The Smoker’s Ghetto

Eight hours in a roaring tube jettisoning apocalypse across pristine skies and you arrive, birthed into a sterile twilight palace of transit. No times here – the true interzone. Parched and lagging, you are lifted from one timestream and inserted into another, and the hunger is bursting inside, veins ablaze with nicotine withdrawal, lungs meekly trying to heal.

The airport is littered with refugees from time and space; lining the aisles of the promenades, zombie faces staggering from the plane’s umbilical, blinking and mute. Ethereal voices boom incomprehensible commands over loudspeakers and gaudy billboards sell sex-slaves and illusions.

You block it out, hurrying down the concorde, a left and a right and you spot the sign to Valhalla: SMOKING ROOM.

Ten more hurried steps and you pop the door. The stale air, choked with exhaust pipe fumes hits you, and you try not to inhale, saving yourself for the mainline.

Inside the tiny room, ineffective air filters whir and a tumour of eviscerated living dead sit and stand, puffing automatically on their cancer sticks. They are uniformly tumescent: the assembled addicts’ faces worn deeply with worry and abuse, an international consortium of junkies lighting and sucking and blowing grey ash plumes at one another.

The air is barely breathable, and you feel your lungs convulse as they try to extract oxygen from the noxious atmosphere. Quickly you rummage for your stash, wrap up the brown weed and spark it up, drawing deep. Arsenic and gunpowder and chlorine flood your arteries and your bowels relax, asshole puckering as the rush pounds your central nervous system.

Looking around, you catch sight of a young couple, youthful and ripe, sharing a cigarette and pawing at one another. She is Mediterrean, olive skinned and petit, her face a triangle puckered with fleshy adornments, fat lips and doubting eyes. He, an advertisement for hair products, slitty eyes harrowing and alert.

As you look on, their hands begin to wander over each other’s limbs, exploring and probing. The mute gargoyles stare impassively as the pair begin to press their facial orifices against each other, saliva slick tendrils of muscle emitting from the holes to coil and slap against one another.

The heat mounts between them, they balance the lit cigarette precariously above and away as they begin to peel off the layers of fabric that seperate them. Woolen outer garments, cotton shirts, a satin brassiere embroidered with red roses are stripped away and dumped on the floor. The man lowers his mouth to her bloated tit and sucks deep on the arrogant nipple. She convulses, blazing smoke from her nostrils.

All the layers are removed and they are now naked, lasciviously grinding against one another as the assembled smoker’s look on. He lowers himself to his knees, and as he slurps deep of her crotch she places the lit tip of her cigarette against the centre of his forehead and crushes it out – searing his third eye. As the smell of burnt flesh seeps into the room he screams, muffled against her labia.

Flipping him on to his back, she impales himself upon the swollen spear of his cock and shrieks smoke. The congregation of smokers begin to arise one by one, shuffling in their overcoats to gather around them as they spasm and rock on the floor. A elderly lady picks up the cluttered ashtray and dumps it over them, ash and butts showeringaround them, coating their sweating pink skin in a talcum of black and white dust. Filters cling to their thighs and hair.

The gang of crones close about them, thrusting their lit cigarettes at the couples’ face and chests, black burn marks soon appearing all over them as they scream and pump, wiping ash from their eyes and washing cloying clumps of filth from their mouths with spit.

You smoke, and exhale, and the last of the cigarettes is crushed out against the writhing bodies. Now the smokers begin to strip, tearing off support hose and gas masks and with clawing hads falling upon each other. A mother from Ipswich upturns ashtray after ashtray over the mass of grey writhing flesh. Clawed hands swoop and dive and return blood-streaked, the red soon turning black with dirt.

You look down, and realise you are sat on an iron lung, and inside a pair of shapes writh and contort, banging the lid noisily as they wheeze and gasp within.

Smoking your cig down to the roach, you unzip your jacket, and plunge forward into the fray.


~ by mightyjahj on January 10, 2009.

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