<b>...</b> and then Wingy woke up. Awoken, as he often was, in a pool of his own sweat with his <i>USB cable</i> clenched tightly in his right hand pullling on it furiously, for a second unaware of his surroundings. Then in an flash of lucidity it all came back to him; the competancy trials, the men in the white coats, the single pink calming room overloking the fountain, the <i><b>Bi</b>-weekly</i> conjugal visits from Eden (while Phial taped the disgusting episode to later sell on e-bay).
Why had he not sought treatment for the Syphilis which seemed only like a bad case of excema at the time, but which progressively ate away at what was already an over loaded underclocked brain? The nightmares/fantasies were coming more frequently now, as was Wingy, his sexual frustraction building to a crecendo of wanton perversion, to the point where all knew him by another name, one meant to ridicule, but that which he wore as a "Hello my name is" badge of honour.
As he lay cold and shivering under the single soaked sheet, clenching the one possesion they could not wrench from his hands, Wingy reflected on his past while fearing the future in the day yet to come, and shuddered again in a climax of fear and longing. The barium enemas, the electrified needle for the oozing genital wounds, the pill parade, and the the final ignominy, the shock treatment that even now made his face twitch with fretful anticipation that contained an small amount of allure and deluded enchantment at the thought of human contact.
While the staff shared a strong distaste for this, their most pathetic and hopeless patient, this open revulsion eluded the addled Wingy as he drifted back to his catatonic state with the false feeling that he was loved, loved like the child prostitutes he'd once travelled the globe to find, and who in the end, in his end to be precise, got their final revenge on the man whom they loathed more than all others, the man they called 'teeny-weenie-wingy-dingy'.
And now you know <i>the rest of the story</i>.
<b>Cleeve</b>, the preceding biographic essay was brought to you by the <b>A</b>rtistic <b>T</b>émoignage <b>I</b>nitiative, <b>Bridging</b> the gap between the <b>PC ie</b> conservatives, and the <b>A</b>llthings <b>G</b>ential <b>P</b>ublic, with a series of short essays to be read at the <b>Rialto</b> nightly. I think the title was quite appropriate.
Well now that's a perfect example of what a moring cup of Coffee with a splash of Liquer can produce @ 10am on a Sunday.
😎
- You need a licence to buy a gun, but they'll sell anyone a stamp <i>(or internet account)</i> ! - <font color=green>RED </font color=green> <font color=red> GREEN</font color=red> GA to SK
