Ghost Truck

You know that you are living in a haunted house

when you cannot find a single pair of all of the scissors

And you are alone.

As you enter a doorway, upon recollection of this thought,

just read before, as though it is essentially...

your own thought.

As the realisation appears,

Invisibly, from the corner of your eye.

Around that corner. That no-one ever goes.

Round, around. Around, something goes!

Leaps upon your shoulders, from behind, as you open the bathroom door and the ghost reaches around your throat,

in equal proportion to a widening size, one as to be the same as that of the door way

you're

widening. It opens only a crack,

then the spooky is thrown off.

Again, and as always.

Having learned the Art, at 15, of crashing cars

in such a manner

that every passenger was killed, bar himself.

The first flat he moved into was haunted,

and if it wasn't,

it certainly 

should be by now.

So you see?

'Off-Ghost'

Never, without it.

And then later, you find

all of the pairs of scissors.

II

All of those trucks carrying their heavy loads to all of those various destinations throughout every part of the land, to be taken to distributors and warehouses and welding shops and loading bays of supermarkets, throughout the entire length and breadth of this entire nation institution in its entirety! And it goes on all around the Earth, (to a greater or lesser extent, in various places)

Long as it can, so far.

Those trucks... Each day, taking, to the families... the distribution weight as opposed to the tire pressure... in each of those 63 wheeled big metal monster vehicles made to do the job that once, men did with the aid of leather bridled trained creatures, huge in size, known as Dragons and Behemoth, (until The Dinosaurs tried to take their places. Guess! That's what killed 'em all off, after all!... They are vehicles. If the entire wight was... the standard 7.5 tonne, inside all of their 

<[(insert houses/homes here)]>

Variously differing interiors of which I had had want to see the inside of only one... but of a single one.

Those trucks... Each day, taking, to the families throughout this nation, inside all of their 

<[(insert houses/homes here)]>

variously differing interiors

of which

I had

I had

Had.

I had want to see the inside of just one...

of but just that single one!

Alone...

Alone.

The water on the 36 wheelers carry two maximally loaded steel reinforced shipping containers and are allowed to travel down the slip road at night, when the witches have greased their broomstick handles with a poultice of mashed leaves of some unknown weird type of weed that they refer to as an 'herb'. Of course it would have to become inevitable that some smart 8 year old kid hacker one day figured out how exactly it was possible to steal all the money. I mean the complete lot of it. Every last bit, So really there is no more, because, he's got it all.

And he does it!

What's he prepared to do?

Give them back half?

That really was

the deal.

That always was.

The Deal.

They make a mashed poultice from out of enough of this stuff. Then, after undressing (If they were ever dressed, as such.)

They, and a friend, (usually special),

coat one another with this concoction.

Except, for a single strip along their spine, which allows their central nervous system to remain functioning, since leaving it, the skin, clean, clear and bare, it allows their skin to breath, a thin clear line the length of their spine, from neck's nape,

hair pinned up,

folded curly, golden hair nape to twisted up tailbone,

bare and clear, so their spinal cord could have a little action that night....

An ant crawls up my neck.

Then up my hand.

You’ll never know, now.

The witches are adept at sitting quite still whilst flying their broom-sticks.

This actual witch's potion,

which both,

(or more of them),

all with

their hands,

are mashing it upon one another,

until, completely covered,

from head to foot, completely.

This sludgy green oozing goop,

slathered pond scum

(which it had to be)

except for a single strip along their spine

which allows their central nervous system

to remain functioning, as it allows their skin to breath,

a thin clear line the length of their spine,

and from neck's hair pinned up,

folded nape

to twisted up tailbone,

bare and clear,

so their spinal cord could have a little action too, that night....

   

An ant crawls up my neck.

Then up my hand.

You’ll never know, now.

                                    

                                   "11.59 P.M. Ladies and Gentle-Men!

                                    This, is your Captain Speaking:

                                    One minute to midnight.

                                    Please,

                                    fasten your seat-belts.

                                  

                                    Thank-you. Today.

                                    For coming aboard our luxury

                                    'Sky-mover!'

                                    and for flying.

                                    With,

                                    Fyre-Byrd Airlines!

                                    Now, with New!

                                    40% Missile Deflecting Technology,

                                   

                                    (Guaranteed!*)

                                   

                                    And, you know..!

                                    'That's Technology that you're just going

                                    to have to

                                    be forced to have written,

                                    always, and at all times,

                                    with one, great big,

                                    capital 'T'!

                                    You know what we always say:

                                    “Around the World!

                                     Around the Bend!

                                     Fyre-Byrd!"

                                    *NOW WITH NEW

                                     NON RADAR DETECT-

                                     NEW NON

                                     RADAR DETECT*

An ant crawls up the side of my neck.

Then up my outstretched thin white arm.

You’ll never know, now.

Radars have yet to pick

up. These witches

on their broomsticks

covered in a greasy/

waxy substance,

the distilled core essences

of the ultra weird comic book

'strange herb'

Officially: 'A green, greasen/waxen goop.'

Were it to get inside

Their mouths..!

Wine tree leaf sap

Which, being afforded

each witch

consumption through their skin

caused them not to be poisoned

as they should, most certainly be,

through even 

tiniest

filament particles.

Were it to drop

... and

cactus.

And,
I'm never.

'No, thank-you.'

'I am never going into every living room. In all of all of those houses.'

"So, wha..?"

This causes the witches to be able to actually fly.

(Keep it quiet!)
(Oldest one in the book..!)

"No. Thank-you."