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Lowbrow
Aristocrats Feature Departments
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Contact Shaggy - shaggyd@lowcrats.com |
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A primitive sun hangs heavy beams of light down through puncture wounds in the dense, coastal sky, stirring the roiling masses of fumes and precipitation that hang in the cool, ocean air above an ancient metropolis. Clad in skins of denim, I haul load after load, the empire's greatest treasures and complete wealth, into the dark caverns of a protected tomb. With a circadian urgency I rush forward on my designated task, loading the chests and sarcophagi of half a dozen years into a dark, cool chamber, all the while the sun slips relentlessly towards the aching horizon. Sweat falls in forgotten pools, thereupon to expire. I seal the entrance, placing locks and traps in place to safeguard the contents against trespassers, then invoke the guardian. A sentinel is summoned, a dark-eyed specter to roam these cavernous halls in tireless watch. "That'll be charged to your Visa then. Would you like insurance on the contents?" He asks. "Umm, yes. Insurance would be good." Then I pass through the forbidden gates, back into the outside world, content that the riches of the empire will lie in safe slumber for the next four months. Sometimes things don't go the way you planned them.
"Jesus Christ, Shaggy! How long has your stuff been in storage now?" Flip, eyes alight, is standing on the living room couch, bothering me. "A little over six years. Go away." "How much has that cost you?" "I don't want to think about it. Go away." "Six years, twelve months a year, that's…" "Shutup, I don't want to hear it." "Holy Christ, that's over four thousand dollars you've spent!" Flip's math skills are becoming a burden for me. I ponder the kitchen knife. "Shutup man, I just told you to shutup!" "Do you know what you could have bought with that much money?" "Holy God! Are you still talking? Why on earth haven't you shut up?"
A raging coastal sun burns down through the clear sea air onto Kingsway, glowing like acetylene fire on Reece's truck, which I've borrowed for this difficult task. Truck owners are a tormented race.
"I had to rent a van to get it all in there, I guess we'll have to stop and rent one to get it out." I'm sketching my rudimentary plan out for Skip, who has signed up for this archeological dig. He mulls the idea over for a minute and then comments. "We might be able to fit it all in the truck. We take one load of the stuff you don't want and haul it to the Salvation Army, then we come back and get the stuff you do want." "I don't know, it was an awful lot of stuff. That van was crammed full. Right to the ceiling. And we only have a few hours…" Skip considers things again. "I think we can make it fit." "Ok, screw the van then." Logically, the plan is lunacy, but what's life without challenges, right? |
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