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Surprise, Bitch || Gongchan + Narae

Do you see their joviality? Drenched in despair the victims tremble with a heretic’s laugh in the face of the apocalypse. How dare they disregard the decomposition, ignore the blisters upon their hands…

The intangible sermon continued tirelessly, the words a helix into the universe and oblivion, the black hole’s voice echoing within his ear canals as if his cranium had been eroded into Greece’s chapel of psychosis. His body reacted sporadically, the muscles coiling, quirking at the rhythmic respiration, and his fingers curled, tempted to breach the contract and rip each trace of organic tissue from the duel holes at either side of his head. Opposed to self-destruction, Gongchan expressed discontent through a crinkled brow, the face of indignation, bowed to the rice cooker owned by none other than the Midnight Circus.

Will you not deliver just punishment? Act as the executioner, sever the heads of the ungrateful and serve them upon blessed silver.

Why must the corrupted pope dig his cane into his heels? Was he destined to be bled dry for the sake of sinners? The crimson would leak from his gullet, pool into the porcelain basin, and demons would soak, baptized in bathtubs of his blood. His palms met the curves of the metallic surface, his skin atomized and the molecules cavorting with heat, burning the flesh into a hue of cherry red. “What are you blabbering about?” His voice is concurrent with the steam, evaporating into the atmosphere; it vanishes far beyond his reach. The rice cooker refuses to answer with mercy. Instead the sphere vibrates, humming to trivialize him. “Why would I do such a thing…silly…murder is. Ridiculous, It is completely mad…imagine the mess.” The whispered rambling is reminiscent of Chanshik, the youth, tiny toes and smaller fingers, observing the drunkards as they chortle anguish into the twilight moor.

And she, being before instructed of her mother, said, “Give me here John the Baptist's head on a platter.”

“Found you, bitch.”

Bewildered, the corners of his mouth were pulled towards the Earth, the sounds clashing, water and oil, and dismantling one another in a tempest unseen. Who had spoken, if not the rice cooker? The man’s head followed suit behind his frown, ruled by gravity and inclined to the surface of tarp and dirt. Then, as he began to consider the hundreds of rice within the metal chamber, the feminine apparition returned with acidic chords, and the notes are like a memory, distant and veiled with haze. This could not be an object, whose vocal cords were plastic and artificial, no, there was an intruder within the space, and delayed Gongchan looked over to the side, was greeted by reds and blacks clouding his vision and a slayed equilibrium.

“What the fuck!?” No longer restrained to a specter’s murmur he cursed with confusion and a mild dose of fury as insects invaded his brain, buzzing and replacing the noise of bursting oil and refrigerator electricity with horrid white noise. He stumbled backwards, hands flying upwards to his damaged head – extra damaged now, thank God (if God was himself) that he didn’t have to worry about crippling hospital bills. “Jesus Hell…” Massaging his temples a groan rippled through his throat, and livened with a chemical swashing in the rivers of his brain he discovered balance, standing on two feet with a wild, livid expression; widened eyes and a crooked snarl. He searched for the villain responsible for such immaturity, and instead of Satan, he found Venus, saccharine vengeance captured in her eyes as she stood with foxfire draped over her shoulders like an antique fur coat.

Well, metaphorically of course. “Narae,” With demon’s rhetoric he managed to compose herself, speak to the abandoned women with a new countenance, his lips transformed into a smirk, the essence of the smug and bold printed on the expression without a hint of strain. “Babe, it’s a small world, I was counting on seeing you again just…well, not so soon.” If he had a cigarette he’d exhale the carcinogens in her face, tailor the scene to mimic egotistical movies about mobsters and their esoteric affairs. “I’m sort of surprised you got in with the out crowd so quickly, and,” Gongchan paused, shifting his gaze to one of the pockets of his jeans. He definitely didn’t have an erection right now, so that shape could only mean one thing. “Hang on a tic.” If their stories were going to collide in strife, he might as well bring it to top tier of dramatic cliché.

Fishing the carton of tobacco cylinders he focused his attention away from his ‘long lost lover’ and onto lighting one of the cigarettes with the nearby completely portable gas stove, really, it was incredible how resourceful this little campground of mutant freaks could be. Now, setting the box of pink Black Devil’s down, the dark spots in his eyes flew up, watching the woman and mapping out her body language, the familiar markings, traces of bones and winter on her form with a long inhale, the rose smoke expanding, satisfying his lungs. Now, if only he could banish the ringing from his skull – Christ, did he have a concussion? “If you hit me outside the bedroom again I’ll show you what Hell really looks like. By the way, did you cut your hair?” The words were liquor and ash, emitting from his mouth in a steady stream of white pollution as he walked forward, exhaling smog in dragon’s breath, just like in good old fashioned Tom and Jerry.