Tic Toc, Tic Toc <12:00> Tic Toc
In the spick n' span hall of a London hospital, a faint (familiar) scream is heard from behind one of the closed hospital room doors. A nurse drops her chart and rushes from her station to find her patient, one knee bent, one leg suspended in mid-air, clutching her blankets tightly to her chin. The poor receptionist, sporting a fractured ankle from some kind of freak accident involving a bald human bullet, is trembling from the horrific sounds emanating from the room directly above them. Upstairs, 15 dismountees would turn to look at each other, mouths agape, in sheer horror, however according to protocol they are only allowed to stare solemnly strait ahead. The one nearest the door braces himself to open it and rush in, remembering all too well what it was like the last time. Could it possibly be 8 years ago he endured the same sound, same sight, same smell?
Inside the Queen's room the DVD continues flashing relentlessly, cruelly:
<<12:00>>
<<12:00>>
<<12:00>>
Can someone reach it's plug and pull it before it is too late??
Miles and miles away, Jerry sits on the small balcony of her hotel suite, overlooking a magnificent Parisian twilight, the Eiffel Tower backlit against a scarlet sky. The only thing missing is the strains of an accordian playing softly in the background. With chin in hand, she flicks a red ash off her cigarette and sighs deeply. The city readies itself for another night of life. Somewhere in one of it's nightclubs a man named Ricardo is preparing to take to it's dance cage, suspended high above a crowd of underage ravers.
High enough to miss much of the street noise, Jerry thoughtfully sips on a cappuchino. Not too high to miss the different makes and models of the cars passing below, she stares as they pass below her. From the balcony of an adjoining suite, a banana flies out of the open sliding glass door and lands squarely in the center of an Aston Martin's windshield. When it screeches to a halt, it's right front tire comes to rest on a small, smooth wooden tile laying next to the curb.
Inside the Queen's room the DVD continues flashing relentlessly, cruelly:
<<12:00>>
<<12:00>>
<<12:00>>
Can someone reach it's plug and pull it before it is too late??
Miles and miles away, Jerry sits on the small balcony of her hotel suite, overlooking a magnificent Parisian twilight, the Eiffel Tower backlit against a scarlet sky. The only thing missing is the strains of an accordian playing softly in the background. With chin in hand, she flicks a red ash off her cigarette and sighs deeply. The city readies itself for another night of life. Somewhere in one of it's nightclubs a man named Ricardo is preparing to take to it's dance cage, suspended high above a crowd of underage ravers.
High enough to miss much of the street noise, Jerry thoughtfully sips on a cappuchino. Not too high to miss the different makes and models of the cars passing below, she stares as they pass below her. From the balcony of an adjoining suite, a banana flies out of the open sliding glass door and lands squarely in the center of an Aston Martin's windshield. When it screeches to a halt, it's right front tire comes to rest on a small, smooth wooden tile laying next to the curb.
posted by BlackVelvetLace | 7:51 PM
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