The jail cell was cold, at least the floor was, and that's where I slept. That asshole Statone was just standing there, waiting for me to wake up, watching me sleep like a fucking creep. I would have reached through the bars and taken that smug grin off of his face if I could have, but some mix of the alcohol remaining in my system, the hangover I was already feeling, and what I imagine was some significant blood loss prevented me from standing up.
And I'm out again. Everything turns black, and truly, I'm relieved. I've been arrested too many times to want to deal with that shit anymore.
I come back to in the hospital. I've got more lines hooked up to me than a fucking Japanese fishing boat. My wounds are covered, I've got blood coursing through my veins again (as opposed to pure booze), and the hydration IV is a miracle cure for a hangover. I speak from experience. Seeing as nobody's watching and I've been through worse, I disconnect the hoses and walk out. Sometimes I wonder if I truly am a dead man in the land of the living, nobody even notices I'm here. Maybe it's the other way around though.
When I get back to the shop there's someone banging on the back door. "Hold your fucking horses man!"
"Actually, It's chickens."
Oh yeah, it's the third Wednesday of the month, chicken delivery day. What a smart ass. I open the door and he's standing there with his clip board.
"I got 3 dozen chickens for Dave Gor-lome-e."
"It's Gorlomi, and I only ordered 10."
"Well I've got three dozen here for you, you can take it or leave, but it's not my job to barter."
All of a sudden there's an uproar from the chickens and by the time we turn to look, the guys already down the alleyway with a dozen chickens in suit.
"How about you just give me 10 fucking chickens."
I got 10 chickens.
I wonder what happened to my car. I guess I'll check the garage for it. Stop by the DnD, too; I am WAY too sober for this shit.
It didn't take long to find my car, there were skid marks going around some chick with a trumpet on the floor leading me right to it. I ask her if she saw how it got there.
"Where is here?"
Fucking drug addicts, I may drink, but I haven't gone bat-shit crazy yet.
The car is unscathed, at least not more than it used to be. It's my baby. A 1969 Lincoln Continental with suicide doors and a sort of green-rust coloration. I had my first kiss in this car. It was a long time ago, but I think it actually happened, but you never know about the past in a place like this.
Wednesday, March 31, 2010
Monday, March 15, 2010
End of the World
I don't remember last night but I can smell her cheap perfume, I know she was here.
Abbie works at the "antique" store next door, and she's the closest thing to love I've ever felt. I'm a regular customer, and every once in a while she throws in a freebie. I don't know if she likes me, feels bad for me, or if I was just too drunk to pay. I know I paid last night though, because she's already gone. When it's free she usually spends the night, and I get to wake up next to her, hold her for a bit before I stumble off to find some booze and a cigarette.
So I'm laying here, alone. I've got a headache, it's from the hangover and the thick perfume in the air. It's some time in the middle of the day and I can hear music coming from down the street. Carnival music. It sounds hollow though, there is no joy in this town, even if Disney World came to visit.
What kind of carnival would come here? There are no kids in this town, and that carnival has got to be sitting alone, waiting, crying and screaming for attention from the loudspeaker on the ferris wheel. If a carnival is set up, and nobody is there to enjoy it, does it really exist? Or does it's music just drift off into the cosmos, another question unanswered, floating along in a void of futility?
There are no kids in this town. Don't get me wrong, children are born, but they've already got gunshot wounds in their DNA. If a kid's born with a silver spoon, he'll use it to shoot up soon enough. I was born with a 5 o' clock shadow and a hangover, my first words were "You got a light?"
The carnival is a sad site. There's a ferris wheel that's about to break off and roll away; run away. The bumper cars have been through DUI's and hit and runs. The haunted house is just a house of mirrors, so we can see the ghosts and monsters that we are. The only person I see doesn't look familiar, hasn't been in this town too long. Some woman riding one of those swinging boat rides, saying, "Aye-aye, captain!" Her life would be a lot easier if the ride just crashed and burned.
There is one attraction in particular that peaks my attention. It has started to drizzle and there is a little hut with a gypsy woman, a supposed fortune teller. That's ironic, futures don't exist in this town, just the present and what you wish had never happened. I'm willing to pay a dollar to see this.
She grabs my palms with surprising force. They're sweaty and bloody, but she doesn't seem perturbed. A silence falls over the hut and the trickle of rain becomes rythmic and hypnotic. She gazes deeper and holds tighter until she gouges my hand with her long, dirty thumb nails. "What the fuck is your problem woman?" I'm about to storm out when I see that she is crying.
"It's going to be really, fucking, brutal. I know you, Dave, and you've brought forth enough blood. IT'S TIME FOR YOU TO SHED SOME!"
I really fucking hate when people say stupid shit, that you really shouldn't believe or care about, but it gets to you. That gypsy bitch has got me in the liquor store buying a handle of whiskey and 3 packs of cigarettes. I walk into the parking garage next door and demand my keys from Pokey Swain, the woman who works there. She sees the handle and denies me my keys. With a nice "Go fuck yourself" I realize that I have a spare.
I've never left this town, but things are about to change. I've got half a tank of gas and I'm going as far as it will take me. I hit a highway and take a leisurely pace. I'm already through half the handle and I'm almost out of cigarettes. My vision's blurred but there's nothing to see. I drive for what seems like eternity before things go black.
I wake up in a jail cell. My head is killing me, but it's not just the hangover, it's bleeding. I'm covered in scrapes and bruises.
"Good morning, sunshine." Great, Lieutenant Rocco Statone, just the man I wanted to see.
Abbie works at the "antique" store next door, and she's the closest thing to love I've ever felt. I'm a regular customer, and every once in a while she throws in a freebie. I don't know if she likes me, feels bad for me, or if I was just too drunk to pay. I know I paid last night though, because she's already gone. When it's free she usually spends the night, and I get to wake up next to her, hold her for a bit before I stumble off to find some booze and a cigarette.
So I'm laying here, alone. I've got a headache, it's from the hangover and the thick perfume in the air. It's some time in the middle of the day and I can hear music coming from down the street. Carnival music. It sounds hollow though, there is no joy in this town, even if Disney World came to visit.
What kind of carnival would come here? There are no kids in this town, and that carnival has got to be sitting alone, waiting, crying and screaming for attention from the loudspeaker on the ferris wheel. If a carnival is set up, and nobody is there to enjoy it, does it really exist? Or does it's music just drift off into the cosmos, another question unanswered, floating along in a void of futility?
There are no kids in this town. Don't get me wrong, children are born, but they've already got gunshot wounds in their DNA. If a kid's born with a silver spoon, he'll use it to shoot up soon enough. I was born with a 5 o' clock shadow and a hangover, my first words were "You got a light?"
The carnival is a sad site. There's a ferris wheel that's about to break off and roll away; run away. The bumper cars have been through DUI's and hit and runs. The haunted house is just a house of mirrors, so we can see the ghosts and monsters that we are. The only person I see doesn't look familiar, hasn't been in this town too long. Some woman riding one of those swinging boat rides, saying, "Aye-aye, captain!" Her life would be a lot easier if the ride just crashed and burned.
There is one attraction in particular that peaks my attention. It has started to drizzle and there is a little hut with a gypsy woman, a supposed fortune teller. That's ironic, futures don't exist in this town, just the present and what you wish had never happened. I'm willing to pay a dollar to see this.
She grabs my palms with surprising force. They're sweaty and bloody, but she doesn't seem perturbed. A silence falls over the hut and the trickle of rain becomes rythmic and hypnotic. She gazes deeper and holds tighter until she gouges my hand with her long, dirty thumb nails. "What the fuck is your problem woman?" I'm about to storm out when I see that she is crying.
"It's going to be really, fucking, brutal. I know you, Dave, and you've brought forth enough blood. IT'S TIME FOR YOU TO SHED SOME!"
I really fucking hate when people say stupid shit, that you really shouldn't believe or care about, but it gets to you. That gypsy bitch has got me in the liquor store buying a handle of whiskey and 3 packs of cigarettes. I walk into the parking garage next door and demand my keys from Pokey Swain, the woman who works there. She sees the handle and denies me my keys. With a nice "Go fuck yourself" I realize that I have a spare.
I've never left this town, but things are about to change. I've got half a tank of gas and I'm going as far as it will take me. I hit a highway and take a leisurely pace. I'm already through half the handle and I'm almost out of cigarettes. My vision's blurred but there's nothing to see. I drive for what seems like eternity before things go black.
I wake up in a jail cell. My head is killing me, but it's not just the hangover, it's bleeding. I'm covered in scrapes and bruises.
"Good morning, sunshine." Great, Lieutenant Rocco Statone, just the man I wanted to see.
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