Muckville Greytown

Writing this while my feet are in pain.
'Will continue writing until it gets boring or I fall into a slump.

A new town is unfolded."02/13/2012" Gregorian doofus- time" The flow of idea comes quicker than the ability to spell unlike a rabid-dunce at times(especially now,) but that can be worked out! Urge of creative excitement glibbels out faster than proper structure and format can catch up. This is what has managed so far:
(Update: Read the parts below and not this part. You're still reading this part, read the part that starts with 'Warning:'  You're still reading this? Okay: This squeezes into other fragments of  a story. The characters listed at the end are from other cities which add up when other figments are revealed. She fell so nobody saw her hit the ground. This is a quick, one-time-edited shot but even if it's TLDR or only read by myself, posting it at least gives me the urgency to continue writing and connecting bits to it even more.
Being under the mid 20s-and having never gotten anyone pregnant to fix the financial crisis a story must be birthed, instead!!

The full version will reveal: Inner-tubes! A man named DOCK the ski-mask man who drives a shattered truck seeking far too much havoc for any antagonist but gets away with it because he smokes Kents! There is Hazel that mythical redhead in the straw hat: finally come to life (see her in many drawings!! Her fire of hair her eyes of disk!) Ralph's cat: He brings back wallets through the cat door. Sex, roof-tops, hypothermia!!
Note books full of "that goes here, not here," made up words, jumping snails, Earth-crust inhabitants, and a guy who has rats strung from his ears hung by dental floss.


WARNING:
This following prose may or may not have been written by a woman hanging from the thread between her fingers from atop a satellite dish propped sixty stories about the urban wilderland. These words may be a broiled and contagiously luring remnant of a woman's story before falling to a bellow below, below.
She was a valentine sent from an island unsunk to Greysville Central, the land of windy muck.

Actually, before revealing that crumpled up letter, let us first relish in the scenery:
A place where croutons were bred near salad companies with buildings sky-scraper high.
Highest of all in Muckville, Greyton.. Sabbath of lit up nights,
Highest of all was the Neckbrace corporation.

Outsiders would peep upward and upward until the crack of bending a glance in curiosity's name would
reveal FLECKO NECK BRACE MANUFACTURE.
It was a great way to pull in customers, wondering just what those tiny letters did spell out at ninety-eight stories high.


She fell with a grace that would have freckled a moo's face.


There were playgrounds of course, but adults were only aloud to watch.
Men to the golf course, and women to the gym.
Men to the golf course, and women to the gym.
Buy her fancy decor'e,
and a Gillete for him.

"Men to the golf course, and women to the gym.
Men to the golf course, and women to the gym.
Buy her fancy decor'e,
and a Gillete for him."
you would hear thought rally in unison, a mantra bleeping high from the
umpteenth story.

Just yesterday there was a defacement near the alleyway where winds would blow ziplock bags
and cats would piss and emptied styrofoam 'doggiebag' containers of leftovers would have been
licked clean by scavengers teen weeks before.
"WINDY MUCK SUCKS EIGHT FUCKS"
it said, in cursive written in an arch that led to the lip of the wall where SHOE FACTORY stood bold and plump.
Scrawling: gone today, but the styrofoam was still dormant, occasionally blowing up against a corner as
a miniature twister of wind would motion against the brick wall or try and love hug the leg of a passing
pedestrian.


She fell with a grace that would rebirth an Ageusiac's taste.


There were always pedestrians, it seemed. This place was like a glopfest of an architect's wet dream
if this designer of spaces had a certain fetish for stacking things en infinitium as a possible result
of a massive Jenga influx in younger years as behavioral patterns were being formed (That which would have
turned up into some bloody news story if he or she didn't have the outlet of architecture to express such
desire.)


This city was just as you may imagine the cultural testing of a Dubai mixed with the tourism gander of Las Vegas fruitful with the smells and sounds of New York City's five burroughs crammed into a bagel that was gigantic and smooth as chalk sort of smeared all over every cresent of shine and hardness that was Greysville: Windy Muck.

The entire city was under a dome which made it rather difficult for any of the tourists to really figure out.


Always passing, Always passing
would you see the same face twice?
Never driving means never crashing
This is the game board, you are the dice.


Outside of the dome, or should it be 'domes' because it was a triple bubble of domes that all sort of meshed together as one.. Think of an atom or a rubber ball like in the game of Jax morphing but not completely accumulating into one...
Outside of this dome of three were bridges like the golden gate that expanded to towns much more normal in living and testing, like the towns you and I find ourselves when we aren't asleep.

Windy Muck is what the 'outsiders' would call it.. Outsiders like the one's from these smaller, more normal towns from across the bridges.. People who write in cursive with aerosol about how the domed city sucks eight, to be exact,
fucks.

There was no traffic in Windy Muck, or Greysville, whichever you do prefer. There was no traffic but walking space the same size and setup as streetways were laid out because the populace was that enormous. Yet instead of road instructionals (the white lines and boundaries for an automobile) there were self-service centers where people could log in to find out just where they have been or where they are going. Often confusion is led to... due to the vast greatness in the amount of shops and places you could go.....; !^&$&dotdot
It was very, very easy to feel displaced.


There would be a note.
This place has a secret.
We get all excited about secrets.
Sometimes they whizzle our boo,
really they do:
These things
called secrets.

Reminisce in a space where there was a secret in place
and imagine someone's whizzle becoming slumped.
This whizzle was ruined only because it was learned,
not because this person was stumped!!

What that amounts to, if you are unfamiliar of a whizzle, is that often a secret is more exciting when being
guessed, especially by the inhabitants of Greyville. If a mystery is kept as that carrot on the stick...
Well, just look at ghost stories, the bigfoot rage and people who scowel about "The man stickin' it to em, biatch!!"
A numnin' may friddle at the power of the core when the limelight is faced and the guessin's no more.


Other than that, there were really no signs of visible 'management' when it came to the streets of Greyville, Windy Muck.
There were subways below, and just as high high high to the skies up up up they did go as many layers down it all went no-body did know.
Many may have become lost but the legs kept on moving.
If knees were trees and you saw as a bee then as you buzzed around you would be humming around with the view of flying around between a forest of knees.
But bees hardly ever entered the suck-pockets of Greyville, Windy Muck, whichever you prefer.


Her note was written beautiful but the pen was so bold that being written front and back some of the words bled through, but we can see it bleeding as if blood was black so unless pens were inked red first I think zebras may have a problem.
When it was unfolded through those fingers it was a chilling state to realize that such a long fall could have given the time to write it all out while in descent: Maybe it was.




Who talked to who? We never saw anybody speak....But there were sounds.
Though we were just slugs, stuck to the side of a building.. Minding our own.
This place was built around us.. Us slugs.
It started out as a Zip'N'Go
then the Zip'N'Go morphed into an Out'N'Up
and then the Out'N'Up become a Snagglers.
At that moment right there the Snagglers just kept getting taller and taller, wider and wider but not growing as only just a Snagglers but with many other attachments growing and pulsating from it.
Snagglers met Snooglies
and Snooglies was then below a Shloepenstine's Sandwich Customization chamber where sandwiches could be formed to the specialization of a customer's preferred attributes.. Or that is how it was worded by the Sandwich customization counter-lady, anyhow..
I'm just a snail, I don't eat sandwiches all that much.

It, This mutating-thing, started to bleep and blink after a while. I don't like disco and this did not amuse me.
My amigo snails, Battle Royale and the others were frantic and shit-startled but there was this pea-pod we stuffed ourselves into within a quick-pulse.
We bundled up and stuck like a whole group of gummyworms in a sealed pack until all that noise was over.
Given our ability to stay entertained like an ant in an ice cream box and thanks to our extra-special snail life duration we camped out in that pea-pod like a woodsie at a bonfire but the secretion situations were not worth reiterating so I won't.

Anyhow, it just kept getting bigger and bigger.
Shit, we thought it was just an Isle of peace and mind-our-own but it was like somebody just happened to drop the H-Bomb of tourist culture onto us and all our morphing moose friends went VANISH and all the coco-trees went VANISH and it's still all too sudden to wonder what happened to the rest and that floater guy, but me and my snail pals are all here still somehow.
Now I value pea-pods much more and my friend Battle Royale, Little Margaret and the rest can at least stick to the walls, drink slurpees and avoid getting stepped on until we figure something out.

Anyhow ||Shrilp shrilp shrilp|| (Sorry, I do that sometimes.. I'm a snail)
(Note: The definition of shrilping has been exiled from revelation due to it's offensive suggestion to readers. Seek the X-Rated version at the catologue near the Index for complete disclosure.)
The distant lands were visible, still.. though very far as hazy blobs they were still visible, even for a snail.
A bridge worked it's way out of  the wonder of HUHHHHH and before anyone could figure all of that out this Bubble-like-Bubble-thing was over us.. A trisecta of bubble.. Three in one bubble. I wouldnt know how to explain it, the closest thing I have seen to this bubble was the shape of dome that resided upon the chest of the mooso women: The antlered Island Godesses, yet there were only two of those on each chest. Definitely a shape of the feminine, though.
||Shrilp Shrilp Shrilp|| Sorry.


The loudness is a muteness where it all morphs from off the walls. But I'm a snail, and I can hear the textures and feel the blinks of those lights that look like Smokin' Joe Camel coughed up a neon  lung ball that stuck into each window of every story of descending and rising sale-space and that lung piece just started to blink.



"I have been here with the others and have not spoken in 79 years
Long before these connectors brought legs that did not cease
and stacks of concrete barriers, I have resided in a land where
visual and physical age did not progress and wisdom was well off.
The others and I took shapes..."

A great CRASHHHHHHHH sound as the note was first unfolded, after filing between the many and squeezing out into a thin alley of semi-privacy between that swing of windfront.



Tulsey crashed a plane. Jeff, are you going insane? Hazel is from the isle. Dock Yawner's crooked smile.
Nestor finds some slugs. Hayden floats to shores. Leon narrates. Aimee's power: to cure.

Under a bridge much, much smaller than to the isle there is still that smell of pancakes and Samuel's day rotates on and off from wild fire and crisp leaves.