His blood felt chunky: sensation of the minestrone circulating toward his aortic valve; this blood slopped along the heart corridor, sludged into his black heart, and only a tiny lump of blood ever reached the brain. Even when lying down Master was light-headed, in the brain.
He smoked his cigarette, the mind lost in the swirl of the ceiling, yes.
‘I am dying because I am very old,’ he said to his bedside radio.
The radio never listened properly, and tuned to Radio 2.
‘I hate Radio 2,’ said the Master.
Capital crime, in the radio city, all good people despise Radio 2, but Master forgave his radio even though he was a digital radio, not loveable.
Loveable radios gathered in the drawer under the computer. This was the hospital wing for radios.
‘I love those radios,’ said Master to his ugly radio.
Ugly radio, and so digital, sniffed, and he snivelled, and now played the boring crap of Radio 4 because he was a bitch.
‘When you gonna give me some Magic, huh!’ said the Master, indulging in such a piffle of the boudoir with a digital. Indeed, he hated himself.
His true concern lay with this minestrone blood condition, thinking, given only a twitch in the lifestyles, he might transform to the more Miso blood kind of journey, live on to be old, and a fifty-five, or a fifty-eight, and that, to die at the forty-seven and three quarters landmark was no achievement.[even with his cigarettes]
Blood solutions on this mind, Master dressed for urban conduct, in underpants and the tracksuit bottoms, the crop-top: sweatshirt, and allotment coat of his dead father. He stood before [the] mirror, flattened patches across scalp. He pursed lips, kissed a reflected beauty, and stepped out of the door into the Eighteenth Century.
Face it, reader, nothing special. Old houses, old houses are olds - in the eye-line, they are better than your new houses. Are you listening Mommy! She adores the new houses, she does not like old houses because they are dirty, with spiders. She is brainwashed 1957 Hotpoint, and the Hoover conspiracy.
Master walked up the hill toward the shops. Sometimes he walked past an old man, he steeled, prepared himself, and passing, he said:
And the old man replied:
That is the custom, and the ritual of England for old men, and is not for women, for that would be creepy behaviour, and for children it is a totally illegal conduction. They do something else, completely unknown to grandpa.
Although, a wee, wee creepy is okay behaviour. A man needs his creepy lady, we all know that truth. They exist in our national songs.
This was, and is, very important, and at the central message section, although you see, it was indeed the day before that the Master visited A N Other big shoppe. Not a wine aisle today, but a big shoppe piled with shelves of plastic crappe for folk, and pipple with their dirty children. He walked into that shoppe, and it was called Wilko, yesterday, and he said to a beautiful old lady wearing the Wilko sticker.
‘Madam, is this herein the correct establishment for be-purchasement of a super glue?’
'Jawohl, herr Majeur,’ she said, and she was very gracious.
The lady marched Master all the way to the superglues display, a cabinet: an experience that gave Master great confidence for surely he was commanding a presence on the High Street.
That is why, this day, he swaggered into VAPETOWN.
‘Yo, mister Peace, I am your attention eyes,’ said TRUCKER hat, nasal tattoo and hooped genitals, his ears and, my god!’ thought Master. Trucker-King took the greatest suck on his robot; he billowed water vapours, lifted everybody within a two hundred yard radius four inches from the ground.
‘I want a puffer,’ said Master.
‘Chief?’ said Trucker.
‘I am puffer…’ said Master.
‘I can see that, mate,’ said Trucker, ‘hoh.’.
It was wrong, and horrible, going...Master nearly ran away, home.
Time is short, cut to the chase of issue.
Trucker understood, and he strapped a belt, a battery pack, around Master’s waist, and Master levered the bottles. They rested, secure against the spine.
‘How does that feel?’ said Truck.
‘Groovy,’ said Master, ‘and the name is Matty, by the way,’ he said, the way you said this - when you is in the shop a long time - and the assistant becomes a new greatest friend.
‘Okay, you take the torch and suck in your face.’
Matty sucked: transported in a cloud of the psychedelic experience. He hopscotched to the door of the shop, leaped and bounced and springed among the mushroom people with his vape in his hand; snip at ninety-nine pounds plus the spare bottles and batteries, it’s all in at 125.
‘Bye bye, Trucker,’ he waved from mid-space, I’ll be seeing ya for my refills, love you.'