It had happened again and this time Frank Lynn *did* have Daisy’s number since they’d been on, what, 5 dates now? 6? Anyway, they were kind of living together at this juncture, on a higher level to his castle than the one still occupied a bunch of the time by “interlopers” (ha) Philip Strevor and Dr. Paul Mouse, the level behind the mouth and that giant sticky outie tongue that Philip likes to take his wees off of. “Look out below!” he would often shout needlessly when the stream appeared, because there was no one else around in this isolated skybox, not down below nor anywhere else outside the castle itself. Both of these men were hanger oners; both had issues. Dr. Mouse was still dead for one. Philip was sort of on the edge of same with his indulgence in speed and the pinball game High Speed and daring to combine the two at times. That was the crux of his problem. He was still trying to beat Mouse’s score at the game at any cost. And that cost might involve dying. Mouse would always have the advantage there.
Daisy was working down at the bar installing the new house non beer Michelob Zero to replace the Corona Non that had failed recent taste tests to her exasperation. Bad batch? she thought upon initially discovering the issue, her face wincing at the surprising lack of flavor and overemphasis on fizz. But then she purchased another batch and another batch — same problem. She’d had to abort the product, at least until the Mexican based company got their act together again. She was sure she’d found the ultimate house beer, at least before putting the finishing touches on her own special non brew. Then she planned to rule all of Our Second Lyfe with the delicious concoction, he he he. Ho ho. So she was busy with that and didn’t have time to go up and sit with Frank until Mouse’s epileptic seizure was over and told him, like still unavailable Lexi before, just to wait the fit out and that it shouldn’t take more than 5 to 7 minutes, a seizure once again caused by Mouse’s indulgence in studying often strobing Youtube poop videos, especially interested in what lies at their center. Like this from one of the latest tests. Pure red. Pure demon.
But Frank Lynn had a worse feeling this time around. 5-7 minutes of shaking, then 10, then… NONE. Just laying there, not recovering, not springing up from the floor seemingly as good as new like before. He checked Mouse’s pulse. “Uh oh,” he said. Heart pumps now: “*1* Mississippi, *2* Mississippi, **3** Mississippi,” he counted in desperation while pressing the chest in and out, in and out, in and out. “Come on come on come *on*. You can’t die *again*, Dr. Mouse. You just *can’t*.” But the pulse never moved from zero. He was floating down the mighty river toward the Gulf of America that had once been good old reliable Mexico. TBC
Sunklands 