal bread. Idol’s voice lulled him into a hypnotic state as the visitors entered his home and took him away.

(to be continued in RAIN HELL FROM ABOVE)