Article: 261433 of talk.bizarre
From: mdbryant@u.washington.edu (M. Bryant)
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
Subject: The Blue Arm Kitchen
Date: 1 Dec 1995 17:32:14 GMT
Organization: University of Washington (Seattle)
Lines: 49
Message-ID: <49ne6u$83a@nntp5.u.washington.edu>
Status: O
X-Status: 

The Blue Arm Kitchen in Australia.
It serves up all manner of wet dreams.
Orders to suit all tastes.

"Give me freedom," says the Man in the Suit.  The Big Suit.
"Give me freedom from the things I've forgotten" he says; rips and tears 
in the suit from struggling through the outback.  Poisonous snakes fall 
from his tattered briefcase and strangling vines grow through his hair 
covertly seeking neurons with which to merge...and grow.  "Give me 
freedom" he said.  He sits down on a red plastic seat at the bar and 
looks...  Just looks.

The waitress clad in white and red presents the Suited One with a check 
and he promptly ejaculates, the wetness spreading out in his Big 
Trousers, and above the vines feed.

Picture the place please:  Swampland with dark creatures gurgling in the 
distant wet.  Stretching up from the bog is a white building torn both 
from the black earth and the blacker American fifties.  The Blue Arm 
Kitchen.  It is Delphi, the greasy, midget cook is the oracle.  He knows 
all, can deliver all and does so from Saturday and until Thursday.  It is 
out of time and equally out of place.  But still....

"More and more and more..." a trucker is muttering in the corner booth, 
"I need more."  Twitching, he has suffered the pangs of too many dreams 
fulfilled, too much life for his little body of hold.  He is grease and 
grim, the trucker, covered in the dirt of living, the dust of memories.  
He is a mover of things, a replacer of the placed.  He is a master of 
space, but cursed time is beyond his grasp.

The waitress glides to his booth her feet inches above the ground and 
fills his coffee cup.  The trucker is a boy now... his mother yelling at 
him.  "Jimmy if you were half the man your father was!" he looks at his 
sandbox and cries...  "was."  He sobs, crying into his full coffee cup 
until the black liquid spills over and drips on the plastic seat.  He 
looks down at the seat then up, red eyed, "please..." but the waitress is 
gone now.  Another table, another tip.

The trucker turns to see a green pinto pull up.  New customers...don't 
see new folk around here very often.  But what the hey, we're all friends 
here.  Right friend?  Right.  Right out of time...now...

As the sun falls, the trucker climbs into his travel worn rig.  He pulls 
away.  Gotta keep on rollin, get this show on the road, get this load to 
Tulsa by morning...  The swamp dries up with the passing time to give way 
to forest, and the vines grow from the big suit's head causing a brownian 
scattering of white bricks and red plastic through the trees.  Tomorrow a 
pizza joint.