I stifle a chortle as I stare down. She mumbles adorably, eyes closed, lost in post-coital satisfaction. Feist, the universally-adopted antidote to human savagery, slurps softly from inside the stereo.I pause to reflect, my jowls dripping. It's conclusive: I am the lion in the den of iniquity. Tonight, the lion's work is complete.
In the distance, a firey haze silhouettes the bridge magnificently. The haze unfolds slowly, a sustained atomic blast of orange. It perches mightily, cascading into the horizon, beautifully apocalyptic.
The inferno is looking rather prim, framed tidily in the white of my windowframe. "Neat," I think to myself. As I gaze out, I'm reclining, Buddha-like, in perfect opposition to the molten tableau.
The plucking of chintzy synth strings pulls me back. I recall something I heard somewhere -- a story about Amazonian shamans playing Feist to ward off violent spirits and cure all sorts of jungle maladies. There was another account, an article published in some anthropological journal, about Mongolian herdsmen using this strange Canadian chanteuse to calm their beasts. In fact, I can practically hear that inchoate voice, a vessel deprived of the slightest trace of vibrato, carried swiftly and coldly over the vast steppe.
