Don Wong and Shiva were sunbathing on lounges near them.
“We came pretty close,” she said, “If only we could get inside poor old
Harvey’s head and get that chip back.” She raised her drink to her
lips, a Piña Colostomy (Pineapple juice, coconut milk, rum, and
bran).
After she was finished chewing she called over to her friend,
“Hey, Vic, how’s he doing?” she indicated Harvey.
Victoria was sitting near them, strumming on an old guitar and
singing quietly. She stopped for a moment and replied, “He’s fine. I
changed the bandage on his butt and put some sunglasses on him. I
keep catching him staring into the sun.”
“Has he said anything yet?”
“Nope. It’s kind of nice though,” she smirked, “You know, he may
have been a genius before and all that, but I can’t say that I miss it.
He had so much music in his head that there wasn’t any room for an
audience. Now he’s still as a fresh-water pond. I think he’s just
adorable as an idiot.”
Don Wong gazed sentimentally at his old friend, once a towering
genius, now a simple speedbump. He recalled the fortune-taco
prophecy Dreamwalker handed him on his deathbed and concluded
that anybody could have fit the bill as the savior, even Harvey.
The savior of this world shall be badly-suited,
The savior of this world will be electrocuted,
He shall ride upon the skies
And have the clouds behind his eyes,
And when the time comes for mankind to rise
Our savior dies, our savior flies.
Perception is our savior’s aim,
Deception is our savior’s shame,
To show his mettle,
To score the settle,
He’ll turn his artifice into an art
And orchestrate a world apart.
In holiest of crossroads, where the myriad nations convene,
A stage will be set where the play of the gods will be seen,
His madness will purloin him,
His sadness will enjoin him,
H O L Y S H I T !
240
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