Tuesday, June 8, 2010


The sound (assuming that there was a sound) cracked an iffy grin across the face of the world's richest man. He slithered out of his well-built and rather expensive shelter up the narrow tubing and shot his hand upward, blindly fingering the vault for its handle. The hinge on the vault snapped like a worn guitar string and a rush of sunlight ran through a thin crack in the shelter's lid. The world's wealthiest gentleman worked himself up to his feet and nonchalantly observed the world's newfound expanded emptiness (nonchalantly because he knew what to expect. The only thing that was “blown away” was the conglomeration of all living things (minus one Thomas S. Eiselberg). As he ambled down the street, he decided it would be nice to have a drink and something to smoke. Eventually, every third footstep triggered something else, something else he must have (as if inheriting the entire world was not enough).

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