The Exhibitionist

Crease woke up tonguing another face in the sandstone. His cough, like the braying of a autistic donkey, protruded to lift a murder of dessert birds from their vigil. They had perched, he surmised, for the better part of the morning waiting for him to regain consciousness. His tongue was swollen and soar when he tried to speak.

"Flech eateen philisthines! Dont eefen have the dethenthy to eat a man while heeth too numb to notith!"

His helpless flailing, big and awkward like that of something to heavy to support itself, fell short of frightening the birds. In the emptiness of their cackling he could skry laughter, malevolence, enmity. They circled once. He tried to to stand and did a sort of ragdoll summersalt instead. He hoped someone was watching him. Possesed of a constant need to feel abberant, he started to piss and cackle like a hyena, just in case. Like Hemmingway said, he thought, no one can stand before a bar with dignity. Fuck if I can't have it here though.

"C'mon you thtupid dino'th!"

He knew they had him this time, lemming that he was. Fuck, he hoped someone was watching.