My end for Finish The Story Contest - Week #52

Well, dear friends. Another publication from the hourly desperation.
The day before yesterday and yesterday the incompetent dictatorship that subdues us with the power of its bayonets rewarded my neighborhood with some fifteen hours of power cuts and the usual associated chaos.
But I have written. I have continued the hallucinatory story that opened @f3nix. A challenge to maintain the tone and reach the unleashed opening of the universe that collapsed on the text.

I leave then, friends, my final for Pointy Eyes Shine In The Dark, the story that begins @f3nix for edition number 52 of Finish The Story Contest (bases here).

And it was fun.
And I am grateful.

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Beginning of the story by @f3nix

Pointy Eyes Shine In The Dark
"Auntie Masha‘ n the God’s Mistakes / every day on FRINGE -FM! / We will lure them, interview them / fun and tortures never end! "

The radio anchor's words glide over the frantic notes of the jingle like an old rusted Cessna.

"We're still here! I know, my lobotomized listeners, you too are amazed that your beloved auntie is still broadcasting on the frequencies of... "

"Stop with the preambles, old wino!" The voices of the three God's Mistakes recall a misplaced cross between Smeagol and the Chipmunks. In the studio, plastered with purple sound-proofing cones, the three animated puppets stare at Masha with lusty and murderous eyes. In a quick flash, the radio host instinctively thinks about the many crossroads of her life.

"Let's all welcome the most annoying and useless voices in the whole history of radio broadcasting from Edison to nowadays. Don't interrupt me, at least not at the beginning of the program, damn puppets..."

"...Cursed the stoned producer who wanted you," the host adds a quick note in her mind.

"Hey granny, we are co-hosts, not voices.” The felt creatures stand assertively.

"As we said, my bizarre radio listeners, here we are at our usual appointment with Masha's spicey interviews. Today we have an exceptional guest who certainly does not need introductions: directly from Berlin, Kurt Kükenvernichter, the one who returned metal music to the wide public. You know, Kurt, that auntie won't allow you to exit this studio without you having confessed at least some sordid and succulent secret.” The presenter begins to press. "For starters, we want to know how you managed to convert post-millennials around the world to your music."

Meanwhile, it seems that Kurt has decided to ignore the presentation. The round sound of his flask's stopper popping is not even captured by the microphone that already the singer has gulped down a sip of grog, dark and thick like tar. He slowly approaches the loudspeaker and greets his fans - especially the female ones - with a bronze baritone voice.

"Anyway, I never converted anyone. In these shitty times, I saw an empty throne and sat there."

"Aha. Sure. On thrones, photos of you collapsed on a toilet have been leaked from the net in the last few days. It is said to have been an exclusive party in Miami. Not exactly an image in line with the Kurt we all know. Do you want to deny or give us some clarification?” If radio frequencies could take shape, listeners would now see a scythe.

"They are all ... I was saying ... hhhhh ... it's all a pathetic charade!" The shrill voice of a clown who sniffed early-morning helium extrudes from the singer's throat as from an occluded sphincter.

"What the fuck was that?" Auntie Masha leaps in shock from the chair. The God’s Mistake for once are silent, overwhelmed by a more absurd voice than theirs and looking at each other with lost pointy eyes.

Time is strange on radio and silence represents an abomination against nature. Five interminable seconds pass before the host manages to recover and decides to send the advertisement break. Kurt has already thrown himself out of the studio, making shrill desperate blows. In fading out, a coarse puppet's laugh resounds.

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In the loft, the thick curtains are still those of the old printing works. The late rays of the sun filter through the large dirty windows together with the sounds of the offices being emptied. A man wrapped in black leather and studs is spread on a padded velvet chaise long while, at the end of the room, another figure sits composed giving him his back.

"You see, Doctor, my voice is everything, why did it start to betray me? I can't understand what's happening to me. I feel violated by a dark and perverse part of myself. Under this thick layer of metal, there is a sensitive heart and I don't think I can stand this anymore."

As he confesses, Kurt hears a little music coming from behind the back of the chair. It looks like something already heard.

"Doctor?"

"Isn't this riff I just invented beautiful?" Asks the therapist to the air with a gloating triumph note in his voice. Kurt pokes his head out and sees him fiddling with a tiny electric ukulele.

"Actually I think it's Smoke On The Water, Doc."

The chair snaps in a flash of lightning.
"Kurt, I have the solution but it won't be easy and requires your blind trust in me." Dr. Machete smiles as a strange light moves through his eyes. Struck by dusty beams of light, he looks like a sly Cheshire Cat.

 

My End
Meanwhile, in the studio, ads are repeated in an infinite loop. Auntie Masha has melts in her chair and her face is a rubber stain in front of the microphone. The puppets have fled through a wormhole sometime between ads for canned soup.
The ten o'clock presenter, who opens his agnostic space today, I don't know if I don't believe in anything, is suspended in the time loop with Masha. The strident laughter of a clown smelling helium in the morning resounds on the jingles. The agnostic presenter finally understands what God's mistakes are.

(Pointed eyes shine in the darkness of the wormhole. And they look at him).

*****

Dr. Machete keeps his ukulele. He kisses it, wraps it with his blanket and carefully closes the lid. He searches the closet for his black gloves as a murderer or as a double agent of the Cold War. Check with Kurt: He's K.O. He has drunk his grog with hydroconone. Doctor Machete drags Kurt to the toilet and lets his head hang inside the cup. He takes a photo of him with his mobile phone. He takes the keys to Kurt's convertible and throws himself down the motorway, violating all speed limits. He tunes in to the radio wishing to hear the premiere of an agnostic space that promises, but he only hears white noise and the echo of a clown's laugh that smelled helium very early that morning. The astute light behind his pupils abandons his eyes and settles in the back seat to scratch one leg with his big yellow Cheshire cat teeth. He smiles at the cat, as he has done every time he makes an important decision since he made it when he was five or six years old. Press the accelerator hard. He thinks he already has a clear clue to follow. The astute light behind his pupils abandons his eyes and settles in the back seat to scratch one leg with its big yellow teeth. He smiles at her, as he has done every time he makes an important decision since he made it when he was five or six years old. Press the accelerator hard. ***** Next to the motorway, a traffic control point picks up the red blur that is the convertible of Kurt Kükenvernichter. The monitor shows the registration of the vehicle and automatically opens the form of fines. The duty officer mentally checks the list of infringements. He discovers that he cannot move. One of his boots melts and stretches through a hole in the floor. Later (or in a non-significant negative dimension later) he will remember that it was a space-time coagulation in another dimension. Radio transmits static. Someone laughs behind his back. It sounds like the laughter of a drugged-up clown.

(Pointed eyes shine in the darkness of the wormhole. ).

*****

Meanwhile, on Anzola Street in the center of a city in a country in the North of South America, María Conchita Piedad de Cortez Cetes listens on local radio and waves her flesh to the rhythm of Héctor Lavoe's Esta risa no es de loco. She scrubs the floor vigorously.
The beer cools down in the freezer.
Héctor Lavoe laughs from the radio.
A yellow-toothed cat enters through the balcony and dirties the floor with mud.
María Conchita Piedad de Cortez Cetes fits him, with mortal aim, a mamporro with the mop and continues with her life and her saoco.
She has nothing to do with this story.

*****
Dr. Machete enters the studio.
"Tía Masha' n the God's Mistakes / every day in FRINGE -FM! / We'll attract them, we'll interview them / the fun and the tortures never end," repeats the recording. Auntie Masha is a little less Auntie Masha. She slips through the wormhole.
Dr.Machete launches the cell-phone in the rubber well.
He laughs.
He imitates Kurt's fucking crybaby by denying everything.
His laughter goes through a space-time loop.
Like a sniffer clown.
Like a clown smelling helium.
Like a clown smelling helium very early in the morning.
(Pointy eyes shine in the dark).

 

Gracias por la compañía. Bienvenidos siempre.

En mi país hay tortura, desapariciones, ajusticiamientos, violaciones masivas de derechos humanos.¡Libertad para mi país!
In my country there is torture, disappearances, executions, massive violations of human rights.
Freedom for my country!
Soy miembro de @equipocardumenSoy miembro de @talentclub

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Posted from my blog with SteemPress : http://adncabrera.vornix.blog/2019/04/17/my-end-for-finish-the-story-contest-week-52/

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