I was late for the apocalypse. Not the personal, The universal. I looked for a scalper to scalp me A ticket. It is always the last place you look. Under some cushions, next to an expired ant.
For a long time nothing happens, then. Somewhere around Friday I get a call. There is a car waiting. There is travel involved. You can never be too late. The horizon bends into the earth. It is a sign. The sun a blood orange. Think. Run. Define the details. Pick the right man out of the crowd. He has an Offer to make you. Heads or tails. Make it quick. Someone slices you along the belly and slips their Hand into the cool of your flesh. All fat and blubber.
The crowd is overcome. The stadium parking lot Is stuffed full of ghosts. Someone has overpaid. Get in and go for a ride. Listen to the chants They want blood, and more blood. Nothing to Suffice. Go back in and dial a number. Pickup the receiver. Your hands are already disappearing.
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