An Excerpt

“Hoo-Boy! Jackson just got gunned down in the street!”

“What? How do you mean gunned down? Was he killed in a hail of bullets or was he called out?”

“Oh he got called out alright, by that mean som-bitch china-man. Funny thing is, Jackson got shot in the back.”

“Now that’s just down right cowardly. If yer gonna call a man out, you’d best have the grapes to stand there and take what you git, ‘stead of havin’ yer man hidin’ in the shadows.”

“See, now, that’s what I thought. An I went an’ checked the alley where the shot came out of. And you know what I found there?”

“Huh?

“Nothin’ but Jackson’s old six gun. The barrel was still smoking. How’s that for weird?”

“Well, it’s plenty weird, but weird don’t surprise me none in this town no more. Not since that storm with the green lightnin came through here some years ago.”

“What, you mean that St. Elmo’s fire storm?”

“ Yeah, I reckon. Didn’t know there was a special name fer it. Figured the green lightning storm was good enough. How long ago was that now?”

“Shoooot, must be on six, seven, years by now. When was it that Old Farmer Brown and his creepy wife moved on into the Old Hanson Farm? It was bout a season before they got here I reckon.”

“Yep, it was bout that long ago, bout six, seven, years passed now. Them folks may be a tad odd but the make some damn fine cheeses and sausages. Reminds me, the missus asked me to stop by their place and get some milk and butter. Hope they aint sold out yet. Looked busy in the market today.”

“Aw they had plenty when I went through there bout an hours time past. You should be fine. What do you reckon theys gonna do with Jackson’s body now? Last time there was a gunfight they just left that body in the road fer three whole days ‘fer somebody came an got it.”

“Well I imagine his widow’s gonna wanna have him interred at the church. Prolly burry em tommorrah. Poor Molly. Shes’s gonna be mighty broke up bout this. Anyone see where the china-man went to after the shooting?”

“I heared some folk say that them chinamens took of towards the woods out side a town. They prolly still there. Why d’ya ask?”

“Meh, I dunno, sure has been a long time since we had us selves a good ol’ fashioned lynchin’. I think I might go see what old Jedadiah’s up to. See if he still makes that real good rope.”

The Grass is Always Greener

Inside the bar was dark and smoky. The green-glass shaded lights above the pool table were the only things piercing the darkness. Old gamblers and pool sharks swam around the tables anxiously waiting their turns to enter the feeding frenzy that is college I.D. night. Stoned hippies, drunk jocks and coked out frat boys are easily parted from their money and their women as the chemicals artificially inflate their confidence and ability. The air headed sorority girls, who accompany them, make the best trophies of the night. The locals love it when the college kids go slumming in their bar.

The aroma of stale beer and cigars hung heavy in the air, almost as oppressive as the noise blaring from the ancient jukebox that still plays seven-inch E.P.’s. A group of peroxide blonds flipped through the menu giggling over names like Wayne “The Train” Hancock, Waylon Jennings, and Merle Haggard while looking for the most recent top forty single.

Some drunken fools pranced about on the dance floor, each with a drink in their hand spilling it down the back of their date. It was autumn and the bar brought in hay bales and pumpkins for decoration. The hay bales wouldn’t stay baled for long and the pumpkins would mysteriously walk away by the end of the night to find new homes on front lawns or smashed in the gutter.

Every stool, table and chair was occupied by at least one person and in some cases two or three. Each booth was packed with five or six people. All of the booths were bastions of laughter and good times, except for one. People looked nervously at this booth and shied away from it with the feeling that if they sat down there they might never get off the tattered Naugahyde again. This booth sat in the farthest, darkest, and dankest corner of the bar, hosting a single tortured soul in this house of merriment and mirth. Situated next to the restrooms, the sour stink of vomit and saw dust lingers in the air. This booth was usually reserved for pimps and their merchandise.

Jonathan had been occupying this spot for the better part of a month, his company credit card ensuring that he gets to wallow in his misery for as long as he damn well pleases. The seats are torn and are stained with what one can only hope is beer and not a more foul liquid. He drinks his first beer in three swallows and then asks for a shot of rail whiskey because he has lost all self-respect. Any man who respects himself would order a whiskey by name from a shelf. He slams the shot and gets another beer. Round after round this cycle continues as Jonathan sits and cusses like a sailor under his breath and chases away anyone who would try to sit with him.

Jonathan was in his early twenties, too young to be so full of self-loathing and anger to be drinking his life away in a dive bar on the outskirts of town. He hasn’t even lived a third of his life yet, but he can’t stop thinking about the choices he’s made. The big choices: picking one girl over another in high school; saying one thing to a friend when you really meant the other; choosing to party instead of doing homework. In short the kind of choices that you make when you’re young that shape you into the adult that you’ll become. Each time he thinks about the choices he’s made he can’t help but assume his life would be better if he had chosen differently.

His second hand suit was crumpled and creased in the wrong places. He knew that he shouldn’t sleep in his cloths. He’s usually so blind drunk by the time he gets home that he passes out on the couch with the T.V. on. He hasn’t shaved in over a week and the blue-ish stubble of his midnight colored beard gives his face a deathly pallor. He knows he looks like shit and doesn’t care. Each time he looks in the mirror he just smiles and says: “No rest for the wicked.” He couldn’t remember when he stopped caring about hygiene.

Every night Jonathan sat in the booth at exactly five p.m. after his incredibly boring job as a sales rep for a small box company. He doesn’t eat, he just drinks. He’ll stop at White Castle on the way home. Like clock-work, he would look at his watch at exactly 11:11 p.m. at which point a tremble would touch his lips. The tremble continued until it became a slow, steady, labored breathing. The heavy breathing led to a soft crying which in turn led to a silent sobbing. Every night Jonathan would sit in his booth with his head down and his body would heave and shudder with each ragged, tear choked, breath from 11:11 till 11:34. At 11:34 his tears would dry up and he would lift his head up feeling like a newborn baby facing the world for the first time. His head, filled with that great emptiness and calm that follows an emotionally charged sob, took over and he could look at the world, this bar — his life — with new eyes. A sense of awe and wonder would fill his alcohol-addled brain. Absentmindedly he would lift the pint glass in front of him and drain what was left into his mouth and order another round.

One night after he finished work he went to his usual seat, ordered his usual drinks, and did his usual crying. This night was different. The leaves had begun to change and there was a crispness in the air that Jonathan didn’t recognize. He new something different was going to happen, he didn’t know why and he didn’t know how he knew but, none the less, he was sure that tonight would be different. At 11:35 someone approached his booth. He looked up ready, and even a little excited, to chase them away with some creative insults he had been cooking up. He looked up when the spectral shape of a woman’s shadow drifted across his beer soaked table. When he tried to speak his tongue wouldn’t move. It couldn’t move. It was as if the booze had finally pickled his tongue and left it to sit in his mouth, useless. He couldn’t possibly let any of the vile things he had prepared slide past his teeth to fall upon the ears of this angel. To say anything to this heavenly creature at all would be as profane and contemptible as kicking god in the balls. Jonathan remained silent as she stood there waiting for him to invite her to sit.

As she stood there waiting for his invitation and peering into his eyes, Jonathan took the time to look her over and to decide if she was real or an alcohol induced hallucination like so many pink elephants before her. She was wearing tight blue jeans and a low cut black tee-shirt as was common for girls from this part of town. Her arms hung limply at her sides with her thumbs threaded through a belt loop, her hip cocked out to one side. Her raven black hair hung in loose curls around her shoulder and framed a face of delicate white skin. A roguish smirk hid under a pug nose.

When Jonathan looked at her eyes he could feel time lurch to a halt. They were the most wonderful and terrifying eyes he had ever seen. They looked like the reflection of a moonless sky at midnight in a still pond. He could feel himself gazing into these quixotic pools of eternity and felt a sense of tumbling through space towards an unknown destination at an accelerated speed. He pulled his eyes away from her hypnotic gaze, and looked at her as a whole. She was a stranger to him to be sure, but there was something incredibly familiar about her. All the same, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. It made him feel dizzy.

“May I sit here with you or is your foul language going to scare me away?” she asked with a smile.

His jaw moved weakly, trying to form words. Instead of speaking he stood up and held out his hand, gesturing for her to sit. He had to show her that chivalry was, in fact, still alive. He was speechless and found it hard to believe that a woman of such perfect beauty was talking to him. She sat down with a smile.

“So chivalry is not dead,” she said with a twinkle in her voice, “It’s not often that a man gets up for a lady anymore. You look like you need a drink, can I buy you one?” she asked him. He could only nod. He felt like he was dreaming. “What are you drinking?”

“Uh-uh-uh…” stammered Jonathan.

“How about one bourbon, one scotch and one beer?” she smiled at her reference to the song. She never got tired of that joke. Jonathan noticed the laugh lines at the corners of her mouth and eyes and thought for the billionth time that she was beautiful.

“Yea, uh, th-that sounds great.” He stammered. “Sorry, I’m not used to company. Not many people talk to me here.” he paused feeling the blood rush to his cheeks and the quickening of his pulse, “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Oh I’ve had lots of names, but tonight you can call me…” she paused, thinking, “Lucy.”

“Muh-mines Jon…”

“Jonathan. I know.” She interrupted, “I know a lot more about you than you know.”

He had never been very suave with the ladies but he was a drunk now and riding the same wave of artificial confidence as the jocks at the pool tables. “You are too beautiful to be here in this dive, at this time of night, on this side of the tracks, on your own, talking to me; the lonely, sad, pathetic drunk in the corner.” He paused wondering if what he wanted to say next would amuse or frighten her off. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to happen. “Did one of my friends hire you to come cheer me up?”

“What?” she brought a hand to her mouth to hide a smile.

“uhhh, never mind. I just thought that… never mind.”

“Thought what?” the woman asked. She was curious what it would be this time. She’s had this conversation literally billions of times and the questions were often similar, occasionally unique, but rarely dull. This was one of the interesting parts of her job.

“Well I just thought that maybe you were a call girl hired by one of my friends. Beautiful girls like you don’t come up to me and buy me drinks.”

She just smiled and giggled to herself. Just then the drinks arrived. She lifted her bourbon and motioned for him to lift his. “Not quite…” She winked, clinked his glass, swallowed the shot and set the glass down with a thud.

Jonathan gave a nervous little laugh after he set his empty glass down.

“So, why so glum chum?” she asked him after she took a long pull from her beer.

What the hell, I might as well tell somebody. “I broke up with my girlfriend for very stupid and selfish reasons.” He felt a little better after admitting that. He hadn’t really talked about it with anyone till now.

“It can’t be that bad…” She replied. “Believe me, humans have been around for a very long time and they have made some pretty boneheaded decisions.”

Jonathan lifts his scotch in salute and takes a sip.

“Well I ran into two old high school sweethearts around the same time and they both started flirting really hard with me and I was like ‘Hey these girls are hot and my girlfriend is like old news and stuff.’ So I dumped her. I thought it was time to get some new action. I’m still young and in my prime, why should I be tied down with just one girl right now, you know? Unfortunately my motives must have been obvious because both the girls from high school stopped talking to me, and the ex wouldn’t return my calls. After I realized what I had done, who I had hurt, and what I had lost I decided to come here and start drinking till I either ran out of money or the will to live, so far the company credit card hasn’t been maxed out yet.” He felt better for admitting all of this out loud to the strange woman and himself. He felt a burden lift from his heart. A sort of weightlessness and warmth filled him, something similar to a sip of warm bourbon on a crisp autumn evening. A small smile parted his lips.

“Well that’s not the first time I’ve heard that type of story. Why is it that people never seem to be satisfied with what they have until they willingly give it up?” she said.

“Well you know what they say about the grass always being greener…” he replied with a dismissing wave of his hand.

“Not really. I’ve never understood that particular saying. I’ve always been… well I’ve just always been.” A frown began to touch the corners of her mouth and Jonathan thought his heart might break. She checked the pocket watch hanging from her belt. “I’m sorry Jonathan, but its time to drink up. This is the last round. It’s almost time to go.”

At first he was confused. Where were they going? He refused to believe that he had made that good of an impression that she was going to go home with him. That was just plain impossible. He reached for his glass and watched in awe as his hand passed right through it. He tried again two more times just to be sure it was happening. Then a spike of awareness stabbed him in the brain. He knew who this woman was. To make thing even more strange, he remembered where he knew her from. He remembered her bending over his crib when he was a tiny baby boy, and she whispered something in his ear. Something that he felt was part welcoming, part gentle warning; like he was just a visitor in someone else’s home and would have to leave after a while. The words were just faint echoes in the back of his memory, a little too distant to be heard, but he could feel them, feel the power and the weighty meaning that they carried. He stopped grabbing at his glass and accepted his fate. “How long have I been coming here?” he asked her.

“Well you’ve been coming here for a little over a month but you’ve been dead for about a week.”

“How come you didn’t come to get me sooner?” he asked feeling like a child for some reason. Probably it was because he was in the presence of a being of infinitely vast knowledge and experience, an incarnation of one of the fundamental forces of the universe. Perhaps it was because he realized just how foolish he had been in the last month and would not be able to make a better choice next time. Perhaps it was simply that the most beautiful woman he had ever known had come to help him.

“Well it seemed to me that you needed a little extra time to mourn your loss. Sometimes heartache is the worst punishment of all. But you’re going to a different place. A slightly better place than here.” She said.

“But don’t suicides go to hell?” he asked nervously.

“Well if you want, that could be arranged, but it’s not the only option. You see, you didn’t even realize what happened so you are sort of exempt from his little guidebook. The truth is, I don’t really know where most people go. I just help them along to find the door.” She finished her beer and swallowed the last of her scotch. “Its time to go…”

Jonathan sighed and finished his drinks. He was still a little confused but took the woman’s hand and let her lead him out the door and into great beyond.

A Warning Wrapped in a Tirade Surrounded by Mumblings

It sort of seems like the end of the world is coming sooner than expected. What with all the revolution in the middle east, rising gas and oil prices, the republican douche baggery in the mid-west, federal investigations into "radical Muslim" Americans and now this tsunami that almost destroyed Japan. It seems that the end of the world is to be fraught with a bunch of little shit gnawing at the edges of civilization making it merely uncomfortable and difficult for a while till the axe man cometh to deliver the final blow.

I was more or less under the assumption that it would come with a lot of pompous fanfare. I’m not going to lie, I’m kind of hoping for the heavenly host to descend from heaven and begin rapturing the hell out of everybody. At least, then, one minority group can claim victory and we can end the religious argument once and for all. I’m not a terribly religious man, and if the world does end in a religious prophecy, I don’t particularly care which one. It would be nice if it ended on a more positive Buddhist note, with everybody attaining enlightenment and ascending to a non-corporeal existence, but people are, en masse, too stupid and selfish to attain as complicated a notion as nirvana.

Putting end of the world scenarios aside (with great reluctance, because they are kinda fun to postulate on), I’ve been hearing about all of these events that are taking place around the world and here in our own back yards and I have noticed some disturbing correlations. I could use the old cliché; those who don’t learn from the past are doomed to repeat it, but I wont. There are plenty of smart people out there who are paying attention and trying very hard to get the rest of us blind idiots to see what is happening. Take the Middle East and northern Africa for example. Egyptians stage a successful, mostly peaceful and non-violent revolution in January of 2011. Then the next thing we know Yemen, Bahrain, Iran, Iraq, Jordan, Tunisia, Saudi Arabia, and Libya are all experiencing some sort of civil unrest. The leaders of those countries are power hungry despots who, for what ever reason, can’t or won’t listen to the will of the people they are governing. I’m not trying to cast blame or judgment or claim that there is a better way of governance. I’m just making a laymen’s observation. Now that all of these Middle Eastern and north African countries are experiencing civil unrest to varying degrees for varying reasons it has affected things here at home also. The countries are major oil producers for the entire world. Let be explicitly clear that I am in no way developing a conspiracy theory. These are just observations about recent events and the connections between them as I see it. So now that there are threats to the power structures of these oil producing nations oil prices have to go up. That means more expensive gas for us here in a country whose entire economy is based on ridiculously cheap petroleum.

I’m sure that some reading this is rolling their eyes and groaning because they are trying to see where I make the conspiracy theory, or because they think I’m full of shit and don’t know what I’m talking about. That’s fine, go ahead and roll your eyes and groan. It cannot be argued against that our country relies on the cheapest gas and oil prices imaginable. Without it our cities would crumble. Good bye New York, good bye Chicago, goodbye L.A. none of those places would function very well without cheap oil. But I’m getting distracted form the current events theme of this tirade. On to the mid-west. Now we have a lot of republican duche-baggery going on here. Both the Wisconsin and Michigan governors are pushing legislation through that can essentially enable them to become the kind of leaders that are being evicted from their offices in the Middle East. They are stripping people of some serious rights. If unions lose any kind of power the dismantling of our rights is quickly ensured. It’s a very small hop from dismantling, discouraging and stripping unions of their power to suddenly banning public assembly for any cause or reason. What the fuck would happen if the planned parent hood funding dries up completely and then some pro-choicers want to hold a protest about it. Do we get to see the riot cops show up and disband the assembly like they did in Wisconsin to prevent the democrats from entering the senate chambers? That’s not something I’m ok with.

Then there is this new shit in Michigan where the governor is trying to push legislation that gives him the right to declare an economic emergency in any town in Michigan. Then he can appoint ANYONE he chooses to come in and act as the relief coordinator, including but not limited to corporate representatives. These relief workers have to power to nullify contracts, remove elected officials from office, and remove township status of cities and towns. What the fuck! That has the potential to bring back company towns and company script to replace the ever weakening dollar bill. Might as well go back to the gold standard. At least then we know what is actually worth something. Again, I’m not trying to create conspiracies where none exist, I’m just making observations.

So we seem to be living in an era punctured with unusually potent social and political unrest. This, in my opinion, is a good thing because it’s the only way humans are going to evolve at all. But will we even survive that long? For the past few years it seems to me that we have been witness to more and more devastating natural disasters. There was hurricane Katrina, the tsunami that killed 300,000+ in the Philippines, the Haitian earthquake, the tsunami in Japan that was caused by an 8.8 earthquake. When are the volcanoes around the Pacific Rim going to start exploding? It’s getting to the end of days here folks. I’m convinced of it, although I probably haven’t convinced any of you and that’s fine.

I was beginning to worry about the whole end of the world thing but I changed my mind. The world will remain, it all just relative really. And perspective. Whether the end of the human race comes at the hands of dissatisfied constituents, power mad rulers, good old mother earth, aliens or the righteous hand of god has yet to be seen but I think that we will see increasingly bad shit happen over the next few years till it all comes to a breaking point and the shit really hits the fan. But like I said, I’m not going to worry too much. The worst-case scenario is that I don’t survive the coming calamities at all. The best case scenario is that I do survive and won’t have to pay my student loans back.

Waxing Poetic

Hey there, hi there, ho there,

Wont you sit by me for a while?

Its been a tough day and I could use the company

No? Oh you're going to the dance with the other boy.

oh, not boy, other girl? Oh, well I wont keep you then.

Hey there, hi there, ho there,

How are you ? Come have a seat.

I swear I don't bite. Unless that is,

of course, if you'd like me to.

No, no, that's alright, I understand,

you are a busy bee

and your friends are lonely for you.

Hey there, hi there, ho there,

take a load off and talk with me.

You look lovely today, I dare say.

Do you look fat? No of course not

why would I think that? Right then, well, off you go,

just keep all of your party people in tow.

Hey there, hi there, ho there,

come take a powder with me, have a rest.

it's hot out there and you seem the best.

What? Oh right, the time for tests and degrees is at hand.

Well, no more of your time then will I demand.

Hey there, hi there, ho there...

Baptismal

In one quick motion it was all over. It seemed too easy. It’s time to leave now. I’ve finished my business. I wrap up my tools and descend the staircase. Strangely I’m calm. I thought it would be different. I thought that there would be more of a rush, a sense of power. But instead there was only a small amount of regret. Regret that it should have been harder. The job was too easy. I had always heard that the first one was the hardest, that the first one would stay with you for the rest of your life, haunting you. I can already feel the memory of the experience fading like the after image of the Roadrunner as it speeds away from Wile E. Coyote. I can barely even remember her name. Janet maybe. Or was it Selma? I don’t know. I don’t think it matters now.

Things seem to be sharper in contrast now. I had never really seen the wood grain on the handrail of my apartment building before tonight. Hell, I never even realized that it was made of wood before. It’s beautiful. All of the skinny lines worn down and polished by thousands of tenants touching it, rubbing it, using it for stability. A sudden flash of memory darts across the landscape of my mind. A couple is fornicating on the staircase as I am walking to my apartment. She is bent over moaning and holding on tightly to the banister. He looks at me as I try to pass unnoticed. “Aint a free show old man!” he spits at me. I run. This had suddenly turned into a bad neighborhood. Perhaps that is why I had done it. It had been a good neighborhood once upon a time.

I’m walking past the spot where that act of desparate love had happened and I can see their ghosts still humping madly as I descend. Still calm I finally reach the landing and decide to check my mail. It had been a few days and I was expecting some over due bills and a movie. I didn’t even realize my keys were in my hand till I heard them jingling musically, like wind chimes. My mother had wind chimes on the back of her house. She was a mean old bitch. Hardened by a life of mistreatment, which she had passed on to me. Never let me take it easy, she always had me doing chores or beating me for not doing them well enough. But I remember that I liked the wind chimes. The only beautiful thing in our house when I was growing up. The mailbox was a disappointment as always. Someone else’s discreet brown package was in my box again. I kept them whenever that happened. Usually they were pornos. Sometimes worse. Once I got a snuff film. Another time I got an ear preserved in a brownish fluid in a glass jar.

It was time to leave. I sighed. I had grown to like it here. The anonymity that comes with living in a large apartment building was comforting. I never had to talk to my neighbors. Most of them are foreigners so I couldn’t talk to them any way. I stepped into the cold night air. Stepping through the threshold I feel everything washing off of me, being left behind in the foyer of the building. It was like a dry baptismal. Everything bad I had ever felt about myself or anybody else washed away in the soft orange glow of the streetlight. It all stayed behind me in the den of sin I had come to call my home. I see the garbage can that is provided by the city, for the first time. It was right there, right there on the corner. Right in front of the door. I’m shocked that I had never seen it before. I couldn’t think of a better place to dispose of my tools. I probably should have left them in her apartment. No way to track my movements either way. No direction to lead anybody who would want to be looking for me. I don’t really want to leave the claw hammer. It was a good hammer. It was the first one I bought. I learned how to be a carpenter with that hammer. It was too dangerous a thing to have right now. I deposited the bag into the garbage can and walked down the road.

I could hear the sirens now. I was a block away. There was nothing to tie me to the building now. I had left my wallet in my apartment. As far as anyone knew I was just a derelict hobo roaming the streets looking for change or a meal. I’m headed to the park a little ways from my old apartment building to sit on a bench. After what fells like an eternity that was set in fast forward I sit on one of the wooden park benches. It’s damp. Was the damp from me? I guess it doesn’t matter. I look up at the sky and feel the early misting of a thunderstorm settle on my face. It’s cooling. I smile. Simple pleasures for simple men. The baptismal I had in the doorway had remade me into a simple man. I raise my hands to wipe away the water and everything goes black. The blackness is terrifying. I wonder if this is how she feels. With my face in my hands I weep. I’m not sure if it’s joy or sorrow that I weep for. All I know is that I am washed clean of my sins and have been given a new life. Something profound had just happened to me. It starts to rain and I am laughing.

Fear and Loathing in Mount Rose (title pending)

(this story really needs a better title. suggestions are appreciated)

Fear and Loathing in Mount Rose

By Jade Bové

“Fuck,” You think as you peek through the drapes of your cookie cutter house at the end of the cul-de-sac. “Phil just put up a pink flamingo in his yard.” You don’t know why this gets your blood boiling but it does. Why the fuck should he have a pink flamingo adoring his yard in such a way that suggests he is better than the rest of you. He’s not better than you. “Fuck that. I’m getting five of them.” You think silently to yourself, as if the very idea might betray itself orally without your permission.

At dinner you tell your averagely attractive wife, whom you met after college, in an Applebee’s, about Phil’s flamingo. She nods her head in a complacent fashion, because she either didn’t hear you or just doesn’t care. “Well fuck you too, then.” reverberates and echoes, like distant thunder, in your skull.

The next day you find yourself at Menards, but when you ask at the information desk, the crabby old lady with the bluish hair and swimming in her moo-moo, laughs at you and tells you that “We don’t sell that gaudy kind of lawn garbage here.” Still fueled by the need to continually one-up your neighbors, you head over to the Home Depot. It is less than a ten-minute drive from Menards to the Home Depot. You pass the same fast food joints that are lined up in the same order on the same side of the street in every other suburb, or interstate off ramp. Burger King, Taco Bell and Pizza Hut sit on the east side of the four lane county road like smug little fat kids who have just gotten their favorite snack via temper tantrum. Which reminds you that your daughter, Daisy, needs to sign up for those water aerobics classes at the Y. “God-damned suburbs.” You repeat this mantra again and again till you flick on your turn signal to enter into the massive parking lot that cradles the Home Depot, the Cub Foods, and the Barns & Noble. Who would have thought that these big-box stores would need to accommodate 5oo people at a time? You certainly didn’t when you decided to move out here.

You wander around the parking lot looking for the closest spot. “When did this become my point of pride, my biggest priority, being able to find the closest parking spot? I used to own a god-damned motor cycle for Christ’s sake.” For the millionth time you’ve questioned what the hell happened to you. You remember back to your high school and college days when you were careless and fancy-free. And skinny. God damn, how you used to be skinny. Remember that? Yeah, you do. The remembrance of being able to fit into that speedo and not look like a total schlub, sends you speeding to the nearest Subway exactly two store fronts down from Home Depot.

You order a foot long turkey bacon and ranch sub. Extra ranch, extra cheese, extra bacon. No lettuce because you heard on the news that it has a high potential to carry eboli or ecola or something like that. “Anything to drink with that?” asks the young woman at the register. She’s bored and really doesn’t care what you want. She’s attractive, really attractive, in that perpetual youth sort of way that young adults possess and covet, and she knows it. She wants you to stop looking at her like that. Close your mouth. “Uhh, yeah sorry, I’ll take a large Coke, but could you leave out the ice and fill it with half diet?”

“You fucking moron!” Her eyes scream at you as she plastically points at the self-serve fountain and hands you a cup.

You’re ashamed now and you should be, you don’t even know how old that girl is and you tried and failed to be a little healthy. You hurry out the door and waddle, that’s right you can actually feel yourself waddling now, over to Home Depot. Loosen your death grip on that sandwich dude, its not going anywhere. Look, you’re leaking creamy ranch all over. Greedily, like some starving inner city kid, you start stuffing your food hole with your sandwich while looking around for the lawn ornaments section.

The obnoxious hunter-orange hue of the store is confusing your visual cortex. You stop and admire a 450 drill-bit set conveniently marked down from two hundred dollars to $179.99 “Why the hell is it so hard to concentrate on so simple a fucking task as getting a stupid lawn ornament shaped like a bird?” That’s right. You remember again for the umpteenth time that you didn’t always have this short of an attention span. Remember that paper you wrote in college, the one where you argued Star Wars validity as tasteful literature and not pop-culture trash when examined using Pierre Macherey’s “Theory of Literary Production”? No, of course you don’t. You started watching too much TV, you spend all day in a cubicle staring at a computer screen crunching numbers that don’t mean anything to you any more.

Shaking your head, tying to focus, you find the lawn ornament section. “Ok what the hell all do we have here?” looking around you see lemon yellow plastic sunflowers, pin-wheels of various shapes and sizes in an array of horrible metallic tints, a small ceramic well with a “no fishing” sign fixed to one side. “What a bunch of crap.” You think.

Look, over there, a pear shaped employee, wearing the hideously orange smock that alerts you to their helpful disposition, is making her way over to you.

“Are you finding everything ok, sir?” she says to you while eyeing the ranch dribbles and breadcrumbs that adorn your teal stripped polo. “Uh, yeah, I guess…” you manage to stammer. “Do you have any pink flamingoes? You know, for lawn ornaments?” Jesus, you sound like a douche. You see her muffle a little smirk behind her chubby hand.

“Is it for you mother?”

“What the fuck? My mothe…” you think quickly. “Uh, n…no, its for a, uh, a prank. For one of my neighbors.” You mumble. Idiot.

“Well, we don’t really carry those any more. They are more of a specialty item these days. Have you tried the Wal-Mart?” That’s right, shake your head. Who buys pink flamingoes anyway? You can see her silently judging you and your tastes behind her rimless glasses.

“I guess I’ll try over there.” You manage to mummer meekly. You shuffle out the door to get in your car. The mid afternoon sun temporarily blinds you and you begin sweating immediately. “God-damned weather man was wrong again. A comfey 73 degrees my ass.” you lament as you look upon the TCF bank sign and see the thermometer has reached a scorching 92.

Go on, get in your mini-van. Yeah, that’s it, crank up that A.C. You guzzle down the last of your “healthy-ish” soda and immediately find you self in the midst of the early Saturday afternoon shopping rush hour. “God damnit! Don’t these people have anything better to do than go shopping all the God-damn time? Can’t they see that I have important shit to do? Get the fuck out of my way fuckers!” you scream and pummel the steering wheel with your doughy fists. But its ok, the windows are up and the A.C. is blasting at full bore. No one actually heard you. Wait, what was that? There, out of the corner of your eye. A car full of young people, girls and boys, they look to be… what? 18, 19, years old? They see the rage painted on your face and burst out into hysterical laughter. You have become the asshole. Someone caught you in the moment of a grown-up’s temper tantrum and recognized its absurdity. C’mon man, act you age. You watch them while waiting for the traffic to move on. Your death stare on full power, and you see them pass a joint from the front seat to the back. You get a sudden mirthful thought.

“Oh right, I’m the asshole, well I’ll show them just how much of an asshole I can really be.” Smirking to yourself, you make a great show of waving your arms to get their attention. You look behind you and see that the line of cars has doubled in the last few minutes. You wave at the kids, and hold up you Blackberry. You start giggling in your head but the absurdity and hypocrisy of what you are about to do is too much and you burst out cackling uncontrollably. The kids are watching you in stunned bemusement, laughing nervously, and giving you a thumbs-up, as they watch your finger slowly and purposefully dial a 9, then a 1 and then another 1. You show them that you are definitely punching the send button and watch the color drain from their faces. The driver panics like any inexperienced pot-head would and peels out of the line of cars, driving his nice new Mercedes SUV over the ornamental rock filled median and almost kills a tottering old lady who is trying to get into her dead husband’s ‘87 Cadillac. Never fully intending on pushing the send button you clear the number and put your phone back in your pocket. Smirking darkly, you feel better about yourself but you don’t know why, nor do you care.

“Awright, let’s get this fucking show on the road.” You mutter under your breath. The traffic has moved you up to the light and you know that you will get through on the next cycle. The years you spent as the pizza guy during college left a lasting mark. Watching the opposite light change from green to yellow, you rev your engine, and as soon as the light turns red, you gun it.

However, you temporarily forgot that all of these suburban stoplights all have left turn arrows. “Shit, shit, shit, that was stupid!” you hiss. Narrowly, you miss the on-coming car and cruise through the light amidst a cacophony of violent klaxonating. That thrill of a near miss head on collision seeps into your bones and you hands get all tingly. For the first time in days, you are smiling. There, on the left, you see a Lowes. “Fuck it,” you think. “I don’t care anymore. I’ll go to Wal-Mart and if they don’t have any, I’ll just put a flaming bag of dog shit on Phil’s front door step.”

Wal-Mart. That last bastion of hope where you can buy everything from underwear to guns 24-7. The one place in the burbs where white trash and blue bloods can co-mingle and no one says anything to each other because they are all too embarrassed to be seen there. They’ve seen the news reports, they know and you know Wal-Mart’s track record. Having had your fill of embarrassment for the day you shrug off all modesty and drive into the lot as if you owned the place. And to be honest, you do. You helped approve the zoning for it and were one of 100 people who pitched in an equal share to franchise it. God, what happened to you man? Remember that leather jacket and all the punk rock shows you went to? Now you own a fucking Wal-Mart franchise? You used to be cool man.

Looking around the lot, you decide that everybody and their brother is at Wal-Mart today. You should probably just quit now and accept defeat. Go home to your reasonably attractive wife, cute but annoying kid, and your golden retriever with the lazy eye. Just let Phil win this one. No? You won’t accept this defeat? You mean you’ve grown a pair and you are going to stick it to him this time? You’re going to show him that anything he does you can do bigger and better? Awesome! About frickin time! Oop, there’s your spot all the way at the very farthest away corner from the door. You park and get out. You’ve already forgotten about the obnoxious heat wave. By the time you get inside the sliding glass doors your polo is mostly soaked through, and you are slightly out of breath. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a mother herd her small children away from you while keeping an accusatory eye on you. “The fuck ‘er you lookin at lady?” the thought spreads like mercury till it’s the only thing you can hear in your head. She probably thinks you’re some kind of pederast because you’re sweaty, wheezing and have white stains on your shirt. Go grab a cart.

Inside, while strolling down the lawn care aisle, you see a woman trying in vain to discipline her three-year-old son. You notice her ass and compare it to your wife’s. Her’s is better. “I god-damned told you no touching!” The face slap reverberated off the rubber lawn hoses, dull and hateful. You shake your head as you decide that it’s none of your business how the woman disciplines her kid. Hell, if it was you, you might have just belted the kid for real, instead of that wussie limp wristed action, and taken him home. These kids today are way too spoiled but you know that if you ever raised a hand to Daisy, your wife would dump your ass faster than Obama can say economic reform.

Not caring what kind of response you get this time, you go up to one of the shelvers, and ask where you can find pink flamingoes. The young man stands up and turns around. You see his pierced nose and wonder what your wife would say if you came home with one of those. Then you notice his blue smock. “Why the hell do all of these big-box employees wear smocks?” you wonder idly.

Shhh, he’s speaking. “Pink flamingoes? Geese, uhh, I dunno. Are you talking about the movie? Have you tried the indie film section? But we might not carry it, John Waters might be a little too liberal and controversial for this place…” you walk off in disgust. “Fucking emo-hipsters, and their cool hair and ironically colored shoes and their tight girl pants.” You mutter under your breath as you continue on down the aisle.

Finally, after what seems like hours you find the damned pink flamingos. Look at ‘em. There must be close to a hundred of them here. You dig through them, wondering why you didn’t think to come here first. “Of course Wal-Mart has fucking pink flamingoes. You dig for the ones that have the brightest color, the straightest legs, and the curviest necks. There, you have found ten perfect pink flamingoes to put in your yard. Good for you. That Phil is really going to look like some kind of asshole now. You feel your chest swelling with pride. You did it. You are going to one-up him so bad now. Go to the cashier. You deserve a Hershey bar on the way out too.

You smile nonchalantly at the cashier, a pretty, young blond who may or may not be in high school. “It’s hard to tell these days, especially out here in the suburbs where pop culture rules more than it should, with fifteen year old girls trying to look like they are twenty and eighteen year old boys trying to look like they are sixteen year old girls.” you think to yourself as she bends over to scan the plastic aviary. Good for you, you just had your first original thought in over three months. Keep it up. Just don’t look down her shirt.

“Didjya find everything ok?” she asks in that practiced and obviously fake friendliness.

“Oh yeah, no problem, I knew just what I was going for.” You wink at her before you can stop yourself. Your overly inflated pride has given you an overly false sense of security and self-confidence. Seriously? You’re hitting on this girl? At you age? Your friends have daughters about her age. Pay and get out.

You spend your drive home flipping between NPR and the oldies station, which, sadly, has started playing music that you first listened to in high school. “Has it really been that long? Am I old? High school was only…” you count on your fingers, “…17 years ago.” Loser. Just like the song that’s on the radio now. Soy un pertador baby. It sounds so lame now. You try to remember what the music said to you back then. You recognize vague references to what you believed to be love and rebellion at the time. A twinge of that teenage rebellion ekes its way to the surface of your skin, it tingles for a moment, but somehow it doesn’t seem as important now. It’s not as exciting as it used to be. You have a mortgage to think about and a wife to keep happy. Oh, and don’t forget that you have neighbors to compete with. And that damned dog with the lazy eye.

You turn on Galaxy Drive, the main thorough fair that leads to the street that leads to the turn off to your cul-de-sac, Star Gazer Circle. For the millionth time you wonder aloud, “Who the fuck names these streets?” You check the clock on the stereo that is screaming that song about walking 500 miles. It’s nearly five o’clock. Just about dinnertime. You turn the corner that will put you in your little nook of a neighborhood in less than five minutes and hear the clatter of the plastic birds in the back. “Oh man this is going to so sweet, after dinner I’m gonna invite Phil over for some beers. Then after the wives go to bed I’ll break out the whiskey and get him real drunk, but I’ll cut mine with water and pour him doubles. Then when he’s wasted and goes home, I’ll put these fucking birds up and then we’ll see who has the last laugh!” what a great plan you schemer you. Moron.

You round the corner and head on in. Much to your dismay your field of vision is flooded with a sea of pink. “OH FUCK YOU PHIL! YOU GODAMN ASS HOLE!” you scream at the top of your lungs. Wait. Wait just one damn minute. Why? Why are there about a hundred pink flamingoes in your fucking yard? That son of a bitch! He was fucking with you the whole time. He knew that you would spend the whole day racing around looking for the damned pink aviary. He was playing you from the start. They all were. They were all in on it. Pull into your driveway, right now. Everyone is laughing at you. Phil, Don, Hugh, you wife, your daughter, that weird lady who lives at the end and never talks to any one until she needs someone to shovel for her. Even the dog looks like he’s laughing at you.

“That’s it; they are ALL getting flaming bags of dog shit in front of their doors tonight” is the last thing you mutter to yourself as you duck your head and walk inside to a mediocre lasagna and limp salad with too much ranch dressing followed by a night of bad cable television.

Love Letter

Love Letter­­­­­

by Jade Bové

You were perfect. Almost too perfect. Like a porcelain angel with black wings. You were one of those girls who seemed like she was one of the guys but still retained your femininity and sexuality. You would cuss and drink whiskey, fart and smoke cigarettes, and laugh at the kind of jokes I would only tell around my work buddies at the hog plant. I used to watch you from the sidelines, till I decided that I had had enough of all the other drunk asshole-douche bags hitting on you, taking advantage of you and your generosity. I was tired of you getting eyeballed and groped by these fat hairy truckers who stopped at this lonesome tittie bar out on the inter-state. Sure you had your faults just as the rest of us do, like your meth habit and the baby at home, (thanks for letting me take care of him by the way. It was a real treat) but you were something else. Long raven hair, full, pouty, strawberry red lips, and skin the color of bleached bone. I loved tracing patterns, with my eyes, in the small scars that criss-crossed your calves and forearms, the older ones more haphazard and rugged than the fresher pink ones. The craterous cigarette burns that dotted your torso were so artfully placed that they served only to enhance your beauty. There was an elegance and a precision about their placement that told me you knew how to handle pain and maybe even liked it.

I remember the first Halloween show that you did that Snow White routine. That really drove all the guys wild. Like a bunch of hogs during feeding time, or just before they went to slaughter. I remember you had a thing for the Disney princesses. For each month’s holiday you’d dress up like one of the little strumpets and do a routine for the beer guzzling truckers, and give a few free dances to some of your regular customers. I was always too shy to go up to you when you put on these shows. I liked to watch from the bar. I was never one to bring much attention to myself, unlike the swine that drifted in here night to night or week-to-week depending on where their freight was going.

I loved to watch you. I could see in your face that you didn’t like your job. But it was a living and we all have to work. Never smiling until the last minute when some fat fuck caught your eye. You were always looking away from the guys on sniffers row. I knew that you were looking for me. Whenever you looked at me I’d give a wink and a nod, like my granddad taught me, and raise my glass to you. You’d flash a toothy grin at me, one that would touch your eyes, and then let your face droop back to that look of dull boredom. When you weren’t looking at them you were looking at the floor or at me. I got the real smiles, they got disdain stretched across your face. That’s how I knew that we were destined to be together. I could see it in your face that you didn’t care for the kind of swine that came in here and paid for your attention.

I remember a couple of times you were not in a good mood. One time stands out in particular. A bachelor party had come in, remember? The groom was wearing a pink wedding dress as part of a prank or some weird city boy hazing ritual. I could see Jezebel’s fire behind your eyes that night. I never asked why you were so angry that night but you sure let that city boy have it. When his friend put him up on the stage tied to the chair in front of the pole, I had no idea what was in store. That poor boy didn’t either. I remember that you were on an Iron Maiden kick. You started dancing for this city boy. And were getting caught up in the music and the tempo. This is what I will never forget, the way you did that poor dog. You got up on the chair, grasping the pole above his head and began smashing your crotch in his face and his head snapped back slamming into the pole. At first it was kind of funny, even a little erotic, but then when the song was over and you didn’t stop and started screaming at him. The bouncers rushed in to drag you off. You clawed one of them in the face pretty bad. The city boy’s friends were terrified. They grabbed him down from the stage. The back of his head was busted up pretty bad. Looked like when Big Roy takes the bolt gun to a pig at the plant. You fucked that boy up good. I slunk out side to help those boys get their friend to the hospital. I put their friend in my van and took care of him while they went back to the city with the party bus. I remember thinking that night that you were going to be perfect. There was no doubt in my mind that you would love me for who I was and that wee were going to be very, very happy together forever.

Another night, I remember, a couple of the truckers got a little too grabby. You didn’t like the rough hands touching your smooth as butter skin. I didn’t appreciate it either. They didn’t know it yet, but you were mine, and mine alone. You started shrieking like a harpy at them and calling them all sorts of colorful names that should never have to pass over such gorgeous lips. You even tried to toss a bar stool at them. Your throw was limp at best and the stool landed on a table sending a cascade of broken glass twinkling and tinkling to the floor. When the bouncers got the two animals out into the parking lot, I went out to watch and wait. The bouncers gave the two a good roughing up, but I didn’t think it was enough. They had touched my porcelain angle, they had scuffed the lacquer smooth finish with their oafish paws. I couldn’t let that stand. I was going to show them that there were consequences that were much worse than a light thrashing for guys who get too grabby with the girls. Later, when I was washing the blood and hair from my hands and forearms, I found one of the guy’s teeth in the rolled up sleeve of my button-up denim shirt. I was proud of what I did, I felt chivalrous. I got a nice big rig and rusted out Ford pick-up that I could sell for about ten grand. That’s how I paid for your ring. Remember when I told you that story? We were driving away from Reno just after our wedding night. You had asked where I got my money from. I told you not to worry about it, but you were persistent. Kept bugging me the whole drive south to Death Valley National Park. I didn’t want you to be worrying about money because it’s not the wife’s responsibility, it’s the husband’s. Then you gave me those puppy dog eyes and I new I couldn’t keep the truth from you. When I told, you said that it was very romantic and that I was a regular Bossa Nova. Sometimes you could be so stupid it was cute, but I knew what you meant. I always kinda saw myself as more of a Don Juan though.

The night I introduced myself to you was a magical night. Do you remember? It was a few weeks after I sold the pick-up and big rig. The moon was full, the size and color of a sow’s ass. I could smell the electricity in the air over the tire fire that was raging over on the other side of the inter-state. When I walked through the parking lot that night, with the tire fire raging, the noxious smoke roiling into my breathing space and the neon lights of Clovis’s Truck Stop and Family Eatery spilling eerie half light onto the asphalt, I thought briefly that this is what hell must be like; stinky and oddly lit with a tittie bar full of fat hairy swine. I let the thought slip away because I had other, more important things to think about and do that would take all of my concentration and bravery. There was no need to dwell on it further, I knew that I would be seeing it again soon enough. You can’t live forever.

I lit up a cigarette to calm my shaking hands. I always get anxious before it starts. You know that. I pushed open the plastic padded double doors to the strip joint and made a beeline for the bar. The cigarette wasn’t doing the job. This was going to require some Canadian Club. I felt the comforting warm and fuzzy feeling wrap its arms around my brain numbing some of the more fantastical and deranged thoughts, as I placed the empty shot glass on the bar. The butterflies in my stomach were letting out their death rattles as they drowned in the sickly sweet Canadian brown water. Taking long and confident strides towards sniffer’s row I noticed that you were entertaining an older gentleman. He was pudgy and pink and balding. He was soft. I could tell that he never had to work hard for his money. His type was one of three on the top of my list. Fat rich guys who haven’t done an honest day’s hard labor, getting rich off the sweat of someone else’s back. Then there are the arrogant college boys with white baseball hats, collared tee-shirts, and those flippy-floppy sandals who think they’re better than me ‘cause they use fancy ten-dollar words and drink imported beer from green bottles. And then there are hitchhikers. Bunch of goddamned hippies who need to get jobs, buy cars, eat meat and be real Americans and drive every damn where. Besides, nobody cares who they are or where they’re going.

But this is about you and us and I have gotten away from the point, I told you all of this before, when we were headed out of Utah and towards Roswell. (I never did quite get your obsession with the aliens. I always figured if they could get past the fence and The Minute Men, good for them)

The fat, pink man dressed well, dark blue sports jacket, gold watch, gold cuff links, gold tie clip, a rich C.E.O type with a white collar on a cornflower blue shirt. Why the hell was he in this sty? I remember thinking. It didn’t really matter though. I left you alone so you could make your money, but I took note of this man. I had plans for him.

I lingered around some of the other dancers; all the while I never let my gaze drift from you for too long. I kept a mental list of all five of the boorish prigs that paid for your company that night. Enjoy it pigs. Enjoy it, you slop wallowing, bottom feeding swine. I remember thinking, getting angrier and angrier. This is the last time you’ll ever get this kind of attention from her again. The last time you can pay for her kindness. After tonight, you’ll just be a memory and she’ll be all mine. I had worked myself into a curious fever, my brain felt like the smoke choked parking lot outside and I realized that it was going to be a very busy night. I needed to relax so I let myself drift through thoughts of us living a happily married life and lost track of time. You had moved over to talk to one of the other dancers. I signaled for another whiskey, downed it and got up to make my move. I had taken two steps when I noticed the CEO walking out the door. His face was shiny and he had sweat circles under his arms. I could smell his fear, Old Spice and cheap scotch. I knew that he knew that he wasn’t supposed to be here. I followed him out to his car.

Twenty minutes later I was in the bathroom dabbing the sweat from my brow, trying to pretty up for you. That one hadn’t exerted me as much as the last few had. I was still in great shape for a 38 year-old. It’s comforting to know that my high school wrestling had stuck. I was feeling pretty good. I even had a little chubby growing. I went back out to the lounge and saw you standing alone by the bar. Perfect. You were perfect. The night was perfect. Nothing could possibly spoil it. I signaled for two drinks and slid up next to you and introduced myself. Your eyes sparkled like green pond water on a sunny day. I remember you asked me to buy you a drink. I remember the coy smile you gave me when you turned around and saw your Jack and Coke already sitting there. I was clearly more than you had expected. You knew that I was a catch and that you would be a fool to ignore me. I was and still am a gentleman after all.

The old man who sold roses out of a five-gallon plastic bucket came in. When you had turned away to talk to one of your friends I bought one of the roses and stuck it in your empty glass of ice. Then I ordered another round. When you turned back around and saw the rose your smile could have killed me dead and I’d have died happy. You were radiant, especially when the spotlight bounced off the baby-oil slick that covered your body. Your perfect toothpaste-commercial smile could have lit up the whole dank and dark bar. Imagine my surprise when I found out they were dentures. You were always good at making me laugh with your jokes and little pranks. Like when you left your dentures in my water glass that one night on our honeymoon. Sorry you had to wear sunglasses after that for so long by the way. You were falling in love with me, I could tell. I knew that it was going to be a wonderful honeymoon. Absolutely nothing was going to ruin this for us now. It was destiny, it was fate, we were meant to be together. You asked me if I wanted a dance. I declined. I told you that there would be plenty of dancing later, then I asked you when you’d get done working. You winked at me and said that you aren’t supposed to tell. But we both knew that I knew that you knew that I knew you’d be done at three. I knew that you wanted me to come back, your winks and light touches on my legs had told me so. Each time you brushed your tits against my arm betrayed your feelings for me. I told you I had to run some errands but that I’d be back and we’d party some more later and make some sweet sweet love. You laughed and said “I don’t think so” a little sarcastically and went into the back dressing room, shaking that sweet fanny from side to side for me. You had a light sarcastic streak, which was part of your charm. God I loved you. I still love you, which is why writing this hurts so much.

As you walked away, I saw two of your other customers headed towards the door. They had white hats and flippy-floppy sandals. Round two was upon me. I needed to get up and move around a bit anyway. I had a few too many Canadian Clubs and my head was feeling a little cloudy. Some fresh air was all I needed. Besides, I needed to get my wedding gift and the van ready for you. I walked out the door about a minute after the two jackals who were howling with laughter. One of them was talking about how badly you had wanted him. The other one was a slobbering mess, his sentences punctuated with gibbery laughter. I knew they weren’t your type and that you were just being polite. They were easy to find through the oily smoke and strange half lighting of the parking lot. Drunks are suckers for helping out with changing a spare tire. Two at a time was little difficult but my love for you was my strength and let me handle the two of them. Three down, just two more and then your wedding present would be ready.

I went back inside and freshened up in the men’s room. The cologne dispenser was empty so I used the air freshener cake hanging on the wall. It wouldn’t do to greet my future wife smelling of sweat, booze and someone else’s cologne. Lighting a cigarette as I walked back out to the lounge I took a survey of who was still there. It was getting near 2:30 in the morning and it was a Tuesday so the herd had thinned itself out a bit. That was fine by me, the fewer swine in here hogging your attention the better. There were just the three closing dancers and you, the two bouncers, the bartender, the D.J and seven or eight fat truckers. I couldn’t see the other two vermin on my mental list and the truckers were looking at the other girls.

I got another drink to take the edge off. I was still feeling the rush of anticipation. I couldn’t wait to show you your gift. I waited at the bar for you to come to me or for the two vultures to show their scaly faces. When you showed up first. I decided that three would be good. It’s a magical number. In all the old fairytales everything happens in threes. And I wanted us to have a fairytale life together. When you saw me you sidled up just like a dog who knows that it is doing something that it isn’t supposed to, but acts like it isn’t doing anything wrong, while keeping one eye half on its owner. That was good. You knew how I liked my women already. Coy and aware of who was in charge. That would save a lot of time I would have had to spend on training you. What a wonderful woman you were already. We were going to be so happy. I couldn’t wait for three o’clock to roll around. You asked if I wanted to buy you a drink and asked me my name again. As if you didn’t know. What a cutie pie you were, trying to play hard to get and pretending that you didn’t know me.

We chatted for a while longer. You kept “accidentally” rubbing your boobs against my arm and touching my inner thigh. “Oops…” you’d say, and flash a grin when your hand got too close to my junk. So god damned adorable the way you played the innocent. You were really good at flirting with me, you knew just how to get my engine roaring. Then the D.J. called you up to the booth. You requested some bands I hadn’t heard of. I remember how perfect the songs had been though. One was about a perfect day and the other had a haunting chorus that just chanted the word voodoo over and over. I will remember and cherish the sounds of those two songs forever. They will always remind me of our first night together. This night was getting more perfect by the minute. I couldn’t wait to show you your wedding present.

When you came back over to me I looked at you sheepishly and told you I had a present for you in my van. I asked you if you wanted to come back to my place for some drinks and some fun. I felt like the devil was in me. It felt good. It’s the hot part I like best. The hot waves that beat with my pulse. You hesitated, but I flashed you my award winning smile and I assured you that it was going to be magical, that you would love it as much as me. You glanced at the bartender. He said something like he’d walk you to your car if you wanted, but I think he was just jealous that you were obviously in love with me and not him. It only took one more please to seal the deal. I always told you that it was fate. You gathered your things from the back and we walked out into the hellish night. It was really hot. I remember you saying so and that the summer heat made you hot. I read between the lines and got your meaning. I’m no dummy. I hope you remember how fantastic a time we had that night.

There was a storm brewing off in the distance. The sticky southern air made your hair frizz and curl. Adorable. I pointed out the lightning flickers to you off to the west. You said it was pretty and asked if I had some coke. I did but it was in the back of my van along with your wedding present. You gave me a funny look when I said wedding present. It was a long walk to the van and I told you that I had been watching you for a long time. I told you that I was falling in love with you and that soon enough you would love me too. I started walking faster pulling you along. Sometimes I wish my hobbies didn’t require me to park at the very ass end of the parking lot in the shadows behind the idling big rigs. Your stripper heels didn’t help get us there any faster. I remember you whispering under your breath that I had better have some damn good drugs and a wad of cash ready. Ever the optimist you were. I said I did and that I also had something better.

You were shivering, despite the heat, when we walked up to the van. You asked why I parked so far away and I told you it was so I could have a nice walk to clear my head after too many drinks. I asked if you were ready for your present. “There better be some fantastic drugs in there, and big wad of cash” you said again. I told you to relax.

I pulled open the sliding door to reveal three of your customers hogtied and gagged. Their eyes were rolling wildly in their skulls with fear. The CEO was squirming to get loose and failing. I never forgot the knot tying lessons from boy-scouts. One of the college boys was passed out in a puddle of his own vomit. The other one was staring straight at me, frozen like a deer in headlights. I giggled, excited for you to open your presents. I looked over at you and you were trembling. I asked you if you were okay. Then I realized that you probably wanted the drugs I promised. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my special cocktail, part Meth, part L.S.D. and a touch of testosterone. I gave you the pill and then handed you the hunting knife. I told you that these swine were for you to butcher. I told you I had seen the glares that you wore and how you only smiled at me. I reminded you of your past assaults on the swine and that now was your chance to get even. I told you that this is who you were and that you could do this, you had been preparing for this moment for your whole life with the little cuts and burns, and the assaults on customers. You could take control and take it all out on them instead of your self. The look of bewilderment on your face eased into acceptance and then something I had never seen before, something I still cant put my finger on.

I’m not sure what I expected. I knew that you would be delighted with your present, but I hadn’t anticipated your reaction. I thought you would have been timid about it even shy and ask for help. I thought that we would maybe share a tender moment before things became considerably less tender. What I did not expect was for you to lunge at them in a rage unrivaled by any of hell’s furies. The knife was a silver blur in your hand as you stabbed and slashed and sprayed arterial fluid all over the interior of my van. I was so happy. We could finally be together. This was perfect. This was true love. You had exceeded any and all of my expectations. We were able to share everything together. You were so beautiful that night. I will never forget how the blood collected in the faint, fine lines of your face, turning it into some visage of demonic beauty.

You stopped after awhile, after your fury had subsided. There was not much left that resembled the animals. You had chopped the hell out of them and even jointed one of them. You told me, then, that your daddy took you out hunting when you were young and had to learn how to dress the animals. I was in awe. You wiped the blood from your face. I lead you towards the front seat and buckled you in. You were exhausted and now it was time for me to take care of you. I went to the driver’s side and hopped in. We went home and made love on the floor of, what was then, our home. After that I bathed you and gave you a baptism for the damned. Then we made beautiful love again.

We disposed of the bodies later that morning and left town after that. Remember what you said when I asked where we should go first? It was the perfect choice. Reno. We had to get married. It was our destiny. We had to go there and have a proper shotgun wedding. Just before we got to the chapel I told you I had another surprise for you. I could see the devilish glint in your eye when I said surprise. I pulled over on the side of the street and popped the trunk and followed you around to show you what I had. You looked confused when all you saw was the beginning of our collection, our shared trophies. “Look under the mason jars”, I told you. I saw your big doe eyes go all weepy when you saw the strip of pink cloth. You crushed the wedding dress to your chest and started crying. It was the most beautiful thing anyone had ever given you you told me. We sauntered into the chapel as if we owned the world. You asked the dolly pardon look-a-like for the dressing room to change while I set up our Elvis Presley wedding. We celebrated by collecting a runt from a heard of Elvi that night. We had to keep a low profile after all.

The following two and half years were amazing. Going wherever the wind and a full tank of gas took us. I will never forget the bond that grew between us while roaming the county’s various truck stops and tittie bars. Our collection grew and grew.

I guess I let it get a little out of hand. We started getting sloppy. It was when you started going out on your own collecting runs that I knew the honeymoon was over. It was my fault really. I failed you in our relationship and I am so incredibly sorry. I have always had trouble with communication. Communication with women in particular. I never fully explained the rules to you. There are a set of rules that govern the chaos that we succumb to when we go collecting. The first rule is don’t shit where you eat. No collecting where you or your family lives. The second is never make the next collection within 150-miles of the last one. The third, and probably the most important, the one that you broke, the one that broke my heart. Two as one was acceptable, but two separate collectors in the same state was against the rules. You got the bloodlust in you and started going out without me. We were a team. You called me your partner in crime and that felt so good. It felt natural and true. When I discovered that you had started your own collection I knew that the honeymoon was over. A two-year honeymoon is a long time by anyone’s standards, but you fucked up. I fucked up. But my survival instinct kicked in. I’m only human after all.

That’s why I surprised you in the shower yesterday. I wanted to see you as you are, natural, not all dolled up in your princess costumes. The piano wire cut my hands pretty badly but I wanted to see your face one last time. The hunting knife would have been the wrong tool for you. You deserved better. Something cleaner. Something poetic and musical.

Now before I start filling in your grave Denice, I want you to know that I love you and that I will never ever love another as much as I love you. Nobody will be able to share with me what we shared. I know that you are a little scared and that you are probably in a dark place now, and that is a frightening place to be. I’ve watched many others go there. If you are still near, if your soul is still near by, don’t watch. Just head into the tunnel, after the darkness you will see the ruddy glow of the fires of passion that my love has created for you, on the other side, to keep you company till I can be with you again. I’m burying this letter to you with you so that you will always remember the day we met and how much I love you.