Buster, Finch, Robison, CHOnPS, drawing from sketchbook
No not random at all, Right away Finch let’s me know what he’s thinking about. He starts with the airborn scrubbers, Way up high in all of that punchy space above the clouds there are fat loopy chains of carbon. They’s got nothing to do all day long but gang up with whatever neurotic bits of hydrogen are trying to make time with whatever oxygen is floating around. No platitudes can keep the nitrogen from jumping the fence and making a mad beat for the jinky the sulfur. So they all set a date as timid Tuesday. That’s when the great catalyst called drama, the (equation+lightning=pop) happens. That’s when all of this otherwise inert stuff gets to meet Senior Phospherus and it all spins up into a whimsical new machine.
It's construction shouldn't be this exciting but it is, it is-it is. Because soon after it starts tumbling down like a rain cloud. It’s just like very tiny laundry being kicked into metaphorical hot air by a fleet of metaphorically sprinting gazelle. Millions of microscopic machines start speaking to one another in the code of bees, they dance. This whole muddy haze of a party matter wafts down like an upended sack of severed thumbs and pinky toes. Buster likens it all to them jostling and elbowing their neighbors to generate more and more cute joules as they bang madly about. I generally agree with Buster on this matter.
Then I turn around and ask the old man about the scrubbers too and he tells me, It’s all good. Don’t you worry about it. Listen to Finch and Dr Person can tell you all about the rest later on.
My awake time here keeps getting better as getting gets longer and goner from being really gone, old man. You’re being rude and these fellows are just weird.
Than stay on task or I’ll tell your Momma about you, He guffaws. Chair slaps his fat dance of knee and yells for more coffee.
Finch and Buster look around. Finch blinks. Buster asks me If I need anything and Chair snarls at him. It doesn’t take much for Finch to catch on. He hustles into the side room where they keep the galley. When he comes back Finch puts a tall glass jug on the table between us.
Your head hurt boss, Buster asks Laslow. You know that left eye is looking really really rad. I can see about finding some drops or something for that.
She’s dead, He’s dead, They’re all dead old man, I look up at his great red eye. You won’t get me to roll like this. Tell me what you want otherwise let me out of here.
I only want what everyone wants Gum. I want to get on without fuss. The problem is, you and these two, you’re all fussy. The old man snatches up the bottle and squeezes back a bear of a dumble slug. You can’t find proper whiskey, he says once he comes up for air. Nothing sits still long enough to age proper. But the local kids make some respectable fruit hooch. It’s just not the same, He offers me the jug.
I take a spit pull and Laslow laughs at me jerking and sputtering in my chair.
There was a time when we’d be sitting around like this, Your Ma, John, and me. We’d be giving each other really good Canadian names like, John or Priscilla. Just passing the bottle and talking about chemistry and old mirrors. It was good times them. I loved your Ma, she was up and down a goodly human. She was alright to John too. That man was miserable...