Flunky Sweatpants

Staring aloud through their eyes, his harmless iron mind stamping gently around from something warm and naive

Photo by Siarhei Plashchynski on Unsplash

“I suppose he’s dead now?” Morris asked.

“Yes, I think he’s dead. Two weeks ago you went on a nice satisfaction with it.”

“Oh, yeah! I figured just like that. People say I forgot everything.” And this time Victor realized that it was Bob Lieutenant Pavelson who would be memorializing the killing.”

Cargrave stepped from his belining car and picked up the massive carving of the pilot. His aching head was somewhat better now. One more minute and the claws would come up in the tree, but he didn’t believe it yet. First a stroll, then a back by his own cabin. And then he remembered what his eyes told him. Those claws were blasting chairs and cow hooves, spears and pitching pies.

Unwillingly they moved. A few feet closer to it, and a bloody seat of the chairs spun out from under them, and though he tried to flee, Felixse let him, twirling a club away from him at his bare breast. His fingers connected. I won’t reach that, he said quietly, and sent another kick at Morris. Her shoes cracked on the metal as he struggled to extricate himself from the deadly grip. Her pulleyjack continued as she ran hard over the now exposed shoulders and brought her left foot to it in a second. Morris was visible, but not a scratch of bug claws had grabbed him in the left hip. Never hit a hard rock yet, he had assumed. Women who speed worked for lack of practice on a steel club usually had to make a killing takedown in the last ten seconds. But it was many thousands of years before Izure had reached her, and even then there was one ancient custom of a murder that had no other chance for many of their friends.

“We should try at least to take it for a quick collision!” said the instructor quietly.

Still the class was packed deeper into the empty hole, but the argument ended almost immediately. Felixse urged for some photosynthetic instruments, which came into focus at last, but showed very disturbing weaknesses. Though perhaps this would be a convenient way to hunt the rumors that had led her along on the gloomy path since the Uvaldean holy fire was certainly not broken up.

Daniels was trying to stay alert and half stud at once if he could help her correct an electronics fault. He hoped to get an exact assignment of this spot and wring a larger wound.

After the ribcage was repaired, Cargrave made an hour of laboration. Morris was a bit of a lateim: several of the floor plates, a pillow, towels that made his flunky sweatpants feel frayed, donuts that stood out more than the overall psychological scars on his legs, crums that would nearly peel him as the whip fished. The last thing he did, was pull sleepless but completely comfortable on a thin flexible apparatus supporting a mirrorite model. He had sat before the mirror since by the time he snapped to one piece of thought, it was half dark and Pnderby must have fallen into the swotch as well.

The first light nimbly and easily from its beam seared over the candle busts and caused them to emerge from a swamp.

His cheeks itch to wash; his hands and ankles itch to look around. Face-Lock was next to his bed; his face was warm from being drunk that morning. It was tinged with suntanned light— a fairly new shade, since the Russian seasons, back toward midsummer. That left his thick tic and cunnyflax spectacles and his tiny feet to scratch up against the silicon all around his thighs.

It was all like one of those times he had told Morris/ Green Alice when he’d said goodbye with a steel smile and a shaken piece of aized limb lying beside a sleeping Miritronics supply shack. She was lying was a stranger. She could be using a cooling box at right angles to cool her coal heat, or staring aloud through their eyes, his harmless iron mind stamping gently around from something warm and naive.

The Sunday brought no satisfaction to him, no common but mixed with a buzz similar to that that had boiled over his head since Pyotr Klyst.


Editor’s Notes

Turned up the temperature to 1.15 to twist in some more weirdness, and I sure got what I asked for. What came out was very strange.


Changed one word in the second line that made the context accidentally explicit. Changed one word in paragraph 5 that was accidentally explicit. Changed one name. Fixed punctuation and formatting for flow, and removed the sentence fragment from the end: “The new G-String 6 system had been a serious mistake; Kly”


Title came from the generated text

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