The Rocketman And The Tiny Dancer: The Ominous Enigma (Ft. "The Astronaut")
Freedomville Part 2
The command echoes in the businessman's burning ears. The tone of both the domineering presence's voice and vibe became deep, dark and desolate. Rupturing the drums of the white collar slave, the insisting words were circulating thru his sound and senses with a fastening gravitation.
"........" It seemed the businessman was attempting to respond, possibly wanting to rebuttle for mercy. The only thing that he was able to mutter were suffocating grunts duE to the vice of the emphatic mandate.
The Rocketman strutted slowly behind the businessman. His smile never retracting, the domineering figure placed his other hand on the caucasion man's other shoulder with a contradicting tenderness. The Rocketman moved close to the white collar slave's left ear and whispered directly into his will and emotion.
"This has to happen. Now. It is a very condescending situation that was manifested simultaneously, which orchestrated the devolving of reasonable curiosity to the rigamorale of passive necessity."
The Rocketman's soft-pleading mits slid over the businessman's left shoulder and under his right armpit. Though the mysterious being's malevolence was apparent, his natural tenderness could not be disputed. His left hand parked over the white collar slave's heart, and left hand on his stomach. The compassionate clutch could almost rival any form of intimacy by the desired demographic.
The Rocketman moved to the white collar slave's right ear and the whispers continued.
"Do you feel that, homie? Your breath has become bullets and your diaphram the gun. The rapid velocity is shooting down your minimally fortified confidence with point blank headshots."
"Until the clip is empty."
"The beat of your heart is a rapturous tuned percussion. Such a catastrophic rhapsody by a personal orchestra often betrays its very own conductor."
"A treasoned choir practicing a pulse of uncontrollable rhythm."
By the lead of The Rocketman, he and the businessman did a slow waltzing one-eighty. He had a stoic and seemingly fit frame, the stifled fellow, but was maneuvered with a swaying simplicity as if to be a soft-legged dancer.
There was a universe inside that restroom, all in the essence of The Rocketman's energy. An Anomaly's vitality. An Enigma's intuition.
This manifested an uninhabitable atmosphere for the white collar slave to expect survival. It wasn't simply just a futile thought, but also a chimeric impossibility even to the imagination. The businessman was restricted and consumed by the gravitations, not only physically, but spiritually and mentally as well. So much so that he believed he was hearing another voice besides the Anomaly whispering to him.
A naturally malicious voice.
A radically unforgiving voice.
But there were no other aliens in this universe.
The white collar slave's instinct for logic and reasoning was ablaze in an ether born flame. He was hanging on to his swinging sanity by a thread on fire.
"A liberating climax has been placed in your hands. Your fate." The Rocketman continued to whisper as the two moved closer to the stall, very little force was required for the slothing approach. "Our Mother Nature do not make mistakes, but has presented you with a rare probability for requittal. Now you must show Mother your an undeniable desire for innocence... With a flawless absolution.
Show Me."
"Show Us!"
There was that voice again, shadowing the Anomaly's request with the conviction of a spatial collapse. Such a celestial creed, as if it was unbelievably obvious that it has never been wrong.
The connected individuals finally arrive at the red x stall. Just standing in front of the crimson marked space, the businessman felt shrouded with another layer of gravitation.
An emotion splitting silence fell on the entirety of reality. One wouldn't even be able to hear the functions of their own anatomy, all sound eaten by the omnipotence of the stall.
It was a planet in this personal universe.
It was a Pandora's Box negatively manifested.
It was a limbo paradox feasting on reality.
"§how me your fate." The whisper.
"§how us your sanity!" The roar.
The white collar slave's pride and subconscious were on carbon string, lining back to a duo of enigmatic puppeteers. The strings began to tug and maneuver with precision, the mechanism in the businessman's arm started moving it toward the stall door.
When the white collar slave's hand grabbed the top of the door, the World around the businessman went from still and silent to absolutely petrified. An almost prophetic anticipation of the upcoming climax. When the chronology unpaused, the white collar slave broke atmosphere of the planet by slowly exposing its entry.
A landing was made, but the inhabitant of the World showed unwelcoming behavior.
In there was the businessman's fated judgement, inevitably being gathered by The Rocketman's monitors (EYES) and "Cockpit."
The brutally beaten face of a petite macchiato skinned woman lied unconscious on the left side of the toilet seat. Dripping down the porcelain and into its pool, a mixture of crimson and yellow DNA leaked from the entirety of the petite woman's head. There were so many scars, it was difficult to tell where the worst of the injury was. It was evident, though, that all of the blood was hers.
The wreaking fluid, the stench of liquified human waste, was the ether rain that flooded the white collar slave's previous claim of naivity.
But that wasn't the end, or even the worse of the depravity.
The petite woman was glyphed with a sleeve on her right arm. Musical notes and lyrics trailed from the fragile curvature of her ear down to her neon black fingernails. A great many of the symbolic rhapsody formed three distinctive demographic images. On the back of her hand was the moon. A woman in a swaying posture took up the length of her dainty forearm. The last one was treated with obvious favoritism, the chromatic shades used for its creation highlighted that passion. There glyphed on the soft skin of the degrated lolita's shoulder was that of a rocketship.
A rocketship.
But all the attention was on the foreign presence desecrating the glyphs etched on the petite woman's temple.
There were deep bite marks going up the lemgth of the petite woman's delicate arm, from her shoulders to the back of her hand. Some of the teeth marks were bruised while others were punctured and trickled with her crimson DNA.
This was the drowning of the businessman's fate, the ether rain filling his sanity to an overflow.
Then there was the tie.
A tie.
A business casual long white tie that looked as though it could belong to a blue collar job seeker or a white collar desk worker. Said everyman noose was not around a disguising neck to fein the conformer's normalcy. The everyman noose was in fact wrapped and knotted around the petite woman's fragile wrists.
Already forming bruises, it was roped in a way of accurately constricting execution. A way that showed a talent for such an umcommon hobby. A kind of experience that highlighted second nature, like its been performed extensively many many times before.
This was the match that started the fire, an uncontrollable ember that continues to devour.
But still, none of this was the worst of degradation. None of this was the greatest of atrocities endured by the petite woman.
The right foot of her black flats sat behind the toilet, the attached red rose that was supposed to be attatched to the front of her footwear was floating leisurely in the porcelain pool. Her red and black thigh high stockings were primatively ripped from her decadent macchiato legs. Various splashes of blood substituded in spots for the long leggings.
There was no underwear covering the petite woman's yoniverse. She never wore panties. A testament to Freedomville.
But, she was wearing a skirt, red sprinkled with black roses. Also a black, short cut, three button blouse with a visible red bandieu covering her enticing B-Cups. Neither, however, were any of these articles worn the same way as the petite woman's arrival.
The very fitted design of the cashmere skirt were ripped from the securing zippers on the right side. It was apparent that they were forcibly rolled up to the petite woman's waist.
The puffy design of the blouse was torn open from its buttons, while only one cup of the petite woman's brassiere as if there was a disappointment in its unwrapping. The shirt was tied around her biceps, the bottom of the shirt being wrapped around the silk restraint. It was pulled back and matted like it was over washed. It was a securing harness for complete domination being used for the maximum efficiency for movement.
A mess was made by what should be cherished as "The Flower Of Life," degrading and blaspheming against the greatest void offered by time a nature.
The Omnipotent Entry.
The blessings of a Cosmo Queen.
All of this condemning evidence was a high octane overdose for the white collar slave. His nose began to leak and drip his pathetic blood, the cruel cool of karma was inhaled in a powder form. It was a sanity splitting psychedelia by the most microscopic ingestion. The kind The Rocketman indulges in daily bulks.
Yet, still unbeknowing of the businessman was the severity of the bond he created within the empowering anomaly. A bond that has been impenetrably connected with no sanity for escape.
There are only three beings, three collection of energies that know of The Rocketman's personal demeanor under, over, in front of and behind closed doors and open interactions.
His Mothership.
His Father Gaud.
And His Tiny Dancer.
"Proceed with the Crimson Judgement. SUFFERING MANDATORY!!!!"
Both the businessman and The Rocketman were both engulfed with the resounding rage of "The Astronaut."
Seeing his Tiny Dancer in such a form ignited The Rocketman's "Cockpit" for takeoff. Much more, having to analyze her over and over again sent the entire rocket into a perpetual orbit.
One man began to cry for mercy.
The other began to mercilessly smile.
Despite the whines for a shortcut, The Rocketman got so close to the weeping man's ear, his cries could be heard before they were spoken.
"Slaughter! Demolish! Destroy! Break! Suffer! Void! Erase! Eat! Kill!"
It only took one word from The Rocketman.
"Awaken."
Blood exploded from both of the white collar slave's nostrils with a splash, his eyes rolling to the front of his brain. He dropped to his knees with a snapping thud, more than likely breaking them with his dead weight. It didn't take long for his spilling blood to form a puddle by his knees, his chin resting on his chest with his head slumped forward.
The Rocketman squatted next to the white collar slave. With a burning concentration, scanning him precisely from hair to heel.
"KILL! KILL! KILL! KILL!"
"We are FAR from finished."
The Rocketman stood back up to the full of his domineering vertical. The white collar slave's chest heaved back and forth in an unconscious breath.
The Ominous Enigma.