Turtle

This story begins with a sky-scraper-rooftop-perching pigeon and his legacy, that being such a legacy and of which the events that led up to this phenomenon occurring at such a rightful time (decided by the grating and ill-fitting refiners of fate) that they are of no consequence to the story. At all. Only to say, let us proceed to say, or let me proceed to tell you, in what manner this pigeon ascended to the heights of freedoms alien to any other of its rafter-perching kind. This pigeon took an elevator. This elevator was directed by an unknown and unseeing and from now on henceforth unimportant character. It is the other passenger of which follows the events of this article. Within only of and restricted to the previous and the next sentences. This man who wore broken jeans and a biker jacket (purchased in a thriftstore with a credit card) walked out of the elevator at the top floor, trailed by the pigeon. The pigeon never made it to the roof because he was intercepted by a wary onlooker walking down the stairs. His name was Porky Paul, K4K by his friends. Now imagine Porky Paul walking down such a staircase. The metal stairs boom with each step as he struggles to pull his fingers from within the unrelenting grasps of his handlebars. He stumbles, falls down the stairs, and lands on top of our pigeon, killing them both instantly. It rains Klondike bars. I said imagine. The camera of your imagination has been smashed and now reality finds you to be an elevator opposite of the one pretty pidgey tottered out of. Perpetually hungry, you get a signal from the Elevator God that level four has three podgy tourists awaiting consumption. Your mouth closes fast, but only somewhat. A skinny uncoordinated woman tries to squeeze in but both her shoulders brush your lips. By the time you open your mouth involuntarily and then close it in the same frustrating fashion, level four has already been consumed by your cousin, 6. Insubstantial. There is a man named Six. He lives in South America. Venezuela. Right next to a restaurant. Six is good friends with the restaurant owners, Maria and Perèz. They say business is bad in Venezuela. So they plan to take their ventures elsewhere to the Australian Outback, because a taco stand will be more appreciated in the middle of nowhere.
You are no elevator..
You are me.
I am you.
I am a giraffe. You defecate on a safari car and someone on the inside extends an enchilada for a treat. You eat it. You hate it. This is the story of one of three podgy tourists in an elevator. Coincidence? Hardly. This is the story of Giovanni Cartucci. I’ll shut up and read.