Mar 19 24
A faint jingling.
A jester with a white-ish grey skull face is walking aimlessly in a field. The bell tipped points of his mottled, gold satin cap bounce with each step. He looks mildly befuddled beneath the churning, brown, post-suburban, William Turner-esque sky.
He holds a bong in one hand and a scepter-like, half-eaten, Slim Jim in the other. The bong is a yellow transparent tube with a white-ish grey, skull-faced jester shaped water chamber, at the bottom. The upper half of a baggy deep purple track suit drapes his stooped shoulders; on his right chest is a patch that reads “Sicko.” His giant stained jeans are inside out; the dirty, once white pockets exposed.
He doesn’t appear to have eyelids, just featureless, black dots floating amidst yellow, red veined orbs.
Out of a mouth dominated by a severe underbite he’s muttering some sort of mantra. It sounds like “Sticky icky, ATM bitch. Sticky icky, ATM bitch. Sticky icky, ATM bitch.” It drones out of him continuously.
His gait and shoulders subtly dance in tune with the syllables.
On his feet are fuzzy slides which look to be made of actual animal fur, little dingy squirrel or rat pelts.
Attached to the back of each slide drags a wallet on a chain — one of red sparkled leather the other, green. As each wallet drags through the short dead grass they create small eddies that swirl into moaning baleful faces, then disperse.
From somewhere above a kind of angelic voice is heard: “Your total is $6.66 please pull up to the first window.” The jester with the white-ish grey skull face looks up and then behind him, his bells jingle confusedly. Not finding the source of the communication he shakes his head and lightly shrugs with ingrained frustration.
He mutters a short, tight “fuck you bitches” to no one (that can be seen), spits a dark green glob into the vapory dead grass, and shuffle bounces on his way — continuing his mantra.
A jester with a white-ish grey skull face is walking aimlessly in a field. The bell tipped points of his mottled, gold satin cap bounce with each step. He looks mildly befuddled beneath the churning, brown, post-suburban, William Turner-esque sky.
He holds a bong in one hand and a scepter-like, half-eaten, Slim Jim in the other. The bong is a yellow transparent tube with a white-ish grey, skull-faced jester shaped water chamber, at the bottom. The upper half of a baggy deep purple track suit drapes his stooped shoulders; on his right chest is a patch that reads “Sicko.” His giant stained jeans are inside out; the dirty, once white pockets exposed.
He doesn’t appear to have eyelids, just featureless, black dots floating amidst yellow, red veined orbs.
Out of a mouth dominated by a severe underbite he’s muttering some sort of mantra. It sounds like “Sticky icky, ATM bitch. Sticky icky, ATM bitch. Sticky icky, ATM bitch.” It drones out of him continuously.
His gait and shoulders subtly dance in tune with the syllables.
On his feet are fuzzy slides which look to be made of actual animal fur, little dingy squirrel or rat pelts.
Attached to the back of each slide drags a wallet on a chain — one of red sparkled leather the other, green. As each wallet drags through the short dead grass they create small eddies that swirl into moaning baleful faces, then disperse.
From somewhere above a kind of angelic voice is heard: “Your total is $6.66 please pull up to the first window.” The jester with the white-ish grey skull face looks up and then behind him, his bells jingle confusedly. Not finding the source of the communication he shakes his head and lightly shrugs with ingrained frustration.
He mutters a short, tight “fuck you bitches” to no one (that can be seen), spits a dark green glob into the vapory dead grass, and shuffle bounces on his way — continuing his mantra.