Sitting on the
curb, waiting for the taxi. His thoughts pondered back to the past few
days. The sky was blue, there was no hint of pollution anywhere, and
everyone greeted each other with a nice hello.
His clothes where
bright and pressed, his t-shirt declared nothing at all. He didn't know
what he was supposed to do here, or why he had been brought here in the
first place. The birds chirped sweetly, the sun always rose, the
mornings were always cool.
And the whole freaking landscape was just
suburbia. He wanted to go back to what he knew; to him this was
alien. Maybe tomorrow.
MORGANFOKKER SAYS THAT ALL SELF-EXPRESSION IS SELF-INDULGENCE
Maggie looked out the window and down at the street; a car had just
pulled up to the curb. The driver got out and Mags walked back into the kitchenette, placing the .44 on the stove. She
grabbed a cup off the shelf and poured herself a coffee. The mug
itself was old and chipped, the handle looked like it had been glued
in place.
She reached inside the fridge and took out the
creamer. The room sat in total silence, except for the gurgle of the
coffee pot every now and then. She went to the living room and selected a
vinyl album from the shelf, put it on the turntable. She could
hear the little pocks and hiss from the stereo. To her it sounded truer
than the digitally processed music of today. The coffee in her hands was
like a soothing nectar.
She lit a few candles; they began
casting their flickering light, creating the proper atmosphere. Three candles
lit, should set the proper mood, then she reached for a basket filled
with rose petals and scattered them on the floor before the
doorway. She spritzed the air around with a perfume. She stepped back into the kitchenette as the door was being unlocked.
Trump walked across the rooftop heading towards the ledge of the
building, where Max was sitting with his legs dangling over the edge. A styrofoam
cup of coffee stood on sentry by Max's side. Trump hardly made a
noise as he approached Max.
"Hello Trump," Max said without looking back, his eyes closed.
"Can I ask you something?" Trump asked, as he sat down on the ledge beside Max.
Max
nodded; he opened his eyes but did not divert his attention to Trump, just looked ahead. The pupils of his eyes looked like distant stars
twinkling.
"What the KLF are you doing?" asked Trump. He wasn't sure what was going on.
"I am not sure yet, just waiting for the vibe to hit me," Max replied.
"Vibe?" Trump repeated the word.
"The cosmic vibe." Max paused, grabbed the coffee and took a pull from it. "This reality here isn't aligning."
Trump sat there and looked at Max.
"When you learn to open your mind, you will feel the vibrations," Max said.
Trump thought about it for a moment, then frowned. "I don't understand."
"How can you?" Max smiled, and his eyes were warm and secretive. "After all, you're only a cat."
MAX is lying on a bed. He is covered in sweat. We see movement behind his eyelids, REM sleep, he tosses and turns in his bed.
His eyes pop open wide. He reaches for the gun underneath his pillow and fires of a shot in the darkness. We hear the sound of a thud.
Max
jumps from his bed, and walks over to the body. His eyes still
searching the darkness. He bends down and checks the pulse, the intruder
dead, blood spilling from the clean head shot wound.
His cellphone rings.
MAX: Hola.
VOICE: Did you get my message?
MAX: Crystal clear.
VOICE: You know what you have to do now.
MAX: I know. But when this is over I am coming for you.
