<center>"If Morrissey says don't eat meat, then I'll eat meat, because I hate Morrissey." -- Robert Smith.</center>

<center>CAGE MATCH: ROBERT SMITH VS. STEVEN PATRICK MORRISSEY</center>


That was about how far he'd gotten, before the phone jolted him from his twisted fantasy world that revolved around socket-frayed haircuts and curious pompadours. Tracy couldn't make it easy on himself and just stand up, he had to half-drip from his seat, until he was straddling the chair with his stomach, pawing for the vintage cherry-red phone whimpering on its cradle. By the time he knocked it off the hook and pressed it to his ear, a dial-tone sang a flatlining lullabye to him. The sides of his mouth drooped in a frown, and murmurs ran raw.

He didn't like computers because breakthrough gonzo journalists (even though this was hardly 1963) didn't have access to Windows XP and porn clotting their hard-drives, so he didn't mind clattering away and trashing paper whenever he made a mistake. His fingers attacked the keys again in a prancing symphony. A self-rolled cigarette jutted from the the groove of his thick mouth. He was completely naked save his argyle socks and the black scarf (with chalky stripes) twirled around his throat. The phone was still gasping off-the-hook, but once he was in a zone, it was hard to break him.

He turned to acknowledge the body strewn on his bed. It was Morrissey, of course. No, not Morrissey of the Smiths--- just this young boy, about twenty-years-old, who collected comic books, and liked peanut butter ice-cream. He was glowing in his slumber, because Tracy managed to deftly wedge a pillow in his place in the knot of his pale, scrawny arms.

"Finished---on the verge of it, in fact, my sloe-eyed little drysheet teddybear." Tracy was being affectionate. "I'd close the window because the air is damp, but the moon's giving off a supergroovy vibe tonight. Y'know?"

Morrissey didn't reply.

Tracy shrugged. "Figured as much. You're not a garrulous sleeper. I'm almost done---almost. At the part where ...."

A stream of light flooded in the white room, and the nurse shoved her nose through the crevice, examining the two sleeping bodies. The room was shadowed, and the moon came in strong and white through the blinds. She watched Tracy stir nude beneath the sheets (it was so hard for them to keep him dressed --he didn't like white sweatshirts and drawstring pants) and tossed him a wry smile when she felt his eyes burn on her. She hated this shift. They always looked so peaceful when they slept.

Tracy turned over onto his stomach, the tension-wrought muscles in his winged shoulderblades bannering out.

The air smelled like sick.

<font color="#EE0000" size="1">[ June 11, 2005 06:00 PM: Message edited by: illegal tender ]</font>