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Better than Rarebit
Okay. The scene is some depressed third-world country, probably Africa. Edge of the desert, shanty town, buildings with corrugated tin walls. Thomas is a young black boy, about sixteen. He can't read or write, but he does have a working knowledge of shamanistic magic. Susan is the daughter of a rich white financier (whatever the hell that is) who is in Africa to give financial aid. I don't know what I'm doing over here. What the hell, she's attracted to me. We have a night out, just the two of us, which leads to an evening back at her hotel room. As I close the door, Thomas and I swap minds. Susan doesn't know the difference. I spend the evening in Thomas' body, rummaging around the rubbish heaps on the edge of town, looking for food. Later on, back in my own body, I'm with her father and his accountant (who doesn't like me, for some reason), in their room in the hotel. There's a stack of antiquated video recorders, old printers and some really ancient WP workstations, huge, boxy things, which we are donating to this country. Susan comes in, the older men leave and we talk. I can't remember exactly what we say, but I gather that she's in love with me. I find a strangely-shaped piece of metal under the pool table, something like a blue tin shoehorn with stubby finger-like extensions which are curved back. I pick it up, scratch my arm with it, and (I can't tell if this is me talking, or Thomas), "May Garuda annihilate me for saying this, but I love you." Gotta stop eating peanut butter sandwiches before going to sleep... |
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