Megalomaniac’s Machination

Megalomaniac’s Machination by J.C. Combs

I entered a room. Twenty people stood in various poses, chatting about this and that. “Why, I heard that Nixon ordered an investigation,” a man in a flowery yellow suit replied and then took a puff from an Ashton. “Felines are immune,” I made out from another conversation at the window at one end of the flat, “but not all, not half breeds.”  Two elderly ladies nearby sat facing each other in red velvet chairs, both adorning gigantic white wigs and long painted black glue-on fingernails. “Let me read your palm,” said a young man who approached the elderly lady in the chair to the left. She blushed, slightly embarrassed, extended her hand and nodded. He took her hand and turned it palm up. He steadily ran his index finger along the lines and cracks of her palm, all the while his eyeballs rolling forward and backward, almost seizure-like. He then became calm and at once let go of her hand. “What I see in your future,” he began when out of nowhere the young mystic was smashed in the head by a statue head of Beethoven. The young man who just seconds before feigned seizure-like activity was now in full spastic dance, blood spurting from his eyeballs, legs kicking, arms flailing. All attention was directed toward the wielder of Beethoven’s head who stood over him laughing blissfully.  The man shouted, “anyone want to read his mind?”


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