Surrealism at it's Finest

After a long, grueling day of workin' at the car wash, Martin stumbled like a child of God into a vintage '68 Chevy Nova. He drove like a forsaken coward into the sparkles. The spectacles. The spunky spleunkers who sporadically spun into the sparkles like Spiro Agnew in a Scion spontaneously sprinkling Spree candies into the spiral of DEATH that was our new world. Arrows of fire triumphantly filled the sky. The Cherokee nation has returned, Paul Revere its disgruntled foreman. Neon lights, dancing in the night like merry mariachi men pinned up against the corky cactal backdrop of Tijuana terrain. The word "H tel" flickered in orange; "Tiki" in pink; and the little hula girl in the grass skirt danced a two-step of sorts in green upon her electric dance floor, swaying back and forth. Back and Forth. Back and Forth. And I wanted to hold you then and make sweet, primal love to you until the mountains on the desert landscape and the eagles high above screamed for it all to stop. And you weren't there. Bitch.



The world is what I like to call Leroy's Casino. Yea verily: life a gamble, the poets standing vigilantly at the entrances, and Young Joseph Silvia standing vigilante at the back door, each one of us is a numbered ball, feeling the world spin round and round. Martin sped furiously into his reserved VIP parking spot at the Hotel Tiki, slide parking into his space at a 38 degree angle to the curb. A New Record. A little flashing sign in front of his car denoted it. Jesus smiled upon him through the rear view mirror. Martin, looking svelt today, smugly ejaculated himself from the vehicle and moseyed himself into his humble abode. Martin strode into the place as if he owned it, tipping a felt fedora at the counter lady, forming a .45 Desert Eagle with his thumb and forefinger, and making a "Pshhhh" sound at the janitor. The janitor smiled toothlessly and made a "Pshhhh" sound back whilst adjusting a nametag on his left breast that read "Sol". They scatted in their youth.



Puffing on an imaginary cigarette, Martin tried out the "Up" button that the management had just purchased for the rickety old elevator. He whistled showtunes from Pal Joey while he waited. Noticing it would be a while for the elevator to arrive, he blindly went to put his hands in the side pockets of his tweed jacket. Noticing the pockets were sewn shut, he awkwardly placed his hands in his breast pockets, scanning his peripheral vision. Minutes later, the doors slid open, the right one a bit more hesitant than its slick companion, and Martin shuffled like a madman into the clumsy thing. He was greeted by the attendant, a less than shaven Vincent Price.



"Salutations," said he, "and prepare for the ride of your liiiiifeheh."

His laughter boomed into the far depths of the elevator shaft.













[there was a bit of silence, so]







"Third floor, wise ass," said Martin, staring ahead at the wall.

"As you wish, sire," Price cackled.

"And none of that 'sire' shit," snapped Martin. "It's weird."

"Certainly, my Christ and Savior," Price responded. After a few minutes of dirty looks, Price continued, "It is rumoured that these elevators are operated by the ancient blood of the evil Aztec king, Cuchal - "

"They're operated by two gas generators downstairs, Vinny. I know this. I run this place. You KNOW that, you fucking twat."

Vincent chuckled heartily and exclaimed, "Well, I'm sleeping with your wiiife!"



With a shake of Vincent's jowls, the doors cracked open once again, pouring light violently into the carrier. Martin stumbled across the Oriental rug to his apartment door and nudged it open.



The sight before him was borderline grotesque.



Three enraged Sasquatches were eating burritos. A boll weevil stole the last of the Cheetos. Newt Gingrich and the Green Party swam in a vat of guacamole as the desert sun set at the top of the room. The color red floated inertly to his immediate left. His favorite Enuff Z'nuff record was serving martinis and tequila at the bar table. An overgrown black man lay upon his sofa giving birth to the baby Jesus and there were FHM magazines strewn about the floor. Martin had one of those little panic attacks like the ones you get when you realize Lost has been canceled for the week. He overcame these emotions, however, when he gazed upon a decadent taco that he found glaring at him. He picked this taco up off of the floor and shoved it down his parched throat, whole.



THREE MINUTES LATER



Martin sat slouched forward in the driver's seat of the Nova, eyes wide open and bloodshot, clenching the steering wheel with ball-crushing force. Jugs of water could not quench his thirst. The taco had devoured his esophagus and Martin's small intestine had faded into bliss. His nose bled profusely and his face glowed a shade of rly, rllly red. The world was just spinning and a-spinning around and three men were playing craps on the sidewalk and Martin heard a black man next to him in the distance screaming, "Ohhhh, Gabriel! WHERE ARE YA?!" Cross-eyed and he damn-near-died, Martin drowsily checked his rear-view mirror. Jesus smiled upon him and the sun was a smiley, freckle-faced cartoon. Knowing what he had to do, Martin grinned wryly, brushed his jacket, stepped out of the car, and punched Jesus square in the mouth. "Don't you piss in MY gas tank, cub scout," Martin shrieked. He looked up at the sun and saw Him raising a single eyebrow at Martin. "What are you looking at kid," Marty said flashing a smile, extending his arms. He jumped on the next ferry to Avalon. The scene froze just in time for Marty to click his heels.