the lines on the map

it's ugly, fat, and unpleasantly lumpy. dark lines run everywhere, looping around each other in repulsive drunken swivels. each little movement generates pressure on the sensor, causing the bulges to wobble and throb, lurch from side to side, leaving giant magnified slug-like tracks across the expanse of the 20 inch monitor. systematically, in response to the pressure, they march from one end of the screen to the other.

"man, i've never seen myself like *that* before," say i.

the fat woman, tamara by her badge, barely grunts. after the comment about the weather she's been all business. she lifts my thumb and applies some more of the corn-based cleansing spirit. presses it down again. the grotesque whorls reappear. the machine beeps. it says: "Score 72. Pass." a green light flashes.

tamara silently lets go of my thumb and grabs my index finger.

ten iterations later - after my right hand index finger narrowly passes on third attempt (Score 51) - they stamp my form and i'm out of there.

***

in the car i swap the kill to get crimson out of the rotation. it's an hour's drive back and i feel like blasting some europa on the freeway.