Armitage Shanks stops his car, unsliding the key from the ignition. Sitting motionless, less is more and he begins to vibrate. Supercooled lasers at different angles engage him, ultimate parallax into a wormhole. Thin black veins shoot across the atlas of his brain sphere, tesseractoid segments in space unfold before him like origami to reveal the infinite metadimensions. He gasps, audibly.
Meanwhile a dozen Roland SH-101s throb to the strobing beat of the pulsars. “It's so...funky.”
armitage shanks lights a cigarette looks in his rear view mirror and sees a ghost am I dreaming or is this virtual reality it says he shakes his head there is a twist in the end he says the intellectuals called this the pigs Tail a pun about how a pig has genitals shaped like corkscrews ghost evaporates into ectoplasm never to be thought of again he recycles a pair of polarized glasses and drives off after leaving a scumpled up polaroid of a woman showing his rosebud.
