affame_le_geant_unsuppressed fyn gula puppertwinkle surveyed the little buttons on the side of the mahogany scope. they were aligned in a complicated schematic as if one needed to attend sufficient schooling and be properly trained to even think of attempting to use it. nevertheless, the chihuahua, frightened to discover what his efforts would produce, pushed a button that had two letters on it, "PM," etched as they were, intricately, into the silver. without mentioning to saumboo about the letters, he figured they stood for "puppertwinkle's magic," because what happened next inside the theatre of the scope was that the previous image of the four travelers before the fall of birds slowly faded out and was gradually replaced through a fading in by another foto, this one a demure shot of frau werzenwozen in grainy black and white, as if straight out of a richard avedon spread in blackbook magazine. when puppertwinkle described what he was seeing, and mind you, the little dog was excellent at doing so, way into it, and if you were to behold saumboo as he was receiving his verbal outline you would find him completely engrossed. he urged him to continue pressing, eager as a child opening a large stack of birthday gifts, enthralled to uncover the wonder of still another one. the paper just can't come off fast enough. there were fotos of the noble dandelion, one of him and two-lip the tulip singing a cole porter selection. on and on he pressed the little silver button until he had observed some fifty or more and the sun sank behind a stand of wild cherry trees heavy with fruit and they did not notice darkness falling. it was then that saumboo wondered about the button. "los butones tienen simbolos en elles?" he asked. puppertwinkle looked at them and saw they all contained two letters. "hay dos letras en cada." "que el dice que usted esta empujando?" saumboo asked, curious about which two letters were on the one he had been repeatedly pressing. "PM." puppertwinkle said, as you already know. "hmmmmmm," saumboo said, thinking. "perhaps it stands for puppertwinkle's memory, or photgraphs made, or possibly maybe, or plentious mercy." (what do you think it stands for?) saumboo, also thinking about the scope itself and its technological capability wondered what would happen if while pressing the PM button, puppertwinkle would also slide the dial next to it. he urged the little dog to try it, but was met with a resistance that did not surprise him. saumboo coaxed him and as usual was able to calm his relentless fear. as he moved the dial, the last image of the chorus of human flowers playing a game of poker faded and was replaced by the ghastly image of dead birds falling from the sky. puppertwinkle gasped, making the sound of something intimate exploding, as if there was something breakable just underneath the skin. a knife plunged into his side and along with blood, out came all the horror of the memory he had desperately tried to hide within the rooms of his soul he kept locked. and now, instead of images changing like a slide show, it was a digital film he was forced to watch, the corpses of thousands of birds falling, hitting the ground with sickening thuds, crashing into the unsuspecting human flowers and killing them with the tremendous weight. he cringed as he saw the spegnere buried alive. he choked back the tears and with a trembling voice gave saumboo the information, but they fell anyway, and saumboo felt them sting his own eyes as he replayed the tragedy over in his delicate recollection. the deliberate exclusion of the fall of birds from his tender consciousness ripped away from him like page from the book of his life and he was forced to re-read all of its grisly details. the misery came rushing back to both of them like a storm swollen wave that crashed on the shore of their tortured souls turning them over and over under the overwhelming burden of unsuppressed memories. they were fucking drowning and there was no lifeguard to save them because he was already washed up on the lonely beach and found to be dead. 020915 what's it to you? who go blather from