Parallax. Pa-ra… Out loud he rolled it around his mouth: ‘Pawallax. Pawa-ra-llax.’ Something about lines, important to upright composition. Or getting everything in the right place. The Pipes Man was barely upright and was not in the right place, but at least he had his good mate Captain Morgan along for support and a smoke to keep the system buzzing.
He attempted to survey all lines in front of him: the diagonals leading into the distance, the horizon ahead, the repeated straight patterns of the empty buildings stacking angles against him… all twisting, operating on different planes, and distorting outwards from the centre of his vision. It was all a bit much for a man; you could let it overwhelm you, or you could lean right in.
The Pipes Man lifted a leg off the ground and tilted his body precariously sideways to align his vision.
Teetering on the one leg, he shook out a ripper of a fart with the other that reverberated around the hardware and nearly knocked him off balance. Presto!
Shot taken, he held the position a moment longer and grinned triumphantly.
‘Here’s your ss-moking gun.’
