Spetznaz forces sabotage

An emotional climate was manifesting inside Abism's appearance. She sat stagnating in her wicker chair squeaking to the rhythm of her husbands protest. She sensed his disparity in the need to shower. But he really spurned in these types of manners.

Green, stringy hair grooms her rotting fingernails. Abism strangles the knots playing in her hair.

" Your ankles are skinny my dear wife," he says to her.

" So is your eyesight my living bore," she says to him.

The loathe of her smile commands charisma in her posture. She scratches her toenails against the bottom of the stainless steel tub as her legs sprawl inside. Deteriorating bare feet frolic playfully, splashing blood through her toenails.
In the corner of an American town, small enough to ignore with imposition in later stages.

" Cradle me a fountain soda my living bore," she says to him.

Chuckling under her breath she licks her fingertips soaked in blood.

" No syrup to sprinkle on top of your carbonation," he says to her.

Contaminated surroundings and worthless water with yellow spirals from the toilet. Mildew covers blue tiles on the abandoned restaurant's kitchen floor, no extra people ordering from ancient menus.

The sun was barely noticeable through orange fallout devouring the morning. Their lair was obfuscating... lacerated: now they could see the back of each sun without turning their heads. Abism slowly stirs her buttermilk with one finger suspended from her hand.

" Another poisonous day my living bore. It would be nice if you would get out and scavenge some more bullets," she says to him.

" Water and clean food my dear wife, not blood," he says to her.

" Yes in a perfect world that would be sunny. But not here," she says to him.

Unknown to Abism and her husband, infiltration of the Red Army was just over hills. Armed in gas masks and bullets: stamping the new number in the West land.

Solders of the East geared with genocide and bumble bees eating petals spreading pollen throughout the air. Waking in flaming sweat wrapped in pink insulation now etched in glass with no showers, Abism slowly slides off the Formica counter down in the hidden cellar beneath the register. She wanders to her face in the bathroom mirror and lights a candle while roaches scamper like hot tap water splashing infected poison ivy spots. Above the broken toilet, crossed with spray paint is Abisms proverb: "I am the question that cannot be answered."

Days later, and many worries gone, memories spoke to Abism. She was running in her mind all possibilities of connections. Muttering words have no meaning. Wires leading to all personalities with no editor, sort of an eerie sight. No dams to release certain information at any certain time. Damage to her brain from overloaded thoughts always growing. Extract self-pity and no way to prepare for feeling.

Thrusting at the ankles she comes out of the cellar searching for her husband like a Roman Candle combing its hair with sparks. The bottom of patriotic depression pushes substance, castrated from the soil. Torture on the misfit plains while preacher man carries spurious coverings, Vladimir’s vicious result. Bullet hole in the forehead, her husband's naked body lay in the stainless tub. Growing fungus on the floor of the abandoned restaurant home, like prophetic centripetal force anchoring the way through time.

Standing in the doorway as thoughts of footsteps with marching armies and drum taps, Abism allows seclusion to bristle inside her blood as a matchless sarcasm falls drain. Out behind the fallen neon sign is waste grounds of black smoke and rock piles.

" Your ankles are skinny my living bore," she says to him.

Time