JAMES BOND-THE ESCAPEHATCH (JEG)(ELRUADEBOOK)
Author: Elruade

Chapter 15
FOURTY-NINERS

 

15.FOURTY-NINERS

 

-Those of you who reply, say yes.

-Bank’s bankruptcy claims; charged for a ham.

-The same holds true, for a tenner more.

-Who can balance and insult, wait and cry?

-It’s no matter, no matter to us!

-I grow tired of your shape.

-Let down your shirt, and hang to dry.

-Silly air, all a motion around the carton.

-Why is the scene done in ink?

(The better part of you seeks and quits.)

Just then Fourty-Nine people rolled in and stepped out of a lubricated tin machine of hard iron. Collagen; minerals; diamond; mouthpiece. Dark centerpiece; skirt for a wagon. The street, made of stretchable wood, and a beggar undoing the cork from the bottle. A green light in the corner. The sky is purple, and the bonds are tight and waiting for release.

I’d say; what makes an Escapehatch? Is it like a trapdoor? You spilled some soda there. The squares are interesting, but not enough to make me purchase anything. The icy shoulder again, reflecting a sun and star.

Great funk! No Ferrari was ever built like this, and it is an older model after all. He pushed up the hills and crested. The several archbishops went around, asking people. The several merchants stopped and unloaded, and they didn’t want to work anymore at it.

Great architecture! Gone by too fast to notice it, but the frame was nice, the oil was fresh, and the springload–of all things considered–was ready for it. A petshop with an old hamster. These windows have also just been cleaned.

Nanking; no, it’s already too far now. Just let him be. I don’t care anymore; we’ll get someone else. But we got what we wanted, we got what we wanted alright. It is bear season. Come out with your rifles and arms and wish for a fine funeral after supper; the grand meal. Don’t rely outwardly on the steady supply of corn. These farmhands are steeped in work, but they often bolt and then climb the ladder set up against the wall. Splurge, just splurge.

Sarkist, you old and ugly prick. You didn’t mention this to us, and you should have. You cannot expect us to take this lightly, or let you get away, softly.

-I Dunce know what you sez.

-Garnier your ear, spotbeard!

-Enough of the collarwork..

-That is a sentence, plurubis. Finnison.

-Stop. Draw a meteor, and hamstring your hoglegs.

-Purple and red coloring goes well with evening.

-Stop pretending; open a drawer. See me again when you grow up to this mark. That was me; then.

-Getting spunky now! And fresh, are you? How neatly bordered, but this line here over your shoulder..!

-Quiet remarks for such a Geometrist. Are you sure you explained it to them so well?

-We don’t owe anyone an explanation.

-Comes from your trumpet, not mine.

Exactly how was this city built; for what purpose; over what length of time. Stop. Draw a line right through here. You aren’t scared of marking books, then? Books are for failures, and failing to understand. Why keep on reading? Do something for a change; the old lyric. I know what you mean, and you speak of it plainly. Audibly, emph.

Forty-Nine. eclipse of the bar. A soft light hangs over your brow, and a warm current. Butting through, you come to a restroom. You wink at yourself. The lavatory doors–umph–are slightly open, but no-one is inside. The quiet coming from the restrooms is audible, and the jokers continually refer to it.

-Somedays I wish I were a life in a toilet.

-Squirts to you, bustier.

-No, I mean contacts.

-Wetworks too, and summits of Archadia.

-Stop, this is my joke, my life!

-Who? You are talking to these people, right?

-Naw man. This is unfair, surplus...Max.

-You said something about lenses?

-Refraction! Who wears a hat made of shit?

-I would! I would protest in contest!

-Lady, your arse please, and no spares, sparcity.

-Exactly when were you born?

-Across town, access to a jungle for newborns.

-That is when they made Erlitou!

-With or without, it dunk compist.

-Lead me to your toilet, and that one.

-All doors are already open.

-Who invented privacy? The lame.

-Should you join in the lame game?

-I wouldn’t, but it’s too cold for stories.

-As well. I live on clippings, and depicted nudes of heavyset eyes, cordial blurlines, and Burt Reynolds with a T.

-I used to do his reenactment on Bridway. Seven stories, all sealed up, and no vacant seats, ever.

-With Burt, it’s Burt.

-This isn’t why, and that isn’t how.

-I know. I am here, in a corner of humanity.

-I wasn’t really born to uphold.

-No. This is all our legacy, and pissmops.

-Sour dwellings. Cheap, but a nice way.

(You don’t make contact.)

(You don’t the eyes.)

(You don’t apply.)(You don’t sing.)

(You don’t laugh.)

(AB.)(DC.)

We are taught to give answers on the spot, but I prefer to think out loud and reject others. Forth, from the throat, frothy saliva. Don’t hit on that old lane, please don’t ask me about ‘childhood’. It is something I would willingly forget, but forget that. It’s isotopes for lunch. Look, cheese meal.

It is just one night, but it serves a much higher purpose, on a higher plain of delight. I wish to smoke now. A box of cigarettes is in my room. Go get it. Don’t open it, however, untill I give the signal. It isn’t soft water humming. It isn’t alphabets reversed. It is just one of these long things, with thorns on either end. Wave it like a baton, cheer at the foul wind that blows, and stop it, put it in a jar, lable it, and prepare it for illustration. Finer publications than this do exist, but they aren’t published just anywhere. Ink is running out, it is the sound of the final print, the final edition: the final run. Everyone hands up; a tribute to the Tragically Hip.

Fourty Nine is a great number, used a lot in wholesale and garage construction. It isn’t rounded, which makes it more rough and refined. This is also a construction, on paper. I don’t want you to fold like a fan. Like a fan; like fans, and be like the fan; enjoy happy hours and the coming together of the unlike. They are alike, but only in length. His shoulders are as broad as way. Sorry. Yours are a little square and compounded. However, I bet you make for a hot hustle, however clueless you are. If you are clueless or if you should feel clueless, anyways.

If it makes you feel better–no–Bond didn’t understand any of it. He kept on playing, throwing the dice. Remember? He kept playing a game he didn’t understand, and still he played it well, however badly. You cannot play badly. It is accepted–appreciated–that some just cannot play the game. I am not talking about poker here; perhaps you wish I was. I wish I was.

You also cannot fail. If you fail, you truly fail. But you have noticed, surely, no-one ever failing? Have you ever seen, a man falling down? Get serious! Don’t fool yourself into reading fine print. Don’t get all smooth and drained. The invention of windows. One upper plain of sight. You don’t fail if you don’t try; unless you fail, you try.

You can play the game even if you don’t get it. You can be James Bond even if you’ve never heard of him. I haven’t, untill I wrote this book. And I still don’t know him any better. Do you get the getting part? Whatever you get, you can’t get it untill you get it; if you don’t get it, you can’t get it. Then it is gone, inexistent.

Of course, no-one can play the game; no-one is any good at it. The invention of games and pastimes; because no-one was any good at games, they invented silly games to occupy themselves. Even if no-one was any good at these games, it didn’t matter. It just doesn’t matter. None of it really matters, so please stop bothering me. The ink is almost gone. What a conjunction was built. Mortar.

 

 

I almost forgot; why did he get the part? No-one can play James Bond, it was just a joke. We tried filming him and posting it live on the network. It was an experiment; we wanted people to get a taste of Bond’s normal life. However, I am unsure if this was what they really wanted to see. I think it was too dry. Still; popular enough. I called it Inevitability of Death for one reason alone; why do you think? Also, I am confused who was the real Bond here. Do you think he exists? The question is just one of reality. I don’t think he did all that much. But I believe he should have an escapehatch too. We don’t want to compete anymore; not even Bond himself. See him turn like that. And it is all possible only in the 21st Century. Arman.

 

J.E.G Parked the Bentley (Ferrari) and pulled on the handbrake. Still the car rolled forward a bit. The water was cold and black. This is seawater. He tasted some of it; spit out the rest. Saltcontents, about a percent too much for his taste. He stepped in. One foot, then the other, and his priceless garb dirtied and spoiled. The water eddied around his ligament and torso and turned purple. Then turned orange. The symbolism of the passing of a legend. He regarded symbolism–above all else–as something unmotivating. The greasy jungle upstairs turned into a sea. And justified, no reason. Calmly absorbing, silhouettes gathered at the shore. No lifeguard can save a man like this.

Nanking continued floating toward an unknowable destination, and the head of James Bond was stuck in the ocean floor like an anchor.

If this is symbolic, it is restrained. After all of this, one glass of water will do just fine.

 

 

 

 

 

Surprising to see weather at ease with it's own droppings.

 

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