I tried to assume a foetal position but couldn’t find a woman big enough
I tried to assume a foetal position but couldn’t find a woman big enough.
I always left the most constrictive of openings to the masterful and platonic genius of Ken Wizzerman. He knew what he was doing. He could handle even the smallest of entrances. He was born with those long thin artistic fingers, like articulated drinking straws attached to a narrow palm that would have looked at home on one of those small new world monkeys, like a marmoset. His wrists were also slender, but once you got past the elbow he was built like a cannon, a statue made out of cannons and cannon balls in the shape of a man with uncommonly slim forearms and tiny, spidery hands. Did I mention he was black? Really black. Stained black as the result of an accident involving a street luge race. Down Helms Hill, that famous long, steep descent of smooth asphalt that ended in the loose gravel of Unavoidable Calamity Corner, a right hand turn sharp as a widow’s elbow, and right beside it, on the outside of the curve, was the West Coast’s biggest squid processing plant. It’s probably against food processing regulations, but on hot days, like the one the Fifteenth Annual Killer Downhill Invitational was held on that August, they kept the loading bay doors open and let the stench of those giant containers of tentacles, beaks, eyeballs and ink escape into the surrounding industrial estate. That year, the fifteenth straight Killer Downhill Invitational Ken had competed in, his familiarity with the track unapproachable, Ken flared out at the corner, his sensitive but weak fingers clenching at the scattering road surface, wearing through the gloves until his foot jammed in a wheel and he flipped into a high speed tumble, centrifugally shedding his protective body suit, his helmet, abrading and contusing every swathe of his skin as he caromed across the concrete apron, horrified squid processors who had gathered outside during their smoke break to watch the race scattering as his disintegrating body bee-lined for them and clattered past and into, penetrating, a thousand gallon plastic vat of squid ink, piscine steam billowing as his friction heated, denuded epidermis was impregnated with fresh ink from the bellies of slaughtered squid even as the force of the liquid ink pushed him back out of the broken wall of the vat and rolled him in a mirrored black puddle out into the sun.