|Confessions of a Fuck Up Artist
||[Jan. 2nd, 2018|10:02 pm]
Meteorologically speaking the city of Terminus now sits somewhere between a witch's tit and a gravedigger's ass. Up the block the prostitutes have begun skinning their Johns to bundle under layers of their still warm flesh. The neighborhood arsonist weeps flicking matches at frozen corpses waiting at the bus stop. Wolves circle the gas station at the corner of Columbia and Memorial and the pump's not reading my card. This fucking day, I tell you, begins with me manning the office solo with all other available hands either on leave or in sick bay. Gone now my Space Wifey, my Brother, my Magpie. Back to Jax, back to Andalusia, back to L.A.-L.A. Land they go to get on with the business of living, learning, loving as best they can. |
Me? There's nothing here but cancer, cold, and...
... of course one of the wolves pounces on to the hood of the Toyota just as I'm reaching into the glove box for mom's Rutger.
This fucking day, I tell you.
I ease back up out of the Corolla, nice and slow, as a 200 pound feral beast snarls a throat sized bite not but six inches from this belabored sigh. But my right is numb but still strong enough to point the Rutger's barrel straight into a face wide enough that blind man couldn't miss.
"Don't do it, baby!" This cat in bright blue parka with a white furred trimmed hood says stepping out of the Food Mart, "Even if you don't miss the head you still ain't gonna have enough bullets for all of them."
At this the stranger in the parka nods at the other wolves circling me. They're beautiful, an engine of death with a pack loyalty men can merely ape, in shades of gray and white. Their growl a prose that soldiers and the vicious plagiarize. Under the silver dusk their gaze phosphorescent and trained on me - the center of their universe now - to be devoured like the sun come Ragnarok Day.
Not taking my eyes off the wolf on the roof I point the gun at the pump. "Fuck it maybe I take all of us with it."
"No, no, no, no, no, no, no...," Mister Parka takes a step towards me sending two of the beasts to turn on him and bare teeth. No fool he, the man freezes in his tracks, raises mittens up in the air, and stage whispers the advice he just might end up literally be dying to tell me.
"I know you think 2017 was a bad year," he informs me and despite the situation I can only chuckle."Nothing but bullshit and nightmares. But you're wrong, baby, dead wrong."
"Am I now?," I say not taking my eyes off roof wolf crouching back on hind haunches, coiling up for that larynx chomping jump.
"Yes, sir, I'm sorry to say that you are," Mister Parka smiles and the wolves slink back from him, "because 2017 wasn't a bad year it was an initiation and not just for your sorry ass either, Jack. You got a lot of folks who love you, in lands faraway to not just but a few blocks from here."
"Tell them that," I say thumbing back the hammer on the Rutger while bobbing my chin towards roof wolf.
"Oh I am, I'm telling everybody, this year was an initiation. Ugly times ahead, blacker than the belly them wolves wanna swallow you up into. But 2017 wasn't meant to be easy. No, sir. It was meant to separate the whiners and the quitters from the punch drunk desperate. Because I'm here to tell you - in times like this only the Punch Drunk Desperate are truly free. Even if it's only the freedom found at the wrong end of a firing squad (which is both of them really). 2017 was an initiation, Jack, don't blow it now ."
Winds blowing in my ears now so all I hear is white noise roaring and my heart pounding.
They got the wrong Jack matched with the wrong city because my last name ain't London. Wolves, guns, ice, and metaphor this shit is all out of an eighth grade book report.
"So whadda I do here?," I shout watching the fur on the back of roof wolf bristle up.
"Sing, Jack... it's the only way out of this now."
This fucking day, I tell you.
Clicking the hammer back and forward gently as finger eases tension from trigger and with a breath that freezer burns the lungs sing the only song I'm suddenly capable of remembering.
"We're a happy family, we're a happy family
We're a happy family, me, mom and daddy
Sitting here in Queens/ Eating refried beans
We're in all the magazines/ Gulpin' down Thorazines
We ain't got no friends/Our troubles never end
No Christmas cards to send/ Daddy likes men"
Roof wolf gives a confused puppy tilt of a head as big as my chest and closing my eyes I struggle for the rest trying to remember jumping up and down in Brooklyn with the Moms.
"Daddy's telling lies/ Baby's eating flies
Mommy's on pills/ Baby's got the chills
I'm friends with the President/ I'm friends with the Pope
We're all making a fortune selling Daddy's dope..."
I open my eyes and roof wolf is no more. The rest of the pack as well. Mister Parka has vamoosed leaving me standing in the cold pointing a gasoline nozzle menacingly at the pump. Another frosted sigh and I switch up cards and try again. This time the gas flows smooth. Without another word I get back into the Corolla and punch out of the lot.
Next stop the YMCA and after that whatever the next 363 days they got for me.