Blowted Ape-Wek Dusted with Dots
“What will you do?” Bloomingtooth’s voice, like a modulated string of hair, was that in the telephone.
Closs made himself comfortable in one of the furniture store displays. He emitted a noise designed to let Bloomingtooth know that he was thinking. Such was their relationship that the distance between them could be fogbound with emotion, palpable to each, and yet they could still see each other, could still rehearse their lines in silence.
“Look—” Bloomingtooth offered reassurance in the void. His own sample corner in the furniture store was hung with pictures intriguing and framed. As he, too, groped for words, he turned from the work of an unknown, would-be abstract expressionist, to that of a Mr. Jono, a minor artist whose death had brought re-evaluation and the right-hand bookend of bear or bull.
Positive Misuse
The image on his t-shirt was a stylized depiction of his friend Bloomingtooth. Ordinarily Closs would not have gone out dressed thusly, but photographic ambushes had been arranged in a series of locations along his intended tour of the street. The idea was that Bloomingtooth would be wearing a shirt with a similarly realized picture of Closs, but until the two friends actually met for the terminal snapshot pileup, legitimate, historically based doubts yet lingered in more than one mind.
Bloomingtooth had lately been taken with the work of some musician whose meteoric career was now being artificially extended by a desperate, floundering foray into painting.
“It’s about how odds and evens are related and intertwined,” Marijuana Centipede explained, pulsing sludge at the lowest of the electro-magnetic spectrum.
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