The sun was out. I'd been driving for hours now. I was tired. I was not hungover. I was mad. This shitty Chrysler Cordoba isn't the luxury automobile they made it out to be. Next time I'll buy some Jap car. There's gotta be something redeeming about a car made by a nation of people that you tried to exterminate off the face of the planet with hell, fire, and hell-fire.
The road was a barren wasteland cutting through endless acres of barren wasteland. There wasn't anything to see; if there were, it sure as hell wouldn't be that much to see.
The last town I was in probably had more cow shit than brains in it. But I got myself a soft-serve and went upon my merry way. Those cud-chewing morons hadn't the slightest clue. So I said:
"Those cud-chewing morons didn't have the slightest clue. Jesus, that town probably had more cow shit than brains in it."
I didn't hear a response.
"Hey," I said turning around, "you still tied up back there?"
Yeah, she was.
Just like old times.
I woke up to a Gene Krupa bass-kick of thunder. Nearly shit myself in the process. Actually, I think I did soil my undies when my office went nova from the lightning. I've had the shades drawn for a few weeks now: haven't seen natural light in quite sometime, which is why the storm scared me back to the days when I'd hide under my bed and then realize that was an awful place to hide from a thunderstorm because there were monsters under there with me. So I'd dart out and make a break for the closet. Well, shit- there are ghouls and goblins in there too. I couldn't go to the old man's room because he was half passed out on the booze and he would think me a monster if I hopped into bed with him and then he'd knock me over the head with a bat. At least he died a horrible, horrible death in Brooklyn and not in Los Angeles...
I sit there. I aim.
Tap, tap, tap, tap.
"I can smell you drinking in there, Stanton! Open the got-damn door!"
I know her voice.
"Uh, not gonna happen, missy. Hinges are all busted up and my legs is pretty bum."
Legs. Good Christ! She had legs that stretched from Aberdeen to Walla Walla. She used to wear these black leggings that had a seam that ran from the Achilles to behind the knee.
"'Are' pretty bum, you moron."
And that mouth of hers. Always had something smart to say. She was usually right, too. Like the time she called me a worthless fuck.
"You're nothing but a worthless fuck, you fucking worthless fuck," she said.
"Yeah," I said swigging back another shot, "You're probably right."
And now? Maybe she's changed. Maybe she's in love with me again.
I got up and shuffled over to the door as slowly as I could. I may not be able to torture her physically, but I can rile that pretty face up and make it red and puffy. She could be the most impatient...
"Holy shit," I said opening the door.
"You gonna let me in or just gawk at my chest all night?"
"Move," she sneered as she pushed me out of the way. She sat down in my favorite chair knowing damn well that it is my favorite chair. "I love what you've done with the place. What was your inspiration for the Chinese takeout rotting on your desk can and the pile of dirty laundry?"
"Post-Modern Dumpster-Fire meets Homeless Reprobate Eating His Own Foot. Why are you here?"
"It's been a few years, I wanted to see how you've been keeping."
"Keeping up with the Joneses just fine, lady."
Either way, I was eating tonight.
Either way, I was going to kill her husband.