Article: 261433 of talk.bizarre From: firstname.lastname@example.org (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: <email@example.com> 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.