He was thinking of the catharsis or maybe he was dying of consumption. He didn't know. The dull ache in the left hand side of his head was giving nothing away. His lungs hacked, killed his chest and brought up more of a green mucas interspersed with droplets of blood.
'Fuck, that's a worry.' He thought.
He needed to think of something to do now. Perhaps go mad as some sort of adventure. He went out into the day. The sun cast down cruel aspersions upon him and leathered his skin. Out the back, he imagined Martians were landing and began to hallucinate them. They came down in their large saucer with their green, phlegmatic skin and bulbous dark, seed like eyes.
Having said that the Martians were too atypical. They'd already come down for Orson Wells in 1936 and had been hired to do War of the Worlds. Probably with Equity. Junax had little time for the unions and Mars looked like somewhere quite inhospitable to sustaining life of this magnitude. The Martians faded away, victimised as ever by logic.
He couldn't think of anything else. To be more original he'd have to think of a race of his own...but then he'd have to make up a whole lot of shit for them and it was too much effort. He like things already formed. There were no women out sunbathing which only made the day that more pathetic. Who the fuck would be out in this with no chance of a fuck?
Not him. He went back in, doubting though that a fuck could be on the menu if his cock stayed as flaccid as it had been these many years. He checked in his underwear to see if it was hard. Some yellowish gunge had affixed it to his groin. Perhaps when it hardened it would make his cock hard too.
He got in his flat and fell back in his chair. He pulled a ciggy out of the packet for want of better to do. Each pull just made his temple ache worse. Ah well.
There needed to be something. There was that horror of the afternoon to contend with. Then there was a happening. He leapt up and ripped the plastic bag off the smoke alarm. Within seconds the siren screeched into life like Dustin Diamond on a Reno hooker.
Soft, dolorous stained water flooded into the room from the sprinkler. Junax smiled. It was exactly like it was described in Prayer Song. A brief moment of unalloyed transcendance.
In the distance he could hear the encroaching wail of the fire service. His form clung with the moisture now falling upon it. He felt purified.
The fire hachet made short work of the door. The fireman came in a seeing the soaked ciggy in Junax's hand, he slapped him hard across the face with his health and safety protected arm. Junax cared little. He felt cleansed and could face another day.