Souls - II

My motel room is dingy even by modern motel standards. I guess when the world gives up and lets the hell we’ve all been playing at let loose, motel maintenance takes a pretty noticeable backseat. The sheets are stained with the evidence of erotic passion plays of residents past; a mattress full of crucifixion. A little blood, a little cum, and a lot of yellowed sweat. People like their suicides a lot more pleasurable these days.

I plop down regardless, I’m tired and am in no position to judge.

Death ain’t what it used to be, it no longer seems like the worst option or even the most permanent one. It lost it’s bite when we all learned the truth, when those trumpets blasted and the heavens fell. A layer of fiction collapsed like a stage-curtain released from it’s hang point.

That doesn’t mean everything made sense after that, hell one could argue everything stopped making sense after that. Our eyes started seeing things that, to put it simply, did not compute. And that’s how I ended up in this motel, driving that van around, and taking people’s souls through their popped eyeballs. I’m one of the lucky ones, lawfully employed making her way through this life. I wasn’t one of those sad sacks hiding under garbage.

Yeah, I said “her”. You thought I was a man didn’t ya? I get that a lot. Sometimes I wish I was, these tits cause a lot of trouble to tell the truth. Less institutional trouble these days though, the glass ceiling didn’t quite survive the change .  They try, bless their hearts, but sex roles take a backseat when things begin to literally crumble around us. Societal trouble though, well that just keeps getting worse. Sexism changed from stares and leers and moved straight into pure physical aggression. That’s why you thought I was a man, I wanted ya too. No offense, but you can’t be too safe.

I reach behind me and unsnap the bra that pulls my tits so far into me they are invisible to most. With a sigh, they expand and fall to my sides, gravity pulling them out and down. It feels good, like relief. This shitty motel room, with its tenuous chain lock hugging the door is all that is protecting me and my femininity.

I sit up, letting my nudity shift forward and hang. I would turn on the television, but there’s no real point. It will just be channels and channels of prophets giving us answers to our current crisis. Problem is, all of their answers are different. No one knows what the fuck is goin’ on.

But I do.

I look to my case of translucent tools, all full of souls. There’s probably around twenty of them in there by now, which means it’s time for a visit to my boss.  

I think you can guess his name.