Standing on a rock by the ocean, clutching several small chips of bone - or are they calloused, shredded skin? - in my hand. One by one, I throw the little chips into the water, before you grab my wrist and whisper stop.You pull my hand toward you, unpeel my fingers, and gasp.I have a handful of fingernails. Yanked whole from unknown fingers.I tell you the story of a girl I knew growing up, who believed fingernails were made of ivory. "If fingernails were made of ivory," I told her, "they would all be worth real money, and people would hunt each other.""People do hunt each other," you say. "And fingernails are worth something to me."You take them from my hand and cram them beneath your own nails - planting dead skin like small trees.We dive into the water and kiss.You stroke my cheek with your fingertip, and I show you my hands. All ten fingernails are missing."You just left my own DNA on my face," I say. "Nobody will ever know you were here."
MySpace.comOmartyr Cobretti rolls hard into Superfresh, armed with only dark tinted Unibomber glasses and a matchstick in his mouth...
Cobretti is walking a dark path...blowing up shopping carts filled with fruit as he walks through the aisles looking for the chopper riding assassin...... Cobretti randomly sips his Coors can in the middle of an intense hostage situation...
a Satanic terrorist threatens Cobretti from across the Butcher section of the supermarket...With a short fuse and a loaded sawed off shotgun the terrorist screams,"I'm NOT KIDDING!!!--I'm gonna BLOW THIS WHOLE FUCKING PLACE UP!!!"Cobretti stares him dead square in the eye... cold as ice... he responds,"I don't care...I don't shop here."The Legend of Cobra continues.
South West represent.
Contact Tables @ Marksgraphichelp.com
This is the truck that drives onto the exit ramp and never returns. The truck with mysterious cargo in the trailer and a locked back door. The truck that waits outside your front window when your parents are late arriving home from work. When your father's heart stops and doctors bring him back a second time. When your mother has a stroke at 42. When your cousin drives into a ditch in mid-seizure, her body found battered and bruised by the county police within the hour. When your chest aches and nobody is there to help you. When you collapse in seizure, the shower still running hot - then cold - over your skin. Your blue skin. When the child crawls into the backseat of the stranger's car. The Terminal Transfer truck is there and there, too. And here always. It does not turn on its headlights in the rain. It rides your tail. It fails to switch on the turn signal. It slips past the "Do Not Enter" signs without a single horn honked. Without a police siren.
