Build Me Up Buttercup: Lust for Love

A cruel pair of eyes — two cruel pairs of eyes — stare mercilessly, hollowly, out on a spacious lot of flickering eateries. In hands — their hands — lies a long, thin, sickening rod with a small, taught ball of mechanical wires sending signals — messages — to the little, cruel interface on its hilt. Their thrown, their florid chair drenched in pleasure's waste holds a steady, clear view over the field.

The two once ne'r do wells marvel and sweat and think. How, in such a place — in such a horrid ball —, did they, two forever strandeds, find their other? God's Will.

A parting of the clouds, it must have been; a bolt from the blue. 'Neath those extra eyes and battery faces grew a wind of forgiveness from Him. A wind of validation. The begging, the bedtime pleas paid off. All is not Afterlife quite yet, though.

First, foremost, divide the seas. They did. Spread and smudge God's Will — your word. They have.

Casting, luring; a line flies across and scrapes the concrete footpath. It moves, it slides, it grates and bumps on the concrete. It hangs, it stops. In a doorway, a small, insignificant doorway, it catches and stops. And it stops where?

A greasy, hairy hand plants a greasy, hairy finger on an oily red button and sends a bright magazine into the small, insignificant doorway where it catches and stops in a tiled — black and white — kitchen. It is picked up and thought of by half a person. It is read with a surprised grin. The person, of which there is only half, pulls a chair out from 'neath a table — his table. The chair itself, made of wood, is exactly, to the tea, like every single other chair in the lot. The person is thankful.

A green sticky light flashes with a steady monotonous pounding. The reel is wound by the greasy, hairy hand whose owner is enjoying early, inoffensive abortion from the speechless other. As every last tail disappears down a throat, half a person gets carelessly dragged across the concrete lot. He reaches the steep bank and is brought up into a plunging glass box.

Eyes pressed, armoury raised, the person watches. Two figures bend, and twist, and slide, and grease. The person, the no-timer, arms his arms. Two figures scream, call, cry, shout. The person, slipping regret far below, throbs and stops. Two figures stop. The glass box is denied briefly of its lid as a hand reaches in and avoids the avoiding, hunched person. The figure presses their remains against the glass. Half a person involuntarily wakes his third.

It was meant to be.