Bareknuckled and swinging, swaying, weaving, and throwing his weight around like a drunken man-child weighted with bag after burlap bag of heavy dead stone; lisping and drifting from one ancient curse to the next. He's positive and don't you forget it – Mackey Damsey holds his head above the cresting tide of fools and smiles a big old toothy grin to the empty theater that is this throne room of the sensuous fast-food purveyor. Mackey Damsey selects a softy-softy bun to place in his precious stomata-hole and in his bull-dwarf graceful kick-stumble he rides to his table. Throne room, precious Mackey Damsey, throne room and don't you forget it.
As soon as his visceral top-noggin is exposed to air and the casing of warm tis-sue is peeked back precious Mackey Damsey fumbles with wrapper after wrapper and places that softy-softy bun in his stomata-hole; wraps his tongue around it as a white ghost-thin connective tis-sue wraps around the segment of meat in ox-tail soup – little cylinder of flesh encased in a white ghost-thin protective wrap.
Mackey Damsey removes his heart and his lungs and his pancreas and his spleen and his liver and perhaps that one other organ that is occupied with the production of yellowish sebaceous oils. I forget what that organ is called. I always forget its name. Mackey Damsey removes his organs like you might remove your coat. Removes the organs and places them in a semi-circle as a means of bartering for the softy-softy bun, trading nutmeg for Manhattan and trinkets for his soul and his liver for a softy-softy bun. Mackey Damsey falls over dead with his innards dripping in the semi-circle but now it is the chance for Mackey Damsey's ghost to rise up; rise up; rise up to its full height and survey the world and the bartered softy-softy bun.
“Po-whee twiddle,” cries something near Mackey Damsey- ghost. “Po-whee twiddle, for the time is nigh. Give up your ghost and give up your life, for the time is nigh.”
Mackey Damsey-ghost hovers and does not make it in time. Mackey Damsey-ghost spreads thin and white over all the earth and its nighttime-scented brow. Spread like the cold cream of an era never known. Mackey Damsey-ghost holds the vision close and clear and sweet and lame. The softy-softy bun could never be worth the vision. The vision is greater, the vision is clear. One time that man in the funny dress said the vision was glorious, but Mackey Damsey knew better and Mackey Damsey snickered at him. And so the vision gets lost and the nighttime grows and the stomata-hole gets mad with the hunger. Snicker, Mackey Damsey-ghost, snicker.
Now Mackey Damsey-ghost just floats alone and softy-softy bun goes stale.