A FLAMINGO Somewhere off of highway 417 at an all-hours gas station, a local newspaper struggled between two pale, boney fingers with black dagger nails, when one of which began to tear into a segment on an old pink bird from tampa murdered by the exploitation of adrenaline or beauty or whatever you want to call it. The poor thing collapsed under the pressure, the paper that is, with ink oozing from the cracks and empty words bleeding into even more meaningless jumbles of letters. The woman seemed unimpressed, if not oblivious for lack of any nuance. But the ink began to drip down, starkly contrasting her lunar arms and legs, tracing along her purple veins showing through translucent skin. She allowed the black thick ooze to travel across her wrist and down her long fingers, finally dropping off the sharp point of the black knives at the ends of her hand and down into her throat. Ink-stained lips encircled her, sucking up every last drop.