Tuesday, September 27, 2005

"VIRAL KILLER, QU'EST-CE QUE C'EST ? - part cinq" is the fifth installment of a fast fiction that started a little over a week ago.

Basically, the story is about a stoned art student who has to save the world from total destruction.

As the story is set in Vancouver it also contains hints as to where you can actually buy weed in "Vansterdam" for all you out of towners.

There are also other exciting hints in the story such as the next winning lottery ticket number, the telephone number of Mr RIght and the forgotten code to that lock around your bike. Or at least that's what my morning horoscope told me I would unwittingly provide the world with.

Today's visual inspiration comes from Vancouver's very own Ehren Salazar. We were chatting a week ago and it turns out there's quite a story behind this picture:
But for now enjoy the fifth installment of VIRAL KILLER, QU'EST-CE QUE C'EST ? ....


Dempsey floated down Water street in a stoned haze. A favorite past time of his was to watch the mildly insane street people confronting the overwhelmingly normal tourists. No matter how crazy their approach, the tourists simply blinked, looked at their maps and then stared up at the tops of the buildings.

"Could I have 32 cents ?" a bearded sad sack of a man asked an elderly couple.

They continued walking down the street with their gaze fixed on some unknown point in the sky as though there were a million dollar prize that awaited them for being the most diligent gawkers of the mundane.

"My number is 604-576-6869 if you change your mind," the bum hollered at their backs.

In the midst of this mix of people coming and going, there were an enterprising few who had staked out little territories for themselves: buskers, artists of ill repute and street vendors. Demsey's favorite was a man who sketched people with a pencil between his teeth. With his free hands he played the bongo drums. The artist's self-portrait was on a sign on the ground that read: my art will touch you but I promise I won't.

"So you're cutting class ?" he said to Demsey with a pencil between his teeth.

"Yeah," Demsey smiled with blunted bliss.

"Yeah, that's how it all started and ended for me."

Dempsey's cell went off: "Greetings. I am so terribly sorry to interrupt you from whatever artistic brilliance may be brewing in that skull of yours but I'm afraid I left an item of great import behind in my mad dash to leave the flat this morning."

Demsey stared at the pencil in the street artist's mouth and imagined it as a toothbrush with bristles at the end of it with tiny lead tips on each point that scrubbed scribbles on the inside of his teeth. Self-inflicted graffitti.

"Yeah, no problem. I've got it here with me."

"Smashing. Well shall we meet at the corner of Robson and Granville. Say in about half an hour ?"

"Yeah, sure."

And it was in such a way that the apocalypse was back on track.


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