III. Games Involving Flames
Spot di pop-pot koddle pea prop cot interrogative tendencies....(ritard)
Aha, we stopped upon being hawked upon cobblestones and purchased an alleviating deuce of Hex-Specs. We commenced to exploring the hills, beyond the ruins on the opposite side of hazy time and frozen astral plainchant. Beauty recourted us from the sososphere - that inevitable gateblank to bleeping infinity.
We happened upon a crowned stewturd, trimming the vibrant pipe-bloom from the base of a local storyteller's stead. He was earning summer mantras to tote back to the greenity in the fall, lest he fall behind in his indoctrination. His stylish music-cage was blurting out experiments from the Inn, both metered and unmetered soundbits falling on his shadowed ears in the standard form of manicured speech mixed with nonsensical tone.
The village had a small stewturd population and considered itself more atop events because of it. It was viewed that the feeding of fertile youth the most exciting and influential fables of the past would energize the stewturds to enormous capacity, both for the trimming of pipe-bloom and the restructuring of the classes.
Our crowned stewturd was handling a yellow garden hose, seeming to be enjoying making water designs in an adjoining sandlot. As the sounds from his music-cage increased in abstraction, so did his awkwardly sadistic pleasure from his damp-patterns. He was improvising Dry-Art and seemed possessed. Through our specs the psychedelic mudplay had pornographic allure and we were almost intimidated by his pseudo-liberal-intellectual banishment of inhibition. In fact, the stewturds were by and large an impressively intuitive lot, and the plain folk had little choice but to accept the charms and manifestos of such an energetic and informed coalition.
The lawnlad now took a different tack in his creative desert rezoning. By concentrating his spigot on different areas, he formed several small, irregularly-shaped puddles. Upon closer examination we recognized a large overall form - the sandlot was slowly being transformed into a large mud sculpture resembling those sexy flying glass creatures! We were enraptured! We found ourselves chanting and stomping - we were suddenly this shallow slab of brotherhood cheering on some crowned stranger as if we wanted blood.
The stewturd knew we were on the edge, and he would produce the climax. He stepped behind the house and emerged with a pail of fireballs - these fist-sized clods of breathing flame that were to be chucked with the aid of a webbed fire-stick. The pipe-bloom apprentice masterfully wedged his stick into the flame-bucket and heaved a flickering projectile towards a chest-section of the mud-model. It landed perfectly in a brimming aureole, splashed and fizzed and brought our group to tears of joy. The music-cage rollicked with rhythmic advice. The crowned stewturd smote his mark each time, and wisps of sensual smoke danced above injected orifices. By the time he executed his final labial bonzai, two of us were already crawling around the house on all fours, ripping apart pipe-bloom tulips with our own teeth. Another had reached the roof and swore he was about to fly by flapping his legs, but he was fortunately convinced that a simple whiff of the chimney would diminish his personal hormonal crisis.
As the smoldering sandlot dried in the intense sunlight, the stewturd rudely ordered us off the premises. We complied with a strange sensation that we had been invited to participate in something wonderful, but were ultimately outsiders who had bared ourselves to a reasonably sick experience - and would be forever vulnerable to the manipulations of the virile and castigating stewturds. It was a feeling best characterized by the event we had just witnessed: a game involving flames, water, sand, and sound, with nothing left over save guilt and insecurity.
We felt as if we had taken step one. Already we craved another pleasurable experience to help us forget the mind ravishment we had just been privy to.