Treasure Island

A.j. Binash

(04-20-1988 / Dodgeville WI)

Scumbags Anonymous


Perching on the sanitarium's windowsill, a mocking bird mimics the noise of a rotating surveillance camera. The Jester stares at it, for a moment forgets about the future and remembers the past. Such thoughts end in death and pills. Nostalgia is the disease.

Jester-
Understand, my dear lad, fast drying ink used on tax returns and IRS forms is comprised of saturated fat.

One Open Finger-
If the ink doesn't dry fast enough?

Jester-
By God! We have an answer for that. Hold a prayer under the tongue. Think of something sexual, or delicious. Salivate until the prayer leaks from the inevitable split lip. Use that as lubrication. It will dry. It will dry clear.

The glass doors open. Sunshine illuminates the streaks created from the faces of failed escapees. One that was winking disappears behind a nurse's shadow. A bullet taking their third eye, before the wink.
The Jester distracts the One Open Finger.
After all
Two of the rules:
No Clean Glass.
No Clean Faces.

One Open Finger-
Well...see...umm...I heard the free thinkers are kept in

Jester-
Haah! Keep the mischief to me!

Hands fall forward. Catching in a push-up stance. Yoga practice. This is no down-ward dog. Leg lifts, urinates on the linoleum. This is no down-ward dog.

Jester-
Yes, yes, yes-SEE! Laughter! YES! I will borrow jazz notes as speech. Ticking clocks to document bankruptcies. Hire voyeurs to film bankers molesting their children! Such joy! Satisfaction is our priority.

Footsteps clack along the linoleum. An escapee taps their finger on the glass. Before a head can turn, a guard eclipses their shadow over an exit wound. As The Jester walks by with the One Open Finger, he assures all in company that is just:
“Modern Art.”

Submitted: Friday, March 07, 2014
Edited: Wednesday, March 12, 2014

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