’plosion

Behind the tic the clock exploded into a jagged, frayed starfish of space-time, a sound and a glimpse of eternity expanding weakly, then collapsing upon itself.”Not bad. What do you call it?” asked the Drunk, smacking his lips and loosening his grip on the bar.
“Plosion. Its not an explosion, its not an implosion, its just a ‘Plosion’”
“Gimme” said the Drunk, shoving his shot glass at the bartender.
The bartender, a veteran of the Uncivil War, gladly complied, for he was on comission.
“Make it a double.” the Drunk dared, and the bartender accepted.
As was his habit, the Drunk glanced at the clock as he threw back his drink, as a point of reference, I reckon.
Everything was sucking into the vortex that was the clock, its mad face twisting clockwise (of course), the fabric of reality shredding at the edges of peripheral vision, it sounded like a mighty wind in a good theatre, some slight panic, and cinnamon.
“Did you see that?” asked the Drunk, knowing the answer.
“Sure” said the bartender, “thats the best part.”
The Drunk thought about this, and decided not to put his provider to the test, then reconsidered.
“Give me a double double.”
The room went silent. All eyes turned to the Drunk. Since the bartender was the only other one there it was sort of anticlimatic. And it really wasn’t silent: you could still hear the street sounds and the jukebox and the refridgerator, but other than that it was  Tombstone at noon.
Drams were guaged and drachmas were proferred.
The Drunk stood to the task.
The clock on the wall stopped.
The Drunk waited for the previous reaction, but was dissapointed.
He turned to the bartender to protest, but the bartender, like the clock, had not moved an ounce.
He turned and caught the reflection of his own eye in the mirror behind the bar.
He heard the sound of a man’s weight and length of steel being dropped a man’s height.
He smelled the smell of billions of years of life, now dead.
He tasted the myriad biota.
He felt the touch of madness that is civilization.
He looked again at the mirror.
He beheld the likeness that was himself, and saw it against a backdrop of the cosmic All.
He beheard the music of the spheres, and was in harmony.
He besmelled the universal phylum.
He betasted the near infinite combinations of substance.
He befelt the thing that was himself.
He beheld the likeness that was himself.
He looked at the clock.
First, the numbers weren’t numbers anymore, but they were numbers.
Second, Euclid had no clue here.
Third, he was the All that contained everything, and was a thing,
contained within the All, simultaneously.
Then, was that cloves? Or something. Definately some cinnamon at the end.
The bartender was saying:
“Nfft mgg smmmmttn.. Auga mon to cree bal iet. Du, Icey,
au u auriii? Dude, you all right?”
The Drunk was alright.
And he said, ” I’d better stay away from those. Too
much alcohol.”
“23%” said the bartender.
“There it is.” said the Drunk.