73 lines
4.6 KiB
Plaintext
73 lines
4.6 KiB
Plaintext
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T ||==\\ || || ||==\\ ||==|| || || B L E N D E R C O R P O R A T I O N
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|| || || || || || || \\ // ------------------------------------
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H || || || || ||==// ||=|| >|< >>> Presents <<<
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|| || || || || \\ || // \\ CRUELTY .DBC
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E ||==// \\==// || \\ ||==|| || || #014-RT04 -- [12/27/91]
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______________________________________________________________________________
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Olfactory Cruelty
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-------------
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by Random Tox
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I attempted to worm my way through the Christmas crowd that had
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materialized from of nowhere, filling up every department store, no matter
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how large, to bursting. The displays by the entrance, advertising the latest
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perfumes, heralded the proximity of the perfume section, which made itself
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clearly discernable a few steps into the store. It was that intensely strong
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melange of scents of all sorts, which reduced even the most exotic and
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expensive perfume to a minor additive to the searing haze, burning one's
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throat and eyes with its intensity. I could almost see it, like the rising
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air over a stretch of baked pavement in July. It was then, as I squeezed past
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a clever-yet-subdued mass-produced stool made from twisted metal pipes that
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the beast lunged forward from the depths of the well nigh solid air.
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As brevity is the soul of wit, I shall be brief. She was hideous. Her
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tall body seemingly a product of some new weight loss program involving the
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removal of lesser organs like the stomach and intestines. She was thin, nay
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gaunt, her reddish-brown dyed hair balancing precariously atop her stretched
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head with the aid of several gallons of hairspray. The skin was drawn tight
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about her bones, softened by the last minute inclusion of veins, muscle, and
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a few other bits of human organics. She couldn't have been too old, but with
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the mask of cosmetics that made its home on her face it was impossible to say
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whether she was twenty- one or two hundred and one.
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"Would you like some Chanel Number Five?" she gurgled at a passing
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couple, rushing headlong at the pair, brandishing a chiseled glass vial half
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filled with the generic golden liquid that 90 percent of perfumes consisted
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of. The couple ignored her as best they could, politely running away at a
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liesurely pace so as not to seem ovely rude when they were most likely
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shopping for a nice tie or some clever socks, and not french brewed skin
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cleanser. The woman remained undaunted and scanned the crowd, allowing me to
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bolt forward as she looked the other way. Then she turned as I negotiated the
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treacherous pass between a mammoth display and yet another clever stool. She
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looked me in the eyes and I saw something in her suddenly twitch, a subtle
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wiggle on her retinas, as if the little computer in her brain had just added
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"x" and "y" and had come to a conclusion.
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"Can I help you with some Egoiste for Men?" She assaulted me, her head
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blocking out the sourceless department store fluorescent light, and my knees
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trembled as I felt my stomach trying to push its way past my tonsils. Her
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nostrils flared, and her head revolved around mine at high speed as the
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deadly bottle wove its way through space towards my horrorstruck body. It was
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gruesome beyond any description and I wanted to explode, putting me out of my
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misery and possibly knocking her hair out of joint in the process. No such
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luck. I stepped backwards and grabbed the reflective metal rim of the Max
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Factor booth behind me, where a young woman was attempting to find the true
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colors of an old lady in green polyester pants.
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"Neo-NeuroGnosticism is the key!" I spouted suddenly, moving back into
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the crowd, letting the flow carry me through the store, letting myself off at
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the shoe section once my senses returned. I crawled over to the acessories
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area and curled up in the corner, manically sniffing an ornate Italian
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handbag, trying to destroy any remnant of Egoiste for Men that lingered with
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the powerful euphoria of new leather. All I wanted was a pair of black
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suspenders as a gift for an old armless veteran I know. Maybe I should get
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him a vest instead.
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[Merry Christmas folks. - RT]
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______________________________________________________________________________
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(C)1992 by The Durex Blender Corporation & Random Tox
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All Rights Revered. Even yours.
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*** Spread the word of Turnex, the Blender for the Next Millenium. ***
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The Durex Blender Corporation : Boston (617) 696-8156 - 24oo/8N1 - 24 hours
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