[updated 12/6/11]
It occurred to him the sophisticated code on top of which everything runs included a randomizer and so the possibility of orderly, predictable ascent and descent was just as unlikely as any other possible sequence. Just as evolution has its leaps, devolution has its plummets. And all the various contributing components play out according to their own spastic algorithm. Nothing comes entirely as expected. Which is why some mornings the walk from parking garage to office induces–out of nowhere–a pain in his left knee so biting he’s forced to a self-conscious limp. Other mornings he feels fit enough to jog the two blocks in his khakis and street shoes–and has. On this morning, a headache attacked his temples at a point he located just about where the spine meets the skull. And the odor, the now-familiar stench that persisted despite his lathering, scrubbing, spraying, daubing, that, too, assaulted him.
Mind perturbed and so still alive, Koestler continued to make his way down Brian Street [insert 12/6/11](when frisky he called it “Brain”)[/insert] and began to speculate about the effect of chemical imbalance, or change, on body odor. “Maybe,” he thought, “this is the ‘old man smell’ you hear the TV talking about.” Monday morning zombie faces passed him on the sidewalk. [delete 12/16/11]and[/delete] He took notice enough to avoid an awkward collision. [insert 12/6/11]And the domesticated minefield of[insert] dog turds, castoff pieces of fried chicken, clammy sputum, empty bottles, and apparent vomit [insert 12/6/11](Castlebury canned beef stew?)[/insert] all failed to stain his shoes. At 5th Avenue, the 87 bus showered him with black diesel exhaust as it pulled away from the stop and rerouted Koestler into a new thought: Which was worse: the sooty black chemical cocktail flowing so freely from the ugly, growling city buses or the benzine [edit 12/16/11]peppering seasoning[/edit] the general atmosphere of the capital of Appalachia?
Ed Desautels' Maximum Fiction 