I want to be Kid Omega

I want to burn a symbol for tomorrow into my skin.

I want to drink soft drinks flavoured with acid. Junk food processed by machines who kill.

I want the unjust to burn at my touch. I want my lovers to have orgasms that defy gravity. I want a psychic shotgun that shoots bad dreams at a thousand miles a second. I want to set clouds on fire with my flight patterns.

I want to be cool. I want to be invisible. I want to be respected, or maybe feared.

I want to set your imagination on fire. A chemical fire, that burns with neon-white intensity. 

Jet Harris and Spoon Morrison are holed up in a truck stop in the middle of nowhere, melting down the cafe’s silverware and casting it into cheap bullets. Spoon managed to make a somehow functional gunpowder out of spoiled mayonnaise and some engine oil; the bullets squeal as the stuff ignites, and makes the air smell like boiled egg farts.

Outside, a gaggle of angry truckers, their minds half-mad from cheap speed and conservative talk radio, is closing in for the kill. They’re armed with shotguns and pitchforks; the are proud hillbilly motorists, and their strange and ancient gods of moonshine and inbreeding demand the blood of outsiders. 

“This is why I never leave the city,” Jet hisses, squeezing her trigger three times and absent-mindedly cupping her breast with her other hand. Two hundred feet away, two eyeballs and lung burst from the bullets’ impacts. 

“You said this place had great pie,” Spoon complained, filtering another packet of mayonnaise into the shells for his forty-five calibre handgun. The thing spat like his grandmother eating mashed potatoes every time he yanked on the trigger. It was horrifying. 

“Well, it was pretty good pie,” Jet said, executing another angry motorist from an impressive distance off. 

It’d been strawberry pecan pie, which sounds weird and tastes even stranger, but goddamn if they hadn’t both finished off three slices a piece before things had started to go by. 

Maybe they could’ve escaped without an incident, but there’s somethings that Jet Harris just can’t let slide, and she’s got a hair trigger.

This time however, it’d been Spoon who’d caused the trouble. He just can’t stand hearing people who complain about the ending of Lost. There’s something about it that just pushes a weird button in him, and next thing he knows it, he’s screaming something about post-modern narrative sequences while stabbing a salad fork into some scared waitresses shoulder. It’s cool though; she had it coming. She spit in three of those pie slices, and that was way before anybody had any cause for such behaviour. 

Some people though. Some people, just can’t help but fuck things up. 

I was Doctor FuckYeah, hero of the people and champion of the oppressed and all around, you know, violently sexy, aggressively nice sorta guy. I got to carry guns that shoot knives and knives made of hungry beams of light and grenades that explode into decimating waves of kinetics and pudding.

“I hate those grenades,” says my partner, says a cute chinese girl with a funny-coloured mohawk; it’s like the colour of oil and deep water, or of deep sea monsters. She’s got little robots flying around her head; they’re size of houseflies, and they kill with an electrical death-touch. Her robot flies land on you, and it’ll be a real touch of death. She orders them around with her thoughts; they kill daily, but never misbehave.

So, it’s the adventures of Doctor FuckYeah, and his Asian girlfriend sidekick partner, Ass-Lass, so called, by me, because I like her ass. And she’s a lass. It’s fun to say outloud as well. Try it with me: “After them, Ass-Lass!” There. Wasn’t that fun?

I don’t want to be trapped here, inside myself. I want to be doing something amazing. Or somebody amazing, you understand how that goes.

“Shut up and get your costume on,” she warns me, as the police blimps swoop in for the kill. We set our faces to THRILL, and aim our weapons at the hearts of our godless enemies. 

She’s wearing skin-tight, bullet-resistant purple-leather. She’s got strange psychic ninja powers, that let her crawl up the walls of my mind, and lay traps, in the halls of my mind. She’s more attractive than she looks, and quieter, too.

We start out dancing, and wind up having one of those intense battles across the city. She has swords that shoot beams that blast brickwork into rubble. Sharp swords, with glowing red rubies worked into their hilts. The rubies glitter like little red stars, as the blade start to revolve around her.

A homeless man reaches out, spurred on by drunken curiosity. He draws back a hand that’s short three fingers. He screams off into the night; a different story for different people.

I do my best to keep up with her. I set the gravity controls of the soles of my shoes to “random”, and my ipod shuffles tracks fast enough to give a squirrel a seizure. My own weapons are my wit, and a pair of gloves that let me shoot beams of pure disintegration out from my fingertips. The beams are pure black, because they eat light. They bend towards the horizon, and only become non-lethal after the first hundred miles.

We’re dressed like colour-crazed perverts; me in an off-orange suit that looks like it was designed for making love to strangers at high speeds.

Visually, I’m doing just that. 

I ran my hands over the bumpy green skin of her back. “What’d you want to be when you grow up?” I asked her.

Her violet eyes sparkled like daggers in moonlight. “I want to be the last person standing, when it all burns down,” she said sincerely. “I want to be the one who wins.”

She’s got sixteen fingers; a spider on each hand. She’s got teeth that are sharp and twisted like carpenter’s nails, and a highly defined sense of smell, like a carpenter ant. I’ve got a bad attitude, and nowhere else to be. I feel sort of sad and lonely and bored, except when she’s around.

“I want to fall in love with the last man on earth,” she said, “and I want to kill him. While we make love, for the first time.”

“Would it be the last time?” I asked grimly.

“That depends on how lonely I was,” she said, and she smiled a smile at me that told me that she’d never be lonely; never be lonely enough to spend time with me in the way I thought of us as being able to spend time. 

I daydream about these candy-coloured(-coated) girls… Hair like clouds of cotton candy or storm clouds threatening lightning, eyes that say so clearly, “I’m so demure, I’d never eat you alive and spit your soul out on the side of the road.”

But they would.

So, we’re driving and we’re driving and we’re driving, and the road is breaking up beneath our wheels like a bad marriage. Yeah, the road’s coming apart like a bitter divorcee you’re going to run into in some smoky bar. You’ll use all your best lines, and she’ll ignore them. She’ll decide if she wants you by the slope of your genitals through your clothes. She’s got an eye for details, this metaphoric woman who represent the cracked pavement of the endless long road we’re drifting down so long as there’s gas in the tank and hands on the wheel.

One hand on the wheel, one hand on her thigh. She smiles, the pin of the grenade still between her teeth, as the device itself tumbles backwards over the rear of the car, exploding one of those idiots following so close behind us.

“I want to make out with you, so bad,” I yell over the rush of the wind, but she thinks I’m quoting song lyrics again.

Her fingernails are painted with holographic skulls, that twist and bend as the daylight hits them. Her hair is on fire, on fucking fire, or maybe that’s just a trick of the light.

I’m texting her poetry and getting off to her profile pics; she has no idea how bad it’s gotten, this crush, this obsession, this never-ending car-crash of a relationship. She’s sitting right there across the seat from me, more than half naked, half baked, half drunk, half in love with the moon…

She licks her lips, and I wish, for the third time today, that I was the lipstick upon them. 

I woke up with her voice in my ears, her leash around my throat.

“I never was gonna be,” I quoted uneasily, “your dog.”

She laughs a sound that’s the crackle of radio static. Her eyes are the colour of houndstooth, a bitmap smear of white and black; basic binary madness, behind her eyes. Pull back, and everything greys. Pull back, and she’s the colour of cold stone.

“Where are we going?” She puts it to me rhetorically and cruel. “Anywhere, as long as we’re out late.” 

Her car is long and narrow and red, like somebody spit a gob of blood out a highrise window and now it’s stretched out long as it plummets towards pavement. She’ll never touch bottom though; her car floats on a cloud of heavily atomized particles - a storm of angry electricity trapped beneath the beast’s chasis. 

The car growls like one of those mean little squirrels down in the park, a sort of high-pitched grumble that suggest of speed and a specific sort of mean-spirited ferocity.
She yanks me by that fucking leash, and I growl along too. 

She’s got a pirate sword in her hand; the heat of the blade’s burning through her enemies even as the hardware housed in the hilt illegally downloads hipster pop songs. Rhythmic, bouncing stuff that inhabits her skeletal structure, gets into the way she moves.

Yeah, she moves like she’s malfunctioning. She dances like she’s going down with the ship, taking on water and slipping down into depths. 

She’s got microchips embedded in the centres of the silver she wears about her flesh. They shock the unwary and give her crazy night-vision. They let her shoot sparks from the tips of her tits, though that’s more a maneuver for last resorts or third dates. 

She gives me this look like I just forgot everything I was going to say, all at once. She gives me this look like she’s slipping a virus into my system. She gives me this look and it infects me, through and through. I find her on my every frequency. 

She spoke to me like I was supposed to break apart in the rain, like castles made of sand drifting into the sea. She spoke to me like I was disposable lover, something she’d fuck until the batteries were dead, and then leave for the maid to throw out in some roadside hotel. 

“Next time you shoot the little cops first,” she warned me. “They’re the ones with something to prove. Past that, it’s from smallest moustache to largest.” She’s got all these little codes of conduct. “White wine with vanilla ice cream,” she lists off. “Unmixed gasoline goes to the right, and that shitty homemade napalm is in the jugs to the left.”

She puts her hand in mine, and it’s cold as stone. She looks at me, and she’s evaluating how many bullets I could absorb if she was crouched right behind the wider parts of me. She doesn’t have to hide it. She’s not likely to.

“I’m in love with you,” she tells me. I remember when I said that to somebody once. It fills me with one of those oddly places sense of, lets call it, regret. 

I fell in love with the girl who sells drugs, down at the beach. She’s got dark skin and intense hair and this really wild look in her eyes, like she might stab somebody, even if she really liked them, even if she didn’t have to.

Down on the shoreline, you can drop drugs and trip so hard that beach sands turn from yellow to pink, pink as cool rose-tinted lemonade. 

She’s got tattoos that seem to wiggle and breathe - a dragon that breathes nuclear fire on one arm, and a melting cone of crazy-coloured ice cream on the other. I’ve studied her inks, from time to time, from afar and up close, and let me tell you - they fucking mystify me. They shake me to my goddamn core. 

I’ve seen the sun explode in the sky, like a billion bombs bursting overhead, like fire punctured the centre of my mind.

I want her to follow me home. I want her to drag me back, drunkenly, to whatever flophouse mattress she closes her eyes upon. I want to use me for all I’m worth, and then kick me to the curb with the rest of the empties when she’s done with me.

Yeah. Yeah. Well, I want all kinds of things. 

Yeah, he could be sorta a little like an angel that came down a little too low.

He’s one of those boys you see drinking a little too early, down at one of those bars by the bay. It used to be real men drinking in places like that, real men of the sea, but that was a couple of generations ago. Now it’s all hipsters and punks; broken little clockwork angels hustling for any connection to get high.

Yeah, it’s cliché but his wings are all broken - he’s got great wings tattooed all down his back, with big black tribal feathers laced around the sides of his ribs, but they’re all broken.

Somebody took up a baseball bat, and they broke that poor boy’s wings. Left him crying and bloody on the side of the road, in the rain. 

That’s the only way you ever see angels in this city, after they’ve taken their abuse. 
Crying alone on the side of the road.
Like something beautiful that can only be seen through the rain. 

He pushes back an angry expression of hair - a long shock of dyed-black that drips down his back like a slow moving oil slick.

He pushes back his hair, slick with rain as it is, and then he runs his hands down his side. He feels the bloody mess of himself that exists beneath his broken wings.

Fucking street kids, huh? I’d offer to help him, but he’s actually kind of a prick when you get to know him. Fucking street kids and angels. You’re better off just heading home, and minding your own damned business. 

I close my eyes, and dream of mutant children in love.

Strange, sexy, multi-gendered creatures with affinities for rebellion and post-modern affectations. Beautiful beasts with razor-blades hidden in their hairlines. Delicate children whose fingertips can shatter atoms.

They light up the sky, they head up into the night like fireworks going off. They dance and laugh and fight and make our world look so tiny, so far down below them.

Mutant children in love. Skeletal structures glowing through the skin. 

I close my eyes. And leave ‘em closed.

The weather report says the world’s gonna end today. 

She’s smoking black cigarettes, and eating green eggs and ham. Bright blue ham, she found at the back of the fridge. Everything smells like burning aerosol cans when she’s cooking in the kitchen.

The weatherman is calling for “bolts of living fire that will split the earth in half like the victim of a horrible assault”, with a 70% chance of precipitation, and a 30% chance that any downpour will be at least 50% virgin’s blood.
“Well, virgin or frog,” the weatherman admitted, “these days it’s really just a semantic difference.” 

She’s smoking black cigarettes, and leaving pale grey ash everywhere she goes, like she wants me to track her down. Track her down, tie her down, attach her to an idea that’s a little bigger than “what we gonna eat today” and “what we gonna eat tomorrow”. Chain her to a larger ideal. Force her to think bigger thoughts than she’s currently working through.

In the sky above our heads there’s a barrage of dirt and garbage; a flurry of furious human waste, swept up in a storm and falling back down to the earth like a rain of yesterday’s unwanted gifts.

She’s smoking cigarettes, and putting them out in her palm.
The cherries hiss like angry snakes as they’re crushed into the scars of her skin.

I’m only really scared of two things:

Spiders and Space Travel. 

So, when she asked me to come with her, to battle arachnids out beyond the moon, you can imagine the distaste with which I responded. 

But here we are, out where the cold is so fucking cold that you can feel your skin going dead just looking out on it. Where there’s no gravity to help your blood circulate, and you’d better keep your hair short, since it’s just going to wave around and get in your face anyway.

Here we are, floating in empty space, waiting for a puncture to seal our fates forever, and spending every moment before then plunging cold steel into the hardened carapaces of fucking space-spiders. Fucking space-spiders. 

Like wolf-spiders that’d weigh a ton, built like the buicks of my worst nightmares. Great horrible beasts that truly hate us, and look every bit the part. Grat slimy mandibles. Horrible hairy legs. 

We’re living in the silence of space, as we cut them to pieces. In dead chunks, spiders the size of half my apartment fall to earth, burning like cookies forgotten in the oven. 

Jet-packs and hard-rocking soundtracks, and great shiny sabres; blades green and black with arachnid innards as below us, the moon floats aimlessly as though just a bubble on a breeze, and not some enormous chunk of rock tied to the earth with enough gravitational force to tear a civilization in half. 

Don’t ask how I know that; I just do.

Yeah, Spiders and Space Travel. My only real fears, to be quite honest with you.

But, you gotta grow up and face that shit sometime.