The Abandoned Station






Larry's Wad

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Here's a Thought




All About Cream




I rectified those.




'Don't tell anyone, okay?' can take years off my face.

'I didn't think anything like this would happen' feels so good when I rub it on my forearms and thighs.






These are all my playthings.

Don't believe me?

I can turn doubt into a lovely scrub over a long weekend.

While you burn incense I burn memories, and the smoke can waft up into some special netting that catches a lot more than soot. I'd call it magic but it works so it's science!

Add some lye and tallow with enough heat it all drips down from the tops and into the vat.

Vats are so cheap nowadays if you know who to speak to and how to speak to them and where they've been meeting a lover in secret for the past four months.

But my good fortune is theirs, and I'm giving them buckets of my special supply and they are giving hot oil massages to each other and thanking me profusely and telling all their real and fake friends about my backyard remedies.

Talk of the town. Toast of the parties.

Turning tears into reversing years.

(I didn't come up with this one, just some lazy headline writing by a big aggregate media editor when they did a bio series of snap-vids)

It's not all conspiracy gravy, though.

One of my bosses (of course I have several) held up payment because this one fancy customer got in their bathtub with way too much moisturizer and burnt twenty years back onto her legs.

My arguments didn't matter:

Sure you can revise your digital self without reading the fine print, but that's not true with this ultra-special line of products. Diligent literates only!

Because of how fancy this fancy customer was, I had to take it on the chin, which is a touch worse than taking it in the mouth.

A proverbial demotion and a dismantling and destruction of some of my equipment in my backyard.

I watched as they held me down.

I held my tongue but my eyes did all the talking.

So did the special constable, who asked how much this was going to cost me in the next financial quarter.

I don't like focusing on the price.

At the end of the day there can't be a price on beauty, can there?

Don't answer that, my accuntant yuks.

Their advice: just take a deep breath, just take a warm bath, and just rebuild.

I have people on every street corner in this city who owe me a favour. 

I just have to be a bit more careful* and do more work in my soon-to-be-well-lit basement.

*-careful in this case means 'investing' in the special constable's in-ground pool fund.

It's not so much the long arm of the law as the perception of having trouble fulfilling the orders because a neighbour or passerby might see me on the ground in cuffs and upload a clip of it without allowing for me to get ahead of the hot viral story with a tiny fib that it was just a massive sexual roleplay scene.

I know how important things can be on the surface level.

I count on it.

When the victim comes to my office I am ready with a smile and a handshake.

Pleasantries always get them to reveal their bank account and credit rating, and as I wax philosophical with the rote recitation of 'the fountain of youth in a jar', I am watching how they drum fingers, crack their knuckles, and bite their nails.

The hands don't lie, at least not before I get a hold of them.

We have a long talk about their life, and I can definitely tell what they are trying to hide. I don't pry, I dance around the issue like a ballerina with a perfect poker face.

Soon an appointment is made and I recognize the name of their street and feel even better about the beginning of this beautiful, profitable friendship.

The first hit's not free, but I can be talked into some robust discounts.

Rapping on their door three evenings later I am hoping to get a nice walk in their backyard garden before the sun sets.

But first I show off my wares and pass round a few containers and bottles around to my audience of three.

The usual 'oohs' and 'aahs' and the one guest who thinks it's all a bunch of horseshit. I am doing all this on auto-pilot. Perhaps I am trapped in a time-loop where only the faces switch. Now that would be something I would like to find a way to bottle up. A timespace sheet that you stretch over your skin and you let the matter-anti-matter particles do their thing. Anti-matter, anti-aging, there has to be an equation that expresses both in peace and harmony-

Sorry, I was miles away there, ladies and gentleman. you want your scummery or would you prefer someone else's?

There are advantages and disadvantages with both, naturally.

Their eyes buzz back and forth in silent consideration, worried about the next words that would dribble out of their mouths. Will they be seen as altruistic saints or the manifestations of problematic evil? Will they bear their true faults in front of their friends?

I'm used to these sorts of moments.

Who do these financially-holier-than-thou types hate more? Themselves or everyone around them? And how much are they really worried what I will think of them, even though all I honestly and truly care about is their money.

So I save their cracking skins by offering up the 'someone else' choice and they eagerly reach forward like (fifty) four year olds.

Rubbing it on their hands and cackling as they can suddenly imagine the agony of some random mysterious stranger who lost their job, found a lump, or learned a disturbing secret of a loved one resulting in all natural tears that are now enriching and strengthening their own pores.

It may feel good now, but it wouldn't show actual results so quickly. Plenty of reapplications are needed, but I'll let them have this moment before going into subscriptions and install lament plans.

One of them seems a bit reluctant, however, and when I politely pry they lean in and say they would like to apply the product onto a more private area that has been causing them some trouble recently.

Being hyper-aware that providing a complete regeneration experience of the body and soul includes some imperious customer service I permit then to take their leave with a 500ml jug of 'shea butter car crash survivor guilt'.

I make idle chit-chat about totalitarianism with the other two and share an anecdote about a fictional former client who killed their lover and got away with it and paid me a hefty sum to use so much moisturizer to completely change the appearance of their face-

There is screaming from the bathroom.

The look of surprise on the two faces in front of me expose the crows feet and deep lines that only the largest investments in my products can fix. Right now the entire sale is at risk, but I am confident that I can still salvage this one.

With unflappable demeanour and a waxy paper smile I say something beyond witty to excuse myself and casually stroll to where I imagine the bathroom in this mini-mansion would be.

'Just follow the screams' is a slogan I'll have to let slip through my fingers.

She didn't close the door all the way so I peek through the easy crack.

I've seen many old crones' sunken clams and over the hill millionaire's shrivelled dicks and their bulging abscesses and problematic discolourings so of course I'm ready for the worst of the worst. I've tsk-tsk-ed wealthy widows and explained that the only monster here is the one who peels the face mask off too early (set a timer like an egg, Mrs. Robinson) so I'm ready to talk this woman off the fifty centimetre ledge.

But this was very different.

She'd removed her sundress and was in her fashionable-yet-proper bra and panties, and it was clear that her area of concern was her legs, which has plenty of varicose veins and splotchy 'beauty' marks and liver spots, but the problem was obviously where she applied my product. Because on the area of her inner left thigh, where there should have been a wonderful regeneration of youthfulness instead was my face.

My dead eyes, slightly pointy nose, and nondescript lips smeared across a flap of skin with a hint of a grin.

Even as I opened the door wide she still didn't notice the real me, her legs spread wide as she sat on the toilet seat, wholly focused on my doppelgänger she got out of the jar.

Her hands were in the classic terror pose, fingers bent inward but frozen, and I saw that the miracle moisturizer was all over them.

It was fine and indescribable tableau, fitting for a second-tier modern art museum, something the MOMA or the Tate would turn down for the wrong sort of gaudiness.

But what did move while she didn't caught my eye. 

I wasn't just on the neatly spread cream on her legs but the blobs of it all over her hands. Gravity was doing its work and she was dripping my face through her fat middle-aged fingers and my face was pooling messily on the smooth tile floor.

And I was still smiling, in every big puddle and tiny drop.

It was pride. My pride.

Must've got the labels wrong back in my basement.



'You do you' is the new 'different strokes for different folks, and both sound like masturbation.