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The Final Voice of the Fly

Updated on March 5, 2014

I was in me suite, right, relaxin' to a few good tunes on the couch. I got me feet up on th' coffee table and a roach in me fingers. Band wasn't practising today, though I don't s'pose anyone would've shown up anyhow. New album was gettin' out, an' I figured I'd celebrate the occasion with Mary 'n' Juan—the good stuff, y'know, but I found me stash quite lacking. S'alright, I can take a hit—an' I can roll with th' punches, too, yeh get me drift? I got a blot wiff about forty or so hits on it, so I start droppin' acid like a clumsy chemist. Don't take too long, it's right around the third or fourth hit that I start feelin' it. I hear this buzzing, an' I see this fly. It's gettin' closer 'n' closer, when I suddenly realize it's not gettin' closer, blimey, it's gettin' bigger. I'm bitin' me frickin' lip.

I stood up, when alluva sudden I'm gettin' bigger too, an' I look aroun' the room, but it's not me room anymore, it's a field in the sky, an' I'm fallin' through. I see the fly a little ways away, but he's not flying, he's gliding, an' his wings're moving in slow motion and I realize that I grew a whole lot bloody bigger than he did, so I pluck a flower out of the sky and go after him. He's faster than me, but I can see the trail his buzzing leaves behind. As I'm chasin' after him, I trip over the mountains, knocking over a few of the clouds and a zeppelin made of lead as I do, and fall into Kashmir. A big watercolour Hindu pulls me to my feet and a cartoon of Shiva the Destroyer points me in the right direction. The fly was lying on th' sun, gnawing on the sunbeams. I climb up Shiva's four hands like a staircase—thanks, Shiva—an' then I brought my flower down on the fly. I crush it and the sun explodes into a starburst, a rainbow supernova. I ride the cosmic technicolour wave through time, and at some point I come back down to me senses. Last thin' I remember was I had me face pressed against the wall and I was flicking me lights on and off.


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