unreal boys

one of them was made of gingerbread and the other one was made of wood and both of them were weighed down with that biggest of existential questions: why? just because they weren’t made of the more traditonal materials people abused them no end and they were sick of it. but how to change? unlike in the fictionalised accounts of their lives there was no happy ending – no transformative experience which saw them liberated from their strange predicaments. pinnochio had furnished himself with a lumberyard in the telling of that story – blue fairy indeed. and here they sat, sharing a pint – hanging out with all the freaks that imagination had cast into the role of scapegoat, feeling sorry for themselves and drowning their sorrows. it was a common problem out here – that feeling that no one understood you because everyone, listening to the accepted wisdom, thought they knew you. suicide was rife, drug use was astronomical, divorce rates were through the roof. peter pan had been thrown in the slammer after a domestic with tinkerbell got out of hand; huck finn was on the run; mickey mouse was running the local crimeworld. how had things gone so far south? pinnochio had turned to honesty – the novelty of having a lie detector growing out of his face had grown tiresome a long time ago. the gingerbread man kept trying to tell people that he wasn’t like a bloody lizard and, yes he might be able to regenerate whatever they ate from him, but that didn’t make it right. they were hungry and they didn’t care. ‘do you see this ever changing?’ he asked pinnochio. ‘sure,’ he said, slipping up perhaps because of the drink. his nose said he didn’t believe.

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