Dracon

Each breath was forcibly shallow; the jaw clenched shut. A nasty film wrought by the foulest doings from every which way found itself lingering about the mouth. This of course if you had not wits enough to keep your lips married. They were married. The carpet of low-contrast sky, washed out by the acidicity of vibrant artificiality. Meet the husband. His spouse wore what ever suited the situation most. A duplicitous occupation. Such a role was the undertaking of the denizens of such an overwhelmingly underwhelming cesspool of a place to call home.

***

Dracon [pronounced like "bacon"] collapsed inside of the seat, booting up the latest timesuck on his Anquar-456 [ANN-kwar four fifty-six]. He preferred the 455, but this is one they sent him to replace his old one. The only thing worse than planned obsolescence is forced upgrades. Tier A problems. He hardly remembered what he was doing (timesucks kind of worked that way) when the buzzer went off. The couch had a way of feeding off of fatigue. He couldn't decide whether or not he wanted to answer the door so he just sat there. A tertiary buzz and there he was tipping a robot for takeout delivery. Being a robot sucks. At least that's what he thought of it.

He lifted the "recycled" cardboard lid and wafted the savory aroma of sub-65 death. It was savory though. Sub-65 or not, he was already suffering from an acute onset of Alzheimer's. A vague squint and a turn of the head later and he came to the conclusion that he didn't care if he remembered ordering this or not. He mumbled a "whatever" under his breath and palmed some energy.

Except

With raised eyebrows he canted the box. A slight scoff escaped from his nose--a feint laugh even. It was a message somebody had infinipenned (or permamarked) into the inside of the box. Maybe it actually was recycled. "D E A T H M O U T H". He retorted, "What?" agitated, pointedly--as if whomever had written the note was in that same room. "Egh fuck this." The boxed plopped back onto the table surface. Dracon laid against the couch backing letting loose a weary sigh. He sat there for a while eventually finding himself lengthwise across the cushions.

***

Still groggy from some recent dream, he rose abruptly. His first inclination was to turn to Issla [IZZ-luh]. No. His real first impulse was to stare at that box again half bewildered from sleep half bewildered by the situation that had presented itself. Really? He was interested. Dracon had a way of replacing genuine excitement with good ole fashioned, manufactured disinterest. While he could fool people a box would not succumb to his pretentious irony. "Metanet..." ,he slurred into his Anquar, "...link Dea--Death Mark--I mean Death Mouth.", he mumbled a "whatever" under his breath.

Linking to...dead moth. "This is so sub-5." He turned the Anquar over and tossed it face down onto the table.

***

The street lights were a facade. Scummies could see marks more easily that way. Some people, like Dracon, were invisible. He'd never been robbed, but had seen robberies. He'd never been stabbed, but had seen stabbings. Maybe his once pure white-winged, but now sodden guardian angel was ever vigilant. Maybe. He couldn't quite get the idea of that box off of his mind.

"I'm here for Issla?" The door buzzed open. The floorboards gave way to his every step. If he had been a target he wouldn't be a difficult one to acquire. His eyes shifted rhythmically between doors. This one.

***

Dracon ran his hand along his neck, caressing it. He shuttered at the sensation--each and every column of his spine being massaged so gently. It was pleasant and overwhelming. Mere words couldn't capture the feeling. How apropos, then, that she never spoke? He couldn't stand it. He needed her. He didn't want to need her. She was so good to him. His daze. The euphoria was so strong. The way he tossed her away when he was through...he couldn't say it openly to himself, but he loved Issla.

Suddenly he was back at home again on the couch. The box. Death Mouth. His own mouth was partially open and he was staring blankly. Exactly what he was staring at was a mystery. He was just...lost.

***

Four wheels wobbled out of sync vibrating the metal chassis. The destinctive cadence of a shopping cart. It was near hypnotic. They were all under it's spell, he thought. The sound halted as he pulled back the reigns on his metal steed. He shuffled through the basket picking out what he needed, placing those things on the shelf. "Giddyap!" he belted. "Excuse me. Do you know which aisle the death mouth..." his heart stopped "What?" The stranger spoke again, "The dish wash--what do you call it...soap--no liquid. The dish washing liquid. I'm sorry, long morning." "Yeah, umm, two rows down that way." "Thank you." "Uh huh."

***