Pete Mandik

Sub Specie Aeternitatis 1. Contact

I'm getting all ready and set to hit the bar tonight with my EvilTwin, Slaughterhouse Paul. Nikolai's rocks with the hotties.

There's only one shitter in our apartment. I lose the coin toss, so Paul gets it first. I'm all like, "Thanks a lot, Stinky!"

I don't wear cologne for anyone's benefit but my own. Tiny dabs in just the right places really do it for me. The inside of my own nose smells so good now. It drives me quite mad.

I wear full-contact contact lenses. I have to punch myself twice in the face to put them in.

The procedure for putting in my third-eye contact lens is much more delicate. I have to fold my fingers up into the fifth dimension to even reach the storage case. Since it's got two more dimensions than my fingers do, it seems, like, fucking enormous. I sweat with concentration to flip open the top. The tricky part involves pushing simultaneously in two directions each perpendicular to my finger's x-, y-, and z-axes. It's another spaghetti snarl altogether to fumble with the hyper-saline and get the hyper-lens to stay on my third-cornea without third-blinking.

Paul is also wearing a third-eye contact lens so we can communicate telepathically. Which is cool.

Slaughterhouse Paul: Testing 1,2,3. Testing.

Slaughterhouse Pete: What's the first thing you notice about the opposite sex?

Slaughterhouse Paul: That they are the opposite sex.

Yay! Telepathy.

(c) 2004 Pete Mandik