Engineered: Chapter 2

Time's Shonky Arrow

The real thing you have to know about me is this: I am not firing on all cylinders. The engine makes noise, sure, but the sump is full, the valves open when they want, and the piston is jerky, spastic and not going along with the reggae-reggae timing of the belt. I am irregular. That’s me, hi! Come see me be irregular now. Come witness my un-fitness. Not physical fitness, mind you. No. That’s fucking mint, let me assure you of that. I might not sport a cum gutter, brick-breaking biceps and tree trunk thighs, but I can almost run a mile in five minutes. The guy who did it in four is some sort of legend, but I bet he didn’t like to snuffle bugle like it was going out of fashion. I mean, that guy and his four-mile minute was from milder times. He wasn’t in Amsterdam bouncing off moon rocks and sniffing poppers with prozzies. That cunt trained. As do I, in my fashion. And what splendiferous fashion it is. Down the muscle factory with the roid freaks and their insufferable vanity. Who can be the best forklift truck? Meeeeeeee, they say to the mirrors, meeeee, fucking meeeeeeeeeeeee. I don’t go in for that stuff, though. I’m fond of my penis, and my girl is too. She likes what it does, where it goes and how it comports itself. But I am not my penis, merely it’s keeper. It pees and prays on the whims of others, sometimes me, sometimes gravity or alcohol. Or coke, or chemicals whose names I can’t say because I don’t want to. Or can’t. Pick one. Either way, man, I’m fit. But not mentally. That landscape is not bright and wonderful. Up there are rain clouds and vandalised internet boxes full of fucked up fibres, blown copper and exposed conductors. Up there is a spaghetti jumble of jangling neurons, all dancing like it was a silent disco.