novel excerpt || John Pursch

Brand New Bobby

Bahama Matt’s territorial blinder fluid lived in so-called racehorse glue country, down gastrointestinal way. He pawned stiff fingers of elfin chopstick flu, made from ancient steel transvestiture, pounded dryly out of old taxi meters and carbon war-time periodicals.

Emily smeared blue eyes over elongated dermal caulk, fronting as evening waterspout tethers, inching close to ethereal favoritism, prolonging robotic holding tanks, blending votive handles with treed flogging malts. Lead to dazed thighs in corkscrew chamber pot loafers, enchanted by the wind.

“Half-turn to semblance of an issued set piece, worn hatch can,” Bahama deep-gravel coursed below graveyard driveway arcs, pondering the face.

“Ultra, I’m soaking new Bobby; drown propped belief pod, inhaled per nanosecond like spot-o-anthill crooner fleece,” murmured Emily, pressing more gauze into her latest balmy androidal chestnut, careful not to crackle drained rivulets of bone.

“Ostrich files, hammering hourly in their cool malfeasance, soiled daily here in known feathery fairways; twice the species slobbering into finery’s wheedled rice putter news,” Bahama croaked, smiling in glazed tonic symbols.

“Yeah; see what’s under stern warming caryatids here, beneath mottled causeway tunics?” Emily poked gloved fingers through the android’s millennial ooze, raising a higher browser’s grueling caption.

Matt loped to tabular ailing outage, spied fair oars of ancient sealing putty’s sanguine hitching post, and let loose inappropriate cackles, ex-politic. “Who can astound to break apart eternal chastity’s amoral blondes, chesty scenes of serious mines, fueled what hummus flesh ken fiddle; offal trains of smoky cuspidors, gushing at spatulas and harpsichords, clavicles in clavier-torn redundant waddings?”

“Don’t know quite waddle jeer driving ought, dear Bahamaniac…”

“Aye, demoniac, to be sired by eventuality’s cratered wide while, time’s foolish standing bridge, trestles from rooftop dogs to pencil-selling bellwethers, peering ‘cross tracked stations, through monthly rivers belching sooty screams of wailing mudders, galloping for home on sloppy traceries of sawed-off grace,” Bahama filed in backfill tones.

Emily nodded imperceptibly, shoving RFK-47’s floating rib back into its fluted rocking plane. “That otter due; furlong to ruin, nether tracers be donned and dodged in hallowed halo pastures.” Tossing inclement waiters into metallic haze, flinging a pristine linen across the handsome, smiling face, she reached for a nearby bottle of insecticide and threw a long, cold arc out the window, grazing aftershave compartments with the patter of built-in silo fill, clanging oats and hiatus nitrates.