LTIG unspecified #1

4,

Nobody believed me when I said the flood was coming, least of all you, because you hadn't talked to me in a year or so and I can understand why you were shocked by my behavior, and maybe concerned. Even more so when you came to check on me and found me sandbagging my house, attaching water wings to my cats and praying the rosary. I warned you, a biblical flood is going to drown this neighborhood. But you didn't believe me, even considering the vorpal effect of my sunglasses was rapidly getting to you. An old friend from the shadowland with a grocery bag of cigarettes carefully ziplocked against the imminent rain. Afraid of heights you were watching me unsure if this was some sort of joke or scheme, a longtermer like I've been known to pull, but it wasn't. I saw all the bloated gentle dead facedown at a level roughly below my roof. And so I planned. Even though you were concerned, or appeared to be concerned, I noted that you had time to put on a sundress and perfume. I myself was too busy preparing. The decongestants in your purse rattled like bone dice, auguring black water, but you didn't listen. And here you are imagining I'm trying to fuck you while a truck dumps a ton of sand on my front lawn and the clouds overhead turning vindictive Olympian black. Ha! You followed me onto the roof and I was raving about mold and property damage and bereavement, not really listening because you wanted to peek in my room and see if any other girls had left their stuff there, and also to try and steal my blueprints for the Navel Stone. I told you, even though we discovered the capabilities of the Navel Stone together, I made the sacrifice and therefore the psychic data it collected belongs to me. It is proprietary information. That's how I knew about the flood, because the Flinski gauge on it noted a drastic rise in bedwettings over the week. Also when I went to get black beans from Joe's on Friday they were sold out. On Tuesday there were four cans. You should have known the significance of such subconscious hoarding. And you should have known when you asked me if I wanted to go to Manning's with you and I refused the flood was deadly, presidentially serious. The Navel Stone doesn't lie. Maybe you wanted to catch up but my cats can't swim and moving the Navel Stone all the way to the roof, and then recalibrating it to search for pretty brunette survivors was a labor of hours and I just didn't have the time to waste swilling vodka and making secret references to new sex friends. Rain had started to fall, and you left.

Fifteen minutes ago I saw you float past, Opheliac and sadly dead. All I have on this roof are some soggy Camel Filters, two perturbed cats, and our Navel Stone, stolen so carefully and piecemeal from your father's laboratory. He's going to pissed when I deliver the news.

Regretfully (but happy the Navel Stone was correct and not a shared delusion), J.