Here's how this is going to work.

You're going to sit down at a heavy mahogany dining table and you're going to watch me stab a tungsten-carbide drill bit into the tablecloth and you're going to give me anonymous feedback re: my performance. Then you're going to lean back slightly in your chair as you catch a whiff of my most pungent coffee. But you'll ignore the smell, being careful not to offend the one who invited you into their home. You will then, upon my insistence, knock back an entire cup of a beverage that tastes more viscous than it looks. It will be refreshing. It will be inspirational. I will then remove something that looks like a dying animal from a small velvet briefcase. I will then look into your eyes and you will look into mine, silently promising to never discuss what happens next. It will be a violin drop-forged from pure toluene. The smell of paint thinner will fill your head to the brim and leak from your ears as my bow dances across the strings. The petroleum tumors will appear to you then, as if revealed by the gods themselves from a mountaintop blanketed in flammable gas.

I will guide the bow along an eerily fluid path, but you will hear absolute silence because your ears have fallen off. I will ask you to pick them up, and you will ignore me while gasoline trickles from your Eustachian tubes. All the while, I will have been searching your pockets for a single unpackaged cigarette. I will find one, even if I have to put it there myself. It will light without a match, because the room is now approaching 400°C. When you realize this, it will be too late. Your eyes, bathed in gummed-up fuel, will slide lazily out of their sockets, followed by a river of viscous fossils.

One by one your senses will fail as your flesh melts away, shrinking from the flow of the burning jelly that pours from your nose. As you lose awareness of your hands and feet, you will still feel my music within your bones. Ligaments and tendons will dissolve into a slurry of impure hydrocarbon that fails to interest even the most inexperienced investor. As the temperature in the dining room approaches six hundred degrees I will dip my bow in the deepening puddle of oil without stopping the music for a single beat. And then my work will begin. Without uttering as many as three sounds, I will kneel down and in a single swift motion drop the violin into the blackened asphalt of your ribcage.

And then it will blow the hell up, because the boiling point of toluene is 110°C.

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