Still I can't decide, cause my hands are tied
I've been reading Gaiman stories. His stories are always the best stories. They make you feel good reading them. They have internal consistency, just as he describes in American Gods, that there are these rules and you don't know them all but you know they're there. Anyway, I encourage everyone to read Anansi Boys and anything else by him that you can get your hands on. His I, Cthulu short story is pretty amusing (you can read that from his blog linked above).
But I'll come back to me, since this song is about me. Now I want to write stories. It has been a long time and I'm sure I won't be any good at it, and yet, I'm compelled.
"Come on, get up, punk!"
Robert felt like he had been hit by a truck. But of course that was not true, he had simply been hit by a three hundred pound sack of muscle. His vision was still fading back into reality piece by piece from the white wash that filled it, like some bad transition on a TV show.
"What's the matter, pussy?"
He saw the kick coming and managed to edge slightly away from it before it connected with his side. It sent him rolling across the wooden lacquered dance floor, and into a small puddle where someone had - against the rules - brought a drink onto the dance floor and spilled it. No vision problems this time.
The darkness and the occasional stream of coloured light that struck him helped Robert see the concerned look of club-goers, who were in no way offering to help him against his burly opponent, but felt very badly for him nonetheless. Especially the fathead's (he had one of those squat, square heads) girlfriend, who got him into this mess in the first place. "Never get mixed up with broads in low-cut dresses," he could hear his dad advise. Thanks, dad.
Right now though, Robert had to make what seemed to be the most important decision in his life - get up and possibly witness an end to his short, but remarkably fun 21 year old life, survived by old-fashioned and loving parents, Body, his lovable Westie, and his vast collection of golden age comic books, or stay down, let this pool of alcohol and saliva soak into his silk shirt some more, and probably live a long, healthy, and hopefully marvelous life. The choice seemed obvious, but at that moment, fathead decided that he was going to make his choice for him.
Robert was suddenly looking at fathead eye to eye, not recalling that he ever used his own two feet to stand. That's when he noticed that he wasn't standing, but hovering about a foot off the ground, suspended by two massive hands that you might find at a prehistoric gorilla exhibit. An upwelling of well-being and cleverness came over him then, despite the pain that pervaded his body. He began to dramatically work up some phlegm and made a spitting motion. Fathead instinctively turn his head and loosened his grip a little, which allowed Robert to introduce Fathead's crotch to his foot. Fathead's crotch did not enjoy this meeting, but Robert didn't stay to console it. Instead, he bolted and ran into the night.
Comments, thoughts, and suggestions are all welcome.
