Friday, September 10, 2004
Back from the Dead
OK, now I’m awake. Where was I? Someone shot me with some spray and then I felt fingers in my brain, I think. Am I awake? I feel awake. But something’s wrong. Very wrong. Where are my legs? Where are my arms? I can see okay, I think, but what’s my perspective? Am I in a cloud? Wait, no. I AM a cloud. I am a thinking, reasoning cloud. I can see my reflection in that pond down there with that little boat on it, and yeaaaaaaaaaa, oh holy shit I’m in the air, nothing holding me up, I’m falling, falling…
Yeah, Jake? Didja catch something?
No, no, still nothing biting. But, uhh, what’s that cloud doing? It looks like it’s falling on us.
Clouds don’t fall, Jake. They float. Have another beer.
Ernie, that cloud is falling. Headed right for us.
Jake, you oughtta—Oh, shit!
Who’s that talking? Is it you, Ernie?
Ain’t me, Jake.
It’s me, fellas, the cloud. Name's Bill. I'd offer to shake hands but I don't know how to work this thing just yet.
So, uh--you used to be, what--human?
Used to be a fucking detective, is what I used to be. Now I’m a fucking cloud. Funny how life goes, ain’t it? Sorry about falling on you. I’m new at this. I just became a cloud today. I got spooked, and just forgot to float.
Uhh, okay. If you say so. I never hearda no talking cloud before.
Me neither. Hey--cloud. Wanna beer?
I ain't sure if clouds can drink beer. But what the hell. Pop one open for me. It’s kind of hard to see.
I can’t see, either. It’s too cloudy in here. Um, in you. Wait, here’s one. Where’s your mouth?
Must be where my words are coming from, here. No, here. Oooh, yes, that’s it. I can taste it. Pabst Blue Ribbon? Kinda cheap beer, boys.
We ain’t no rich folks, Mr. Cloud.
Sorry. Didn’t mean anything by it. Call me Bill. Got another one?
Umm, Mr. Cloud?
You done drunk all our beer, and it’s getting dark and you’re kinda, well, soggy, and me and Jake, we gotta get home, so, uh ...
Oh, right, right. Didn’t realize it had gotten that late. I must be a little drunk. Heh. I’ll be leaving.
You be careful now, Mr. Cloud. You done drunk a 12-pack. Don’t run into anything hot. Dry you right up.
Thanks, fellas. Sorry for all the inconvenience.
Off, off, to float around, to enjoy—