he had an identity crisis. she was too transparent, often searching for a meaning. or even just a nice prop. it really needed a pastel wall to lean against, to bring some tasteful color into her essence. he wanted to be loud and brash and wander in the hallways,
she wanted to eat a sandwich. he ought to get a painting. who needs a painting in pastel more than a poltergeist I ask you? wordsworth? monet? it decided to go to an auction, she hissed along heated car engines and whiffled down the street ebbing away from passing cars, it sung songs out of each fire hydrant and he shot out like multiple genies from every lamp it saw, stifling a cry of disgust at the lack of proper fire to silhoutte her.
it whittled dangerously solid around a piece of discarded paper on the road, advertising, well what do you know, an auction! she ruffled the scrap into a garbage bin as a cat yowled at it her tail sticking out all spiky. poltergeists love cats, they are validation.
she had to find the place, numbers and street names do not an auction make. he whistled down a street, floated up another, number and street never matched, her memory was failing too. cmon, it was a POLTERGEIST, where would he keep a neuron?
her holes widened as a cyclist cut through carelessly, and it hissed behind quite certain the helmet led to the auction. sometimes these poltergeist instincks can be powerful and disturbingly arcane. the cyclist was drunk. who cycles drunk, isn't that an oxymoron? or a regular moron. the poltergeist could smell the spirit, haha. but the cyclist couldn't, haha.
a dog watched the poltergeist go sailing smiling with a dripping tongue. or was it the cyclist, dogs can be so damn cryptic. and the auction house appeared behind the dog, or was it always there. the poltergeist was big on existential dilemmas. she hopped off the cyclist's tyre where he had been making like smoke and making the world feel guilty and puzzled at the same time.
the big german shepherd cocked his right ear, but the poltergeist didnt make sounds, ether didn't run into things. the pooch who prided his ears felt an instant lowering of self-esteem and nose together, as the poltergeist swept past grandly to the entrance of the auction, piggybacking on a breeze that hoped to be a storm someday
as he entered the grand sweeping auction hall under the door, she realized it wasn't caspar the friendly as he had thought so far, but a far more sinister piece with less noises and visibility, and more sinisterhood. he felt a thousand eyes staring at her, before it realized they were all just people who had no control on their ocular nerves, they didnt really see anything.
it saw the auctioneer's table, such a fat man with oily antonio banderas hair, and no other signs. it searched, the latest bid was on a hat made of vegetable, capsicum, pastel yellow, that was perfect except it was a hat, it was decomposing, and it was edible, if you ate hats. the poltergeist decided against the hat, it was heavy and stuck out and didn't really frame her without poking into the middle of his ether with a carrot feather.
takes more than one indecisive poltergeist to disrupt a silent auction, no one felt the atmosphere change, the pressure shift, the gas erupt. no wait, that everyone noticed. the poltergeist rushed madly around the room protesting, wasnt me. could have been easily though, gas begets gas, as the old saying goes.
the poltergeist watched the pastels for the right one, to silhouette it. or perhaps just be her on days he didnt feel like being it. the suspense ...
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