Picture of "the artist as a young man," back when my biomechanical suit was still relatively new and all of the bells and whistles worked...including the hair feature....
By Grant McGee
Hangin’ out at the in-laws today, shootin’ the shit like I
always do.
Those that know me know I’m full of it.
The sister-in-law noticed that I was limping.
Hell, even I didn’t know I was limping.
Hell, I didn’t even know I had six fire ant bites on my left
foot.
“Damned ol’ diabetes,” I said.
“Don’t you have any feeling in your feet?” she asked.
“Well,” I said, “Sort of.
It’s more like the nerves in my feet are all jangled up.”
“He’s getting older faster than you,” sister-in-law said to
The Lady of the House.
“Yeah,” I said. “I’ve
been sending cosmic mental transmissions to my starship to beam me up but I
reckon they’re not getting my messages.”
Sister-in-law didn’t know how to take those words. She’s most comfortable in her
paint-by-numbers religion. She just
stared at me.
“It’s a call for help,” I went on. “My biomechanical suit is breaking down here
on this planet’s surface. Diabetes,
glaucoma, high blood pressure, macular degeneration.”
“Hell,” I went on thumping my chest, “It’s still me inside
here. I don’t feel six decades old.”
“You’re not leaving me here,” said The Lady of the House. “You just need a new suit.”
I just need a new biomechanical suit.
I smiled.
I think The Lady of the House said more than she knew.
Or did she know exactly what she was saying?
Something simple?
Something spiritual?
Something simple and spiritual?
The secret of The Cosmic Electric?
Or is it even a secret?
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