Song: Morrissey Under Pressure: A Science Fiction adventure
Viewed: 166 - Published at: 8 years ago
Artist: Marc Zarvox
Year: 2011Viewed: 166 - Published at: 8 years ago
“5 kilobars and holding.”
“Beware the bends, Captain!”
“Roger that, minimen!”
The Morrissey rose from the ocean floor encrusted in the gross plastic bag creatures that were probably impressive a billion years ago before the giraffe was invented.
The skinny warbler piloted his battle armor skillfully, the high albedo of its greying temples baffling laser scanners, its thick belly armor catching sonar like pillows catch kittens. Only a head this thick and a neck and back this rigid could bring Captain Morrissey back from the ocean depths where he had been rescuing a colony of volcano worms.
He carefully brushed off the condom creatures before they got in a habitat that was too gentle for them.
Suddenly light was visible.
“Jesse! More power to lower body.”
“Yes sir!”
Inside the suit a man the size of a baked bean slide down a tube and gunned the rear engines causing the two pseudo buttocks to swell momentarily before shooting Morrissey a hundred feet into the air above the isle of Capri.
All of the world’s greatest blondes looked up at him. They thought he was a magical porpoise. And – in a way – wasn’t he?
He landed back at the lab. He smiled at the stubby rigid quiff atop his helmet and he (and the helmet) smiled. In a few seconds he would take the helmet off and his buoyant, timeless, lush pompadour would uncoil. Inside the suit his skinny neck was getting stiff.
“C’mon Boz, let’s get this thing off”, he called, apparently to his empty villa but actually to a pinto bean sized man inside his armor.
“What do you mean critical systems failure?”
Morrissey stood on his balcony clawing at the helmet of the flesh suit. He couldn’t get it off! He couldn’t get it off. A cybernetic punch trashed old marble and sent it down on some parrots.
“I’m sorry! I’m so very sorry!” he called out, but there was no way he was going to make it up to those parrots.
On his knees, to which he had to drop ridiculously slowly, he mumbled, ‘I did it all for the animals!’
6 months later, still in the suit. The minimen had starved to death and he had smelled them rotting in their tubes. Without them, even moving around was hard. Doing anything more demanding than looking at old pictures of him and Johnny Marr was like climbing a mountain. Thankfully he had Maria to feed the cats.
“Maria, me montra un pittore del signor Johnny, sul Google per piacere,” he asked in a voice buried under a failing sound system.
She shook her head but he insisted from the piggy little eye cameras beneath the exobrow.
God. So beautiful. So skinny. Like he himself was inside this damn supersuit.
Another month later and Maria was gone. She took the cats, ‘for their safety.’
One night, with a perfect sunset, he knew it was time for suicide. But he knew the damn suit wouldn’t let him destroy his body.
Only one option was left, only one suicide. He called his agent.
“Beware the bends, Captain!”
“Roger that, minimen!”
The Morrissey rose from the ocean floor encrusted in the gross plastic bag creatures that were probably impressive a billion years ago before the giraffe was invented.
The skinny warbler piloted his battle armor skillfully, the high albedo of its greying temples baffling laser scanners, its thick belly armor catching sonar like pillows catch kittens. Only a head this thick and a neck and back this rigid could bring Captain Morrissey back from the ocean depths where he had been rescuing a colony of volcano worms.
He carefully brushed off the condom creatures before they got in a habitat that was too gentle for them.
Suddenly light was visible.
“Jesse! More power to lower body.”
“Yes sir!”
Inside the suit a man the size of a baked bean slide down a tube and gunned the rear engines causing the two pseudo buttocks to swell momentarily before shooting Morrissey a hundred feet into the air above the isle of Capri.
All of the world’s greatest blondes looked up at him. They thought he was a magical porpoise. And – in a way – wasn’t he?
He landed back at the lab. He smiled at the stubby rigid quiff atop his helmet and he (and the helmet) smiled. In a few seconds he would take the helmet off and his buoyant, timeless, lush pompadour would uncoil. Inside the suit his skinny neck was getting stiff.
“C’mon Boz, let’s get this thing off”, he called, apparently to his empty villa but actually to a pinto bean sized man inside his armor.
“What do you mean critical systems failure?”
Morrissey stood on his balcony clawing at the helmet of the flesh suit. He couldn’t get it off! He couldn’t get it off. A cybernetic punch trashed old marble and sent it down on some parrots.
“I’m sorry! I’m so very sorry!” he called out, but there was no way he was going to make it up to those parrots.
On his knees, to which he had to drop ridiculously slowly, he mumbled, ‘I did it all for the animals!’
6 months later, still in the suit. The minimen had starved to death and he had smelled them rotting in their tubes. Without them, even moving around was hard. Doing anything more demanding than looking at old pictures of him and Johnny Marr was like climbing a mountain. Thankfully he had Maria to feed the cats.
“Maria, me montra un pittore del signor Johnny, sul Google per piacere,” he asked in a voice buried under a failing sound system.
She shook her head but he insisted from the piggy little eye cameras beneath the exobrow.
God. So beautiful. So skinny. Like he himself was inside this damn supersuit.
Another month later and Maria was gone. She took the cats, ‘for their safety.’
One night, with a perfect sunset, he knew it was time for suicide. But he knew the damn suit wouldn’t let him destroy his body.
Only one option was left, only one suicide. He called his agent.
( Marc Zarvox )
www.ChordsAZ.com