'Compartmentalisensationalism' by The Egg Party

Oh God. Notes from the field. The italic sections were added posthumously. The mental state which enabled the ramblings had died. Sitting now, in the not too distant future, I could interpret most of the words.

- The Egg Party 

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Compartmentalisensationalism


by The Egg Party



Notes from the field. The italic sections were added posthumously. The mental state which enabled the ramblings had died. Sitting now, in the not too distant future, I could interpret the words.




I was hefting my gun. Left hand, up and down. A stranger approached me. Was the smile genuine or a curled serpent? He wore a blue poncho, blanket wrap. Swathed in it. Best description of the article was that it kept him toasty warm. I looked at the gun in my hand. The trigger had failed. It made no sound. Unit said that they had replaced the mechanism with a laser. Said I had to make the noises my self, those cheap bastards. I was satisfied with their job. I was satisfied with most things at that point.

I was about to challenge the man as he approached me. My right, dominant hand was out of action. So I was shooting from the left. I was about to say to him before he got any closer:

'Hold it stranger. Stay right where you are or I'll shoot you down. It's my off hand in shooting with. However know how I roll joints; left to right. So your question is:

Am I Faster?'

I hesitated with my opening salvo. I trusted him in my guts. Still not real sure if it was my biggest mistake. Irrespective after the meeting I was left disarmed.

I lost my gun when I met the stranger. Believed the man had a name at the time. Probably. Most distinctive feature was his hat which was an old Australian fly-menacing number. Instead of cork tops there were rat tails dangling from the brim.

Were they his rat tails? Dutifully grown over the course of a tumultuous life time? I admire charisma. Fuck Sean Connery walking in the waves of glamour. Show me an individual that can grow a rat tail in high school, in a deep suburban wasteland, and I will see true charisma. Not a fashion statement to be taken lightly. Not ironic nor trendy. They have never been in style nor possibly ever will be. Continually Avant Garde. Maybe though they could rise in the future, in a galaxy far far away.

In addition to the rat tails, the man had with him his parents. Doof Mum and Doof Dad. Both miniature with marionette strings. Made of a disgusting pair of plaster wads. Each about a foot tall. Not very communicative but then again they were made of medical waste.

He gave me a rat tail he did. Attached it to the mask I was wearing at the time. Gave me a new goatee that came to full force on wearing my mask on the backside of my head.

'Where'd you get the mask?' He asks.
'Moop. The face covering is Moop. I found someone’s trash. Tell me. When a person dies do their possessions, if having no proper will or receipt of ownership, become trash? Ain't no law round here to decide on such matters really. Doesn't matter. In truth I stole the mask from a son of a bitch. Last words of the previous owner were:

“Hot damn. Got my mask stolen by a space detective. Traded it for a cheap bit of lead in the gullet...what the fuck is that arm? Shit I don't care. Cheyenne, embrace me, I think I'm gunna die now'.

At the time I was suffering from the early stages of a mighty infection. Whole right arm had turned into a tentacle. A contemptuous one at that. These days we have an enjoyable truce. So long as I take him dancing sometimes. The mask hid my face and I relished the anonymity. At the time I was embarrassed at not being able to fight off a sentient parasite. In addition, rolling cigarettes was nigh impossible with only one hand and I was needing a nicotine dose for two. Though the alien didn't seem to really like durries. At the time I thought perhaps it was a symbiotic parasite; It stopped the host from smoking itself to death in exchange for half of the digested burritos and a bit of rhythmic music.

We walked the plains talking. The crowd was becoming more dense. We approached a dance of some sort. No toe tapping, boot slapping. Rather a filthy electronic mess. We lost each other as the dance floor exploded. Problem was my gun also disappeared. 

In our ramblings I gave him some information. My lips were loose. I described in detail my piece:

• The make of the gun. Bought at a shop on main street. K Marketplace. K stood for God knows what. Klan? 
• The name of the gun. W(H?)OMP RAT. 
• The gun was full of tiles. Each with the letters of the name. Gave the thing weight, gravity. It rattled like a snake. 
• The gun had a twin.
• The twin was called MUSK RAT. 
• My partner Detective Cole had the gun. 
• Told him you see a man wielding that pistol you know he is a good man. 
• 
  Question was, in hindsight, could he kill a good man?
  
  The man disappeared and that was the last time I saw WOMP RAT. Did he steal it? Did I lose it? Both are possible. He had Cole's number though. The meeting was literally out of my hands. He best be damn ready that was for sure. I rushed back to camp to warn him but due to both of us being constantly a drift it made it hard to track him down.
  
  Only detail the stranger left, along with a rat tail on my chin, was his desire. His dream was for a new society of the rat: 
  
  RAT TAIL SERPENT
  
  I returned to camp and was demoted. My holster from then on only carried fresh fruit. Bananas mostly. Exclusively really.