Jay Passer

Fart of Darkness

I got there and the cartel guy’s been put in a room with this dwarf who gets off wearing tutus and ballet slippers to strike poses in the bathroom when he thinks nobody’s looking but there’s cameras so we know dude is a freak. Cartel has juice so ballet freak gets transferred to isolation where he can babble to himself in peace, if not the total darkness of cold storage. The unit is run by this obese dude called Big Panda who’s always pissed off at the ward baseball team. It’s nobody’s actual fault they’re all disabled, half of them wearing adult diapers outside their pants the other half missing knees and elbows due either to grave defect or occult injury. Quit drooling on the ping-pong table Big Panda yells but they’re all wasted on the invert-crystal Cartel gets smuggled in through the kitchen stashed in cases of frozen fish sticks. Everybody knows. Nobody cares. It’s a literal fucking free-for-all. They’re fucking in the corners, the crapper, the bushes, in the broom closets real fast go go go! like robotic rabbits. Trailing sex grime like a gastric oil slick in their wobbly wake. Even squirrels from way up in the trees scamper in on the action. Big Panda ambles home to his den of miscreant offspring at the zoo habitat and quaffs 2-liter green plastic bottles of Mountain Dew just to keep sane. He’s a loner and secretly deals in black market dark web skeletal remains of assassinated politicos. Working on a deal in the deep night of the DRC for blood piglet gallstones. Coupled with a primordial urge to spew rhetoric he keeps it bottled up inside where it festers and rots. Which in turn he takes out on the ball team who parenthetically are his most loyal foot soldiers. He stations them about the premises strategically where their disgusting, perverse behavior won’t necessarily be construed as spying. Chaplain Baby Abe, intent on usurping Big Panda and his crew of degenerate delinquents, is on call 24/7 and a huge pain in Big Panda’s ass. Baby Abe, suspicious by nature, quaking with calcified righteousness, parks in the control room, wide baby blues fixed on the array of video screen monitors, poised to pounce on the slightest misdeed. ‘Tis a cloying atmosphere fraught with hypertension. Nobody trusts anybody.  Hate is shared democratically. Pharmaceuticals rage in the collective bloodstream. I take notes surreptitiously, shivering and fetal in the staff head. Somebody’s been fucking in here. The stench of skunk bud and fermented apricots along with trace elements of potassium nitrate… Bells clanging over intercom fuzz… I sense a distinct covert outsourcing of white shit… bones ground to a fine powder… nasal expectorate refined into vape juice… Telepathic cell flirtation. Baby Abe is so sure of his rapacious hunch he’s prepared to offer up his nubile fiancé as a tribute to his convictions: Have at ‘er my brethren he growls, ivory white neck pulsating against the 4-time consecutive Super Bowl losing Buffalo Bills lanyard he wears supertight like a hangman’s noose. Looks like a case of relapse boys, barks Big Panda, strap that treacherous weasel to yon gurney and wheel ‘im away, will ya? Cartel chilling in lotus practicing levitation in the Suzuki Garden amidst Artesian bottled-water fountains and river rocks painted with slogans such as: Use Me Like a Hammer and I Saved a Window Today. The ping-pong tables turn after each resident inmate feeding, vapor rises in genderless clouds while threats to the minority population are waylaid with legislation of additional officious regulations. Commensurate with revisionist theories of inclusive order. 

All in all, an epic shit show. Cartel, shaved head shining with extract of bull elephant musth, smiles at his trophies… lolling atop sharpened pikes… severed heads of pubescent sex-workers… Smoke tendrils eking out of weepy eyeholes…