Rust to Ammon: “I need to solve this lawnmower mystery.” Ammon: “I like buildings in wildlife refuges.” Rust: “Who murdered love?” Ammon: “Snack?”
Rust to Ammon. “The dust of galaxies feather-deaths your precept.” Ammon: “I need a working toilet and a Sham-wow.” Rust: “All is death.”
Rust to Ammon: “Chill your harsh, man.” Ammon: “PETA just gave me a petrified celery stalk.” Rust: “Build a labyrinth in your mind.” Ammon: “Snacks?”
Rust to Ammon: “Ten thousand ghosts lubricated the passage of your birth.” Ammon: “I’m going to hit you with my gun.” Rust: “Bugs bunny was a gun-bearing rabbit and he saw the sheer beautiful despair of life.” Ammon: “I just need to desecrate some ground.” Rust: “You can piss over there.”
Rust to Ammon: “Why do you like snacks?” Ammon: Why do you love death?” Rust: “Cause it’s chewy and salty and you can pet it.” Ammon: “Can I tell you something? Snacks in refuges are like Ballardian Crash scenarios to me.” Rust: “That a fact? Cause I’m gonna create some distance here if so.” Ammon: “I love you Rust. I want to have your snack-babies.”
Area X wrapped its fungal conduits around Ammon’s supple neck. Then it licked away his microbial shield, penetrated his nostrils, clung to his symbiotic tailbone, and caressed his circulatory system, after which he exploded in an ecstasy of euphoric spores.
End of Dream #3