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She’s a deadly pale blonde woman in her forties wearing a white business suit and white riding boots. Not very pretty but seriously classy. Think Jessica Lange with no eye sockets. Think of a woman who sells real estate with four arms. Think what a homeless person would do with three thousand dollars if she wanted to blend into a rich person’s party. She’s the woman from Glad. She has a face like a pirate. It’s a face you take seriously.
Little pearlescent warning pictograms flash into life around her when they catch the light like they’re glued to an invisible suit of armour. The top half of her head is on fire with blue flame. She wears a glowing white halo. The blue fire burns merrily through it like a fire in a garbage can. All of that light up on top makes her eyes into deep shaded pits.
There’s a smell like sambuca and octane.
She turns her blind face towards me and smiles. There’s a gap between her front teeth and she wrinkles up nicely. The flames on her head flare up and the halo stutters a few colours around its rim. She has a silver cane that she’s idly tapping against the flank of the horse she's sitting on.
She's riding a bright lemon-skinned banana-yellow horse with blood-red zebra stripes. Some of its skin is transparent and there appears to be machinery underneath. Its snout is a deep dark ashen black and so are its hooves. Its tail and mane are white and look like they're made of some sort of optic fibre. The hairtips are lighting up like little stars. Its eyes are glowing blue. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so beautiful.
There’s an electrical hum to it and every now and then a hoof will give off a spark and a crackle. It’s standing in front of me, looking at me with the complete indifference that only an animal or a ticket taker can manifest.
The glowing blue eyes light up once in a while like magnesium flares and stutter out a camera flash until going back to the radiant blue. It’s like the tremendous power of this beast needs to ground itself every few seconds. It gives off an aura of manufactured strength and beauty. It’s like an i-Horse designed by Swatch and powered by Mercedes from the next century.
There are tattoos on the back of each of the woman's four hands. A biohazard symbol. A cartoon bomb. A plate between a knife and a fork. A skull.
I have a horrid realization.
This is the age of the corporate merger. This is the age of downsizing and consolidation.
The four horsemen? Gone. Now it’s one horsewoman. She’s a multi-tasking, organized, iron fist in a velvet glove. She got the job and proved that it only takes one woman to do the job of four men. They’re history. She’s the future.
Shiva the destroyer. Mary Kay Apocalypse. Black Sun Sally. Gozir. Rhonda the archangel. She is the Rapture.
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Little pearlescent warning pictograms flash into life around her when they catch the light like they’re glued to an invisible suit of armour. The top half of her head is on fire with blue flame. She wears a glowing white halo. The blue fire burns merrily through it like a fire in a garbage can. All of that light up on top makes her eyes into deep shaded pits.
There’s a smell like sambuca and octane.
She turns her blind face towards me and smiles. There’s a gap between her front teeth and she wrinkles up nicely. The flames on her head flare up and the halo stutters a few colours around its rim. She has a silver cane that she’s idly tapping against the flank of the horse she's sitting on.
She's riding a bright lemon-skinned banana-yellow horse with blood-red zebra stripes. Some of its skin is transparent and there appears to be machinery underneath. Its snout is a deep dark ashen black and so are its hooves. Its tail and mane are white and look like they're made of some sort of optic fibre. The hairtips are lighting up like little stars. Its eyes are glowing blue. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything quite so beautiful.
There’s an electrical hum to it and every now and then a hoof will give off a spark and a crackle. It’s standing in front of me, looking at me with the complete indifference that only an animal or a ticket taker can manifest.
The glowing blue eyes light up once in a while like magnesium flares and stutter out a camera flash until going back to the radiant blue. It’s like the tremendous power of this beast needs to ground itself every few seconds. It gives off an aura of manufactured strength and beauty. It’s like an i-Horse designed by Swatch and powered by Mercedes from the next century.
There are tattoos on the back of each of the woman's four hands. A biohazard symbol. A cartoon bomb. A plate between a knife and a fork. A skull.
I have a horrid realization.
This is the age of the corporate merger. This is the age of downsizing and consolidation.
The four horsemen? Gone. Now it’s one horsewoman. She’s a multi-tasking, organized, iron fist in a velvet glove. She got the job and proved that it only takes one woman to do the job of four men. They’re history. She’s the future.
Shiva the destroyer. Mary Kay Apocalypse. Black Sun Sally. Gozir. Rhonda the archangel. She is the Rapture.
tags