The Sun Was Omnipressive

Chapter: Visceral Assault

Mark Anthony Chediznek, AKA -  Mark Chamberlin, former member of The Pin Point Weather Team's  on-air personalities - TGN's lead Murderologist - stared down at what to him seemed to be, alien hands. Not his own, he, silently smothering an internal gasp, thought in the way that can only be described as metamaniameditation. 

His were not this purple hue and thick fingered. And in fact the 'skin' of the things felt thicker and the finger nails were line-etched (production line quality), milky in color. 

Unlike his own finger nails, peachy-pink plates blending smoothly into the lunula and otherwise unremarkable except for the yellowish  mounding eponychium

(cuticles being the lay term, however, cuticle is a term also associated with the superior-to-epidermal exoskeleton of roundworms and arthropods -Here then, eponychium)

Half of a genuine emotion burrowing inside, Molly, AKA - Puddin'/Pickle-Butt,  had suggested he make an appointment to address the unsightly and could do so at the same time she was in for a pedicure, after, she excitedly mused, having lunch together at Soup-R-Salad the boutique café she’s been dying to get him to try and inevitably  concur that it is the best soup and sandwich spot north of the International District, though she knew, as he often stated, Mark was a ‘Meat n’ Potatoes’ man, the promulgation offered as if such banality imparted some interesting 'characteristic' or point of pride and it’s here you’ll bother to note that:

Pride is one of the “Seven Deadly Sins” and also that “Character” is a misnomer of elevated status if you think about it in the right way, i.e., everyone has character it’s simply the tells of your particular personality or your modus operandi  - a thief when thieving is merely abiding to his character as it in his character to thieve –character/nature being interchangeable (trust me).

 Chamberlin is and certain in and without a dog's doubt, noticing not only the odd appearance of these alien hands but that they may not even be real hands of any species, that is, inorganic props, Perhaps a product of rubber or wax and if he hadn’t given up smoking recently, again, he’d step outside to ponder and inhale and perhaps try to burn or melt these clumsy paws (with but how, more internal flinching - eternal internal gasp/flinch/panic?). Something he would think more about as he lowered his head and affixed his perfectly moisturized lips to the rim of the recyclable 10% post-consumer waste coffee cup - containing his third quintuple-shot Venti Spiced-Mocha cappuccino. 

Alien heliotropish fake/dead hands sitting thickly still – fingers of unknown origin slightly apart, resting on his cobalt blue Dockers under the previously examined(and Chamberlin’s essence depleted chewing gum affixed to underside) pressed pulp cherry wood veneered orbicular café table, (orbicular being a word Mark had remembered from the gifted desk-calender - word of the day and definitions)  their freakishness (the inexplicable hands) obvious to anyone who cared to notice.

And then the orbicular table and I were breathing as one, were one.

"Mark, helloo - I'm still here, you know, Mark?"

"There, you see?"

"See what Mark?"

Chediznek drags his alien/inorganic/and/or/inorganic 'things across the 4 and one half inch engineered glass touch screen

"I can't do anything. Look - scroll, apps, nothing. It's obvious here, Moll. These 'things' are not real"

"Mark, please stop this. For me, Allen -"

"There's a sty in my eye 'Molly' and it's name is 'Allen'.

Allen Anthony Abscess."

 "It's not his fault."

"Oh, I know that, Plump Puddin'. It's my fault...why are you always calling me 'Mark', not 'sweety', 'dear', 'babe'? Nevermind, 'Molly'. Can we think about me , now, for just a minute. What am I supposed to do here."

"M - , it happens all the time. Just take the back cover off, remove the battery then put it back together and turn it back on. That's what I do."

"How am I supposed to do that -huh?"

Chediznek lifts his arms off of the table and raises them in the air, 'wave' style' in a show of...

"You're moving them right now"

"I'm moving my arms, Molly. I still have my arms. These 'things' are attached to my arms but they're fucking [teeth clenched and cracking here] useless.

Directly across the street or rather, at Marks 2 o'clock, a man waiting for the bus steps off the curb just in time for the bus to strike him dead in a horrendous splatter almost entirely covering the white appliance of paint outlining the symbol. His inside stuff expressed, pressed, thrust and thrown and spat out on to the bike lane. 

You, belatedly grasping your Dolce Gabbana 'carbon' umbrella, immediately begin the internal process of determining which is the closest possibility for securing salt and running tap water and never mind the authorities questions already fumbling around in their detecting brains, there's at least a dozen be-splattered witness to fill those reports.