Brandon 2
KitaSpace Maggots
April 11th 2007 06:03
Write a piece of prose under the theme 'Trapped'.
not so much a gas as a liquid, he’s breathing in grease and oil as though it were CO2G4G (G = Grease) or something, rather than being plain old CO2. His clothes are dripping grease, his face covered in it, clogging up his pores, turning his head into a slimy bulbous pimple. He just wanted to slam it in the cash register and pop it open.
24601’s uniform is standard third Reight red and golds, loose fitting, obscenely cheerful. His hat is cardboard. Behind him, something that was almost meat is going sssss. Chips are fissing and spluttering in a bath of oil. The ice-cream machine hums miserably as it vomits into it’s wafer bucket.
Get me out… he thinks. I need to get out of this. I really need out.
He looks over the counter at the lines of Space Maggots, all fat, ugly blobs, or hip up to date yuppies, mobile phone shaped tumors growing off the side of their heads. The first Space Maggot approached him, low cut top, a dead eyed baby doll, beads plus dangled over her neck, vibrant red lipstick plastered over her sneery lips.
“May I take your order please,” he says, perfectly, just as he’s been programmed.
“Aah…” she says, like maybe she’s considering her options, wondering whether he may or may not take her order. “Thickshake. Salad.”
He taps it into the computer. “That will be, (coughs subtly, hand over his mouth, clearing his throat, the dead eyed doll looking at him like he’d just broken every health regulation known to man) seven dollars and fifty cents. Eat here or take away?” His voice sounds foreign to him, cold and dehumanized.
“Take away,” she says. “Jesus. You guys like to put your prices up hey? You people suck.” She drops the money on the desk, and he picks it up.
You can’t see it, but right now he’s picking up that vat of hot oil and tipping it on her head yelling ‘I am not an animal! Hand me the money like a person’. You can almost see it in the darkening of his eyes, but he’s become too used to the Space Maggots to give anything away.
The till opens. He hands the order to one of the other droids, who scurries off to prepare it.
“Please wait by the second bench,” he says, and she rolls her eyes as she moves over. “Who’s next please?”
Who’s next is a large man, looks like the lovechild of Robert Deniro and a depressed camel. He’s a garden variety mute customer, managing to mumble “Chicken Burger,” in the same voice you’d expect a man to confess having herpes. When 24601 asks for the money he hands it over without acknowledgment. His eyes are hidden by sunglasses, but 24601 imagines them to be critical and piggy, crammed in behind facial fat to the points of claustrophobia. He opens till closes till receipt to another droid next person.
“Who’s next?” he asks
The next Space Maggot is
not so much a gas as a liquid, he’s breathing in grease and oil as though it were CO2G4G (G = Grease) or something, rather than being plain old CO2. His clothes are dripping grease, his face covered in it, clogging up his pores, turning his head into a slimy bulbous pimple. He just wanted to slam it in the cash register and pop it open.
24601’s uniform is standard third Reight red and golds, loose fitting, obscenely cheerful. His hat is cardboard. Behind him, something that was almost meat is going sssss. Chips are fissing and spluttering in a bath of oil. The ice-cream machine hums miserably as it vomits into it’s wafer bucket.
Get me out… he thinks. I need to get out of this. I really need out.
He looks over the counter at the lines of Space Maggots, all fat, ugly blobs, or hip up to date yuppies, mobile phone shaped tumors growing off the side of their heads. The first Space Maggot approached him, low cut top, a dead eyed baby doll, beads plus dangled over her neck, vibrant red lipstick plastered over her sneery lips.
“May I take your order please,” he says, perfectly, just as he’s been programmed.
“Aah…” she says, like maybe she’s considering her options, wondering whether he may or may not take her order. “Thickshake. Salad.”
He taps it into the computer. “That will be, (coughs subtly, hand over his mouth, clearing his throat, the dead eyed doll looking at him like he’d just broken every health regulation known to man) seven dollars and fifty cents. Eat here or take away?” His voice sounds foreign to him, cold and dehumanized.
“Take away,” she says. “Jesus. You guys like to put your prices up hey? You people suck.” She drops the money on the desk, and he picks it up.
You can’t see it, but right now he’s picking up that vat of hot oil and tipping it on her head yelling ‘I am not an animal! Hand me the money like a person’. You can almost see it in the darkening of his eyes, but he’s become too used to the Space Maggots to give anything away.
The till opens. He hands the order to one of the other droids, who scurries off to prepare it.
“Please wait by the second bench,” he says, and she rolls her eyes as she moves over. “Who’s next please?”
Who’s next is a large man, looks like the lovechild of Robert Deniro and a depressed camel. He’s a garden variety mute customer, managing to mumble “Chicken Burger,” in the same voice you’d expect a man to confess having herpes. When 24601 asks for the money he hands it over without acknowledgment. His eyes are hidden by sunglasses, but 24601 imagines them to be critical and piggy, crammed in behind facial fat to the points of claustrophobia. He opens till closes till receipt to another droid next person.
“Who’s next?” he asks
The next Space Maggot is
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