There lies a boneless man in a heap. He still breathes and sweats; the eyes frantic and unable to focus. It's amazing how long frantic can be kept up in such a featureless slow place. His bones had long since worn away, ground up by incessant walking, a compulsion he could not resist. He had even walked in his sleep. But that had been long ago. He had lost count of the tedious blinks of night and day. The growth of his nails and hair no longer interested him.
One sunny afternoon a dot appeared on the horizon. The boneless man had nothing better to do than to watch that dot, focus on it as it grew. Closer, slowly closer; veiled in shimmering mirage. It began to take shape. It looked like a terribly, impossibly skinny man, but with his damned nearsightedness, he couldn't be sure. The details of this day ghost were long in the coming. He expected the vision to disappear like the others that had visited before, but this one did not. Sharper and sharper yet.
The wireframe man had brought the sunshine with him, the steam of last nignt's rain turning to steam around him, haloing him in vapors. He juggled the warm invisible air as he went, grinning like solar panels. This wirey lanky guy had so much raw energy, so much pizzaz that sparks crackled off him like static and the sound of it surrounded him like the muffled roaring of a crowd or someone running a thousand water faucets upstairs. He was all wire bones intermeshed, twisted in close and always rubbing; always changing and shifting yet staying true to the same basic shape. He could really keep himself together! Hot damn!
It was immediately obvious what a fantastic team they would make. Him the brains and the other the flab. One being sheer personality and the other a fullbody foreskin. The idea really warmed up the wireframe man, really got him hot, turned him on. The boneless man was beginning to smile, which without a jaw is a really unpleasent sight, but the wireframe man understood the other's joy. He was starting to remember the old days of movement, the glorious path yet to be walked and walked and walked. He'd wear the soles off any steel boot. He'd circle a thousand globes. To what goal? Nevermind. Don't ask. Never wonder. Just go.
And so the wireframe man squeezed himself long and sharp and wiggled his wormy way into the other man's ear, singing the whole way in. For those keeping track at home, it was the left ear. The saggy flesh began to inflate and the skin cracked from the sun rushed to meet itself and sealed in miracles, the pores oozing a oily slick to soften the leathery texture. The shiftless limbs now started to fidget with a joyous ferocity. Schematics and charts to unimagined fantastic machines raced through the atrophied synapses. Hieroglyphs of a strange language strobed in the mind's television. Formulas, recipes, curses, manufactured memories. The teeth that were once yellow and blunt from grinding together now lengthened and sharpened. The wireframe man had forgotten how good it was to have real teeth again; it tickled his fancy, tickled his ivories.
It was time to eat, their shared belly rumbled and complained. Time to go! Time to blow this joint. Maybe even smoke a joint. A joint? The boneless man had almost forgotten about all that. Next town they would definately need to find some absinthe.
Later. Soon. Later. First things first. The wireframe man whispered the way to the valley where all the water in the wasteland gathered. A great gaping grinning slit in the middle of nothing. Sounds good. Time to wet a whistle or two.
It was a long, hard walk, but it felt so good. These two were like brothers, like old lovers reunited. It was grand, baby; grand as a good piano. A piano falling to the street from a great height, but who's counting? Never had the wasteland seen such a hero. The real thing. A white god of shivering glee, a writhing unquenchable sexuality. A new being that would fuck anything that grooves.
In the valley women were bathing, their webby gaudy clothing splashed out on the rocks. Their sunbrowned skin was seal slippery glossy. Gold jewelry ornamented them in glinting streaks as they played in the muddy water. Curious fish darted around their feet, sometimes tickling toes.
They noticed the muscular man watching them and they smiled, whispered to eachother, giggling. The siloutte above them with the sun behind him was saluting, a salute without hands. One thing leads to another.
When one appetite was satiated then came the next. After some vigorous, needy sex, after they went around the world a dizzy many times, the man attacked them, biting and chewing. They fought back, but it was inevitable that they became bones. They had not gone gentle into the good night (it was still daylight anyway) and had torn chunks of flesh away from the wireframe man. The pieces were bleeding and falling away. The last of the boneless man fell off the bone, tender and moist.
The wireframe man was alone again and he felt fine. Felt good. Accomplished. He snagged a cigarrette from one of the discarded calfskin purses and had himself a good puff. The blood oiled his joints, he was glad to be rid of that annoying creaking that had been dogging him through out this foul desert. Time to go. Move on.
He looked to the far off mountains and sighed in smoke. There was quite a way to go still. He was bound for the upper peaks that hide in clouds and always snow. He craved the thin, cold air. At the highest point he would shape himself into a ladder. He would be the highest ladder, intertwined with tree branches he'd gather at lower reaches of the range. Good solid wood. And how long would he have to wait for his guest to climb him down? He ached to feel the touch of chalk marking his every rung, to feel those heavy steps shaking him to the very marrow.