Litwight

Gears was a midget at the robocircus. He got laughed at every day and it made him very upset. But one day… a sumptuous silhouette of a mech strolled into his life like unwanted sunlight through blinds, like leftover milk left to congeal on the table of a sad housewife’s kitchen while her husband drinks himself into a stupor; a stupor like a coma, like a grapefruit.

His optics were shimmering rubies hidden within Egyptian tombs, they were strawberries plucked from a field by a child’s hand, they were two lonely skittles left behind a television with only four channels that only air the news and Friends repeats. They were the sound of red chocolate rain.

His cheeky smirk was like a high note on a roboviola, the ballads sung by bards hundreds of years ago of princesses locked high in ivory towers. Unattainable grails; the objects of every mech’s desire. It was the dapple of sunlight on a badger’s fur as it crawled through an undergrowth, hunting worms and voles to kill and take back to its young. It was purple. It was cranberry juice. It was the last Transformer on the shelf at Woolworth’s.

His wings were slabs of citrus, they were wetstone. His wings were the smell of an old book, in the vast library of a mansion on the Great Gatsby’s estate as one of his swinging jazz parties floated by outside under the twilight. They were apple pie. They were geese’s wings. They were a pritt stick.

His waist was a dormouse; an empty pizza box left on a murder scene. Policeman pass it by and do not notice that it contains secrets; secrets that can spill out that only the dead wasps on the window sill may understand. His thighs were a pile of old Batman comics discovered after the basement dweller has died, alone, reading fanfiction. The page is still up on the glowing computer screen, but no one knows what it says. Only he understands. His thighs were castanets; always opening and closing to the rhythm of his spork and whims.

His fingers were playful scythes, they were rabbits, they were saxophones, they were wedding rings cast aside by a bride who has been abandoned at the altar by the only man she ever loved. They were rare candies in Pokemon Red. They were notes dotted along a C Minor scale played on the piano by a whimsical child with feathery blond hair a slack, vacant expression.

Gears needed to take a break from his internal monologue , so he sat down on a bench and drank some robolemonade. It tasted of  lemons. He watched the beautiful, mysterious, seductive temptress move towards him, his optics glowing like I mentioned in the first paragraph.

“You are quite beautiful,” said Gears. “What is your name, and what is your purpose here?”

“I… am Starscream,” the red creature of Aristotle’s Cave said. His voice was like raindrops falling on an open field full of sheep grazing under moonlight. It was the wet nose of a ferret pressing into the back of Gears’ neck. It was my dog scratching at the door to my bed room, seeking entrance so that he might rummage in the bin for sanitary towels. It was bliss. It was harmony. It was Life Cry.

Gears interrupted his narration to speak once again to the lithe metal nymph of Greek legends. “My boss says you’re a whore,” he said.

“That is the most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me,” Starscream muttered.

“How much do you charge for a handsome little sugarlump like you?”

“Four hundred credits,” Starscream replied. His voice was like the foam atop a tower of latte. It was fresh laundry left on your bed by your mother. It was an axle jack. It had a polar bear bleeding on the label. Fran liked that. It was a wild hen night in Edinburgh. There was a chibbing, and the police had to be called, but the girls were so drunk that they were released with only a warning. “You are amazingly descriptive,” Starscream whispered, trying to lick his own eyebrows.

“Those eyebrows…” Gears said. Those eyebrows were like a curious fox, like a paintbrush held by Picasso in 1944 as he painted the Guernica.

“But the Guernica was completed by mid-June 1937,” said Starscream.

His psychic powers were a pillow, stifling the breath of Desdemona, because Othello was lied to by Iago, lied to and deceived by that manipulative parrot from Aladdin.

“I’m not psychic, you fool!”

His argumentative words was a fish bone caught in the throat of a fat man in a restaurant in Hungary. It was burnt toast. It was the gait of a crab along the ocean floor. It was a pair of wooden scissors.

“I’m not shagging anyone who narrates their own life in such worrying, nonsensical detail.”

“Oh no?” asked Gears.

“No.”

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Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Do It

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Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Do It

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo......

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Do The Hustle

DO THE HUSTLE

Do The Hustle

Do The Hustle

Do The Hustle

Do The Hustle

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo.........

Oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Do It

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo........

Ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Do It

DO THE HUSTLE

Do The Hustle

DO THE HUSTLE

Do The Hustle

And then they all drank lemonade.