Malls Nipples

By Greig Olivier

On a dizzy-high Interstate ramp—elevated to clear two lower ramps lying far below, which, in the smoky Dusk looked special-effects-real, efficiently channeling traffic North and South like God’s working will—our sleek Sedan approached Mall steadily from West. With nothing above us but Up, we feared. The road banked steeply right. We steered into the crowded parking lot like an airplane landing from the most final of Finals. The Vehicle shuttered to a halt; our frequent nipples blanched ::: we had arrived ::: “Malls,” a brand new Mall! “Store” was confined to a low hill, a plateau-like wide space with lots of scoured grey dirt, sculpted tracks and other evidence of spent Energy. Discarded sandwich wrappers vied for space with fallen filthy nipple shields. My despicable Companion and I had sulked hours and needed now to spit.

My despicable Companion backed into a spot lubricated by the last undamaged, flickering lamp, leaning queerly Northward. Men and women milled about, idle, pouty-nippled, swaggering, like pre-programmed Potential awaiting plode. Children, oblivious to their surroundings, skipped and laughed and giggled and smiled and raced around screaming, tormenting with un-expended sweat, unconsciously deploring their nipple lack, endangering their chances for post-pubescent integration.

We emerged Vehicle glaring at each other over flaking, corrugated roof, our Cupid-bow lips moved agilely over noiseless words of contempt. Our slackened nipples said it all. We walked slowly around “Store” perimeter, casual like but alert, like alike studiously suspicious sentries.

“Store” grew closer as we approached, till it towered over us like a Pyramid paired to a Pear. Small details, like the texture of its facade, the subject of its fresco, the gorgeous gleam of its freaking merchandise, were not lost on the relentless march of thousands of registered and un-registered nipples choking toward its front door. Such wealth! Gorgeous hyper-Gauche! We stopped at the door, exchanging half-lidded grimaces of contemptible Un-certainty ::: uncertain of each other, unsure of what we were doing there, regretful of our rage, reluctantly recalling reason, shyly seeking forgiveness, giving it gladly, verging on tears, praying our overture would be accepted, yet lacking faith because Faith had long ago slit its papery throat. Others filed by, leading with sagging, shivery nipples, content to own a burlap heart, pushing hopefully at the whispery revolving doors of Wisdom.

We stopped by Entrance but could pass no further. Not only did its size and magnificence intimidate us, but, without proper glasses, we could not judge its malevolence. (A near perfect disguise, applauded by All. Only a devastating edge of Blue gave it away.) Still—a mighty building, it surely was—resembling a very complicated Resort Hotel, fitted with white wood differently shaped and a horizon that lied through its testy yeasty teats. Lots of nipples milled about. Nipples, nipples, nipples ::: powdered, painted, preened, perfumed. None yet purloined. Everyone who is anyone—some who were no one—nippled about. We jostled opposite “Store’s” bright Right side, perhaps one hundred yards away, bent on a heading that would take us to Rear—if it had Rear. When we arrived at Rear, Rear was just materializing and I was alone, decorously cursing my good Luck into my Satiate filled palm.

Turning to look back at Rear, a garrulous wind chilled my gnarly nipples, which hardened convincingly with a jolting pinch of counter-clockwise-contraction. But that was nothing compared to what I saw, what took my guilt away, what dispatched my nipples to dubious Duties of doubtful degree ::: The Ground…Ground…was Bare. A lacework of muddy ravines descended a gentle slope claw-like, ending at a shallow Terrace where a dozen or so people danced silently around a beautiful yellow Bug Light, their neon nano-nipples glowed through the deepening Dusk like Technicolor’d fire flies in a feeding frenzy or a frantic fit to flip, flop and fly. The silent dignity of their dance signified how profoundly sacred—yet, incredibly, stupid—the ceremony really was. Coming upon them from still further down (heading East) I discovered—disbelieving—dozens disheveled Salesmen stumbling upward—Oh, debauched, devastated and dippy nipples!—(vestigially vetted, of course)—yet, how gracefully they goosed the dancers. I averted my nipples. One (one Salesman) continued climbing—one brave Salesman—leaving the others behind to kiss and chew the dancers’ dusty, dappled, doughy nipple meats. Salesman mounted the slope towards Myself, slipping now and then on the soft shoulder of the slant, but never relinquishing the rigid hold Salesman had on Salesman’s smelly sample Case. Salesman stood before me on one leg oozing courage from his Drawers, drowning in demented determination like a drunken Slug—smiling with Sin and Envy of the Slope. I gasped at the impossibly pearlescent Pasties he wore. Salesman laughed at my surprise. The Slut! An old joke, no doubt. With one slick, smooth motion Salesman opened the Case to let me peek inside, winking collegially at my obliviousness. Salesman pointed to a large plastic Caster with rollers on the sides as well as the bottom—my nipples wept!—Salesman with a smug snort of superiority, snapped up my Hand, guided Hand, palm out, caressingly in order to feel …? to touch …? What? As such, not much. Never could Salesman say. When Salesman spoke, my nipples chirped a tuneful Cream-of-Mushroom Can-Can. Remorse filled Salesman’s face. These, Salesman confessed ruefully, were mere household items. Salesman was, Salesman said, at heart a Chinese Cheese Salesman, facing hard facts, terrible times, miserable months. Revealing this news Salesman’s nipples farted, as did mine sympathetically—proud to say.

I turned from Salesman (pirouetted, actually, same thing basically…the difference being scarcely worth intoning or bemoaning in this dialectic of drivel). I hid, I think, very well, my admiration at Creative Sinning (the well-known “CS” in “Anagram 60″ ::: IFCSITA). Still, the future is not Salesman. Salesman is eons past saving. I abandoned Salesman with regal gusto and grand regret and a fast flip of my despicable Companion’s left nipple, (the right being creatively engaged at that moment). I crossed the wide moat-like Moat forming the perimeter around pale “Store” and climbed the hill which appeared syrupy before me as in a Seance. Too late, I trudged forward and onward, always toward Goal until a backward glance shouted me the building’s roof was inspectible. Black, black, black roof I saw, black on blacker, pulling-in black, no-light black, blackness leading to unexpected unexperienceable, blinding blacklessness. My feet stuck. Looking down past the ground I saw Ground was covered with blackness, sterile black tar-like blackness–nothing emerged from its donutty depths, not even my feet. To escape this bitter disblackness, I entered “Store” through its rear Curtain and was again united with my contemptible Companion, beloved belligerent as bitter tears sluiced off her nipples like nappies off nursing Newborns.

Regrettably, we were in a very large kitchen. Obliviously, the sight of each other’s Sweat—so simultaneously sweet and savory—like “Seven Seamen Semen Sauce”—dense with dirty desire—the smell of Sweat—the saline slipperiness of it—we saw each other sweat and—Oh, Hi-ho!—suddenly our nipples bleated and softened like braised Kittens! And this, a very large kitchen with all kinds of utensils, scattered everywhere, without care, totally lacking purpose but with brown-edged yellow-stringed Price Tags. Worse! Extinct Tags, from entirely different! “Store.” Randomly, I opened a drawer and pulled out a thing that looked exactly like a ghastly over-qualified, double duty garlic press ::: squeezed from two sides it (1) shit garlic pollen while (2) searching for cancer cells within the Squeezer. At the sight of it, my contemptible Companion—Oh, so common! so bourgeois!—shrugged! Purple-nippled, pleased, far less than perfect, proving Love is less and less digestible, I collapsed. Less likely to be served by a young girl came from behind the counter and I knew. I knew. I knew! The girl and my contemptible Companion began to make love despite their similarities. I walked around looking for Lugers, searching for Shotguns, baaa-ing for Bullets. They forced my Hand ::: I needed to make a statement. “Slip skinned people seldom understand ::: they either over stand or don’t stand at all.”

The evening dipped into silence. Even wind left no wake of sound. So, when it came, I came. Like wet on water, the quiet produced a louder hush and deadly Thoughts hid among the mostly bleak. Like blood on the Beet.

Airplanes. Airplanes far, far away. Away, out of hearing, out of hearding. A large window set before me like ::: a framed picture, a television set, a movie screen, a photograph, a painting—a setting for Drone. I watched Drone grow, fascinated by its glow, powered in my ears by polluted Pole-bean pollen, smelling the ripples of miserable nipples squirt bitter past my tartared Teeth, tethering Tongue. My devastated nipples deserted my flat, fraudulent breast. Through turbulent tears, I could see the other side of Mall as from a Cereal Box. Silence, which had subsided, was now thankfully subdued. Below us came formations of fighter planes flying low patterns, banking only Right because a wrong move would end in the beginning of Disaster. They approaching out of the beautiful be-nippled night. In spite of what I thought to be better judgment, I dispatched my nipples to intercept them, knowing all was not right. The noise was caught during each frightening, gloomy, hurtful Interdiction of apish nipple. It hammered without let up from all sides including insides. We—my despicable Companion and I—cowered beneath stacks of potato ricers and nipple trimmers. Incessant screaming brought me to the brink of evaporation. I shit my shoes—Swallowed my snuggy-buggy snot–Saw my soul on sale. Thank God for my despicable Companion. Thank God daily by suffering sufficiently, I grow strong. With both Hands, we scratched at each other’s gritty nipples and could not, would not—dared not…Stop. Until….Ohhhh!

Dawn. Looking for a happy ending, we bent to pick Candy off the tarry ground. Suckers. Nauseatingly sweet. The paper stuck. We ate. We sucked. We crunched the hardness of Sucker. We ate one eighth. We swooned as our nipples rotated and smoked. So cool! It was only with the onset of deep Night that I realized Sucker was laced with nipple remover. All clanged Change! Oh, horror! Oh Horrorweenish when, with the tinkling of belly-button Bells, our nipples fell to tarry Ground, squished and squashed. A chorus of nipples slacked like multi-used condoms underfoot just prior to bursting into soupy Song. Please, no more! Go no further! Return to your cars at once! (Shots rang out.)

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Greig Olivier

Greig Olivier / About Author

Been writing on paper, computers and in my head since I was a child. "Malls Nipples" is my first published work. My writing is personal, all about me, no matter what the otherwise obvious subject is.

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