Mr. Kim in Albuquerque

10:54 PM


Photo Credit: Douglas Brooder

by Rudolfo Carrillo

I saw the fearsome ruler of the north surrounded by cascading waveforms and patriotic transmissions.

The dude was standing in the parking lot at ghetto Smith's, dancing to the latest hit by Brokencyde, winking at the college students; offering them warm beer from out of his backpack.

At least some of those present considered his act to be revolutionary, it being springtime and all. A robotic transport assistant rang up the authorities to report the incident. They were prevented from making a timely arrival due to their collective belief in celestial mechanics.

The son of the great leader left his navy blue woolen overcoat behind as he gamboled toward the gas station across the street.

Eventually, an angry yet angelic hippie named Carlos carried the coat away to use next winter, but first hacked off the red star on the collar because he didn't want anyone to get the wrong idea.

The crowd surged and the cars choked Coal Avenue and Yale Boulevard, but I lost track of Mr. Kim just after he lifted himself off the ground with miniature cosmic jets hidden in his shit-kicking boots. The daejang adjusted the price per gallon sign that towered over the neighborhood, then roared and zoomed off toward a storm made from water and dust, just there, near the horizon, probably out by the volcanos.

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