Shane Jesse Christmass

by Horror Sleaze Trash on January 8, 2012

Shane Jesse Christmass believes that the future of novel writing lies in synthetic telepathy.

Lest of an X-Ray.

Talley Whey, the little thief, stole my wallet.

“I who needed to relieve their pain and I knew nothing about it.” He told me in his defence.

My guide proceeded to tell me Talley Whey was a sucker, that sounds harsh, almost bigotry, but it was hot, the temperature was high, but tidal mass was about, a hovering intensity, an insanity that hadn’t been invented. I told my guide to, “cut the shit.

Now we both know poop, but we wouldn’t be all judge as to drink it. The

ceiling fan, the house cat. The hotel had sent a driver to collect me. I knocked back a Pastis before I boarded. The aeroplane flight, in my direction, as if to say, yet, and if it had, it was keeping their eye on me. This previous sentence is paranoia. The handgun would spoil the occasion with a hollow point. The aeroplane jettisoned, came out of the sky, hard, upon something that seemed like a landing-pier. In my new hotel, I had one hand over my right eye, squinting at some sort of mini-hot water system. I stank like a white man, all Anglo.

“Who are those people?” I asked my driver.

“What, they’re the police. These imbeciles!” he snorted.

I wasn’t sure if he was referring to the police or to whom they were beating up. Old garments that the Police Chiefs daughters liked to wear tumbled in the drains.

I got CNN, several movie channels, but then someone started squawking in the room next door.

“Hear that sometimes I think about eating’ atrocities, and in a society that been tall.” Something they kept going on about. It was madness and I couldn’t decipher it.

For want of a better room, I turned the volume up with the remote control. The TV was concerned by this. Fascinated. Engrossed. Attracted perhaps. The subtle tongue, which is the self-same boredom. An elevator in the hallway. There was no way I was interested in who was exiting said elevator.

I had touched down late at the Siem Riep airport. I spent the entire time reading the newspaper, drinking Draught, Anchor Beer, and some Tiger Beer. Talley Whey was going to fuck one of the Police Chief’s daughters. I was going to film it. Sundry my eyes and then I smiled. Massive boulevards like in HCMC peeled out underneath the window. Sliced and fried potatoes, it was delicious. A bag of cocaine. I walked to the window, opening cool beer, a cool breeze. Upstream the river was a surging sun; mental enough to drive someone to hug warlords, but that was unnecessary. A perverted man’s eye, inquiries about the carriers and tanners banging my head as I boarded my new aeroplane.

“Tell them about this place.”

“Cambodia.”

“Yes, tell them about this place.”

I had a bankroll of Kip. The taxi driver had hearing loss. Memory causes of fresh water, orange juice, a baguette sauce, black Kampot pepper, oyster sauce, streams of the fountain, the fountain of dummy, but in this instance, I had all jalopy and sweat, itching for a right punch-on.

Every single day I wake up the other end of the airport, and pallid, with all the skin opacity of a mean person. A woman burnt her three sons. I thought it might be time for me. I wasn’t in the mood for bum cheeks being exsposed. She was parading not his ear to my mouth, but the soup-mud and rice plains of Pakse.

In the morning, over glasses and glasses of Bordeaux wine, I wasn’t sure where I’d dropped my heavy backpack. Every muscle ached. I was two storeys up on rooftops, an ANZ bank billboard, the dark threads, where one can be every mailroom.

The shower spray had soaked out on the grass next to my drink, wiped the sweat off, and a sum of two million dragons suddenly deprived my mental state. It wasn’t a problem. My shirt ruffled in the wind, a lilted series of buttons and sliders. Car horns; meep meep. I opened the brick and sandstone construction, a funeral pyre, bombed back to a prehistoric ‘year zero’. A padded trailer attached to a motorbike, the river, the rush of the motorbikes, rose to the ceiling, to the sun, the Coke, I was hungry. I could cum in my ears.

“Hey, look friend, let’s just me, disfigure the children, to graft money back off the Pre Rup temple. I’d in my skin stretched of sweat.”

Sivatha Boulevard to the Siem Riep River. A nice meal of fillet and diced onion, all fried up. I strolled across the tarmac, this majestic beauty; somewhat haughty, perhaps… Lest of an X-Ray, I could see my bones by the intensity of the fluorescent lights of the convenience store.

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