Friday, May 11, 2007

Glory Holes

I’m hiding behind a sign on which FOREIGNER is written in stinking black permanent ink. Only a little bit of me sticks out: sometimes my pink face, sometimes the other part, also pink.

As for them, they’re behind signs that say JAPANESE—it isn’t written out in full—and when we get drunk together, well, we’re both drunk!

Amazing how much sex you can have, even with 97% cardboard. Hardly gets in the way at all. You just put your mouth down to the little hole. “Pardon me, honorable sir, is there some piece of you, you could send over here?”

Shoulder to shoulder in the gutted factory: what’s left of the machines is covered in rust and jammed with bones.

Doesn’t work? Doesn’t need to work! You’re getting 6,000 yen an hour, mister. Pretend it works.

The classroom is shared. The answer to number one?

We think it’s A.

No, Elana says it’s C. Next!

Number two? C?

No Elana says it’s B. Next. . . No Elana says it’s B.

No, Elana says. Elana says!

(No, I don’t know what’s up either, Takashi. And, sorry, no, there isn’t time for questions.)

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