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Exotic Desi-smegging-ations
Aug. 1st, 2017 01:51 pmDavid Lister stood outside for the first time in years and made fists with his bare feet in the grass of the hotel’s rear courtyard. His boots--resting upside down with their chapped, rubber heels resting against a Dogwood tree trunk--were several yards away, just outside the range of his own nostrils. His socks were likewise removed and were currently balled up within the dank, moist caverns of each well-worn Martinesque shoe. He wanted to feel the springy grass between his toes, to gently uproot blades of grass with them like a toddler slowly tearing apart its parents’ marriage.
It wasn’t home, this place. It had air. It had sun. It even had large, boxy machines with which he could buy archaic-looking drinks from, but none of them were beer and none of the machines responded to his repeated requests for refreshment or libation. He sucked in a lungful of air and turned back towards the group of buildings he’d woken in. Multicolored and kitschy were one way to describe it. He hadn’t really seen any staff working there, but then again, he hadn’t exactly gone looking for the bellhop the second he stepped off of Starbug and found himself stranded. Still, if he was going to be stranded somewhere, he might as well be stranded somewhere familiar. Lister was dimly reminded of a time where he’d tried peyote with Petersen. The two of them had accidentally taken too much and had wandered through one of Red Dwarf’s garden decks in a hallucinatory haze. He and Petersen were under the assumption that they were, in fact, sitting in a beautiful white room in period clothing drinking very watery, cold tea. Petersen raised a finely-gloved hand to his lips and drank from the beautiful, hand-crafted china cup and told him to relax and “try not to fight it.”
And Lister was trying very hard not to fight what was going on here. He could smell the grass with a slight undertone of the eye-watering odor of his own feet. There was something like honeysuckle blooming somewhere nearby, too. He reached down and dug his fingers into the grass, ripping up a chunk of earth and held it to his face. The scent of warm, fresh dirt reached his olfactory nerves and sent his mind wheeling. If this was a hallucination, it was a barmy one indeed.
It wasn’t home, this place. It had air. It had sun. It even had large, boxy machines with which he could buy archaic-looking drinks from, but none of them were beer and none of the machines responded to his repeated requests for refreshment or libation. He sucked in a lungful of air and turned back towards the group of buildings he’d woken in. Multicolored and kitschy were one way to describe it. He hadn’t really seen any staff working there, but then again, he hadn’t exactly gone looking for the bellhop the second he stepped off of Starbug and found himself stranded. Still, if he was going to be stranded somewhere, he might as well be stranded somewhere familiar. Lister was dimly reminded of a time where he’d tried peyote with Petersen. The two of them had accidentally taken too much and had wandered through one of Red Dwarf’s garden decks in a hallucinatory haze. He and Petersen were under the assumption that they were, in fact, sitting in a beautiful white room in period clothing drinking very watery, cold tea. Petersen raised a finely-gloved hand to his lips and drank from the beautiful, hand-crafted china cup and told him to relax and “try not to fight it.”
And Lister was trying very hard not to fight what was going on here. He could smell the grass with a slight undertone of the eye-watering odor of his own feet. There was something like honeysuckle blooming somewhere nearby, too. He reached down and dug his fingers into the grass, ripping up a chunk of earth and held it to his face. The scent of warm, fresh dirt reached his olfactory nerves and sent his mind wheeling. If this was a hallucination, it was a barmy one indeed.
