Walt opened the door to the coffee shop, and braced himself expecting to be assaulted by that disgusting rap music they played these days and a bunch of stupid goddamn hippies waving pamphlets bitching about their stupid problems. He walked up to the counter and immediately took a step back, The young man, if you could call him that, had a green mohawk, enough metal in his face to look like a fucking robot and eye-shadow around his stupid fucking eyes. "Jesus H Christ" Walt muttered and looked back up at the worthless waste of air who was about to serve him probably the worst coffee of his life. Walt grabbed the cup from the kid's hand and walked over to a window seat and grabbed a paper as well. Walt looked at his cup of coffee with disgust, he raised it to his lips hesitantly and took the smallest sip. He smiled to himself, it was one of the better cups of coffee he had ever had. Walt worked his way though three more cups and finished the entire paper when he realized there was a man staring at him from across the bar. Walt slowly got up and got a good look at the guy as he put the paper back on the rack. It was that god damn investigator, again! "Jesus H. Christ" Walt muttered, " That son of a bitch wont fucking quit will he." Walt walked over to the table and before the other man could say a word sat down across from him and said " Now look, I know he's paying you to do this, but how many god damn times do I have to tell you." The man started to protest, but Walt kept going " Now, you tell my son, I don't want to see him, I don't want to hear from him, The next time I see you, I'm telling you this right now, I will put a bullet in your brain. Are we clear?"
The man looked at him, nodded and walked out. Walt smiled to himself and walked back over to his house, so he could feed Daisy. When he got back to the house, he fed Daisy and grabbed a beer from the fridge. He sat down and took a long sip, and thought. Walt thought about how his son and that worthless bitch of a daughter never did a damn thing for him or his wife. They never once came to visit, spend time with them or even stop by to say hi. They were worthless pieces of shit. When their mother had cancer, they had visited a total of two times. "TWO TIMES" Walt shouted. Daisy looked raised her head with a soft whine, Walt patted her head and she went back to sleep. he went over to the fridge and made himself a sandwich and sat down at the kitchen table.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
So I'm back on the bike. It sucks, been two weeks since I got shot and every single god damn time I pedal my calf burns like shit. At least I got a little laugh on my way to the lake today. Saw some old guy with an army cap on going off on some punk trying to get money playing his pansy little guitar on the sidewalk. Bout time somebody told those guys what they really are. Man I can't stand those punks. Guys like the guy in the army go out and bust our asses everyday, and for some reason they still think they're better than us. Cuz they got talent. America wasn't built on talent, it was built on hard work. And now these punks are trying to take what we earned. That don't fly with me buddy. You know what, I may be miserable but I'm not ashamed. I bust my ass everyday so that people can eat. Try to tell me that I'm a failure. Someone's got to do it, and I stepped and did it. You know, we should stop letting those aspiring artist shop at the supermarket. Make them get their own food. That'll teach them. They should make some kind of reality show like that. I would tune into that one.
ReplyDeleteIt occurred to Bob, as he laid on his bed watching geometric shapes dance around his ceiling, that his life severely lacked substantial social contact. His life was empty, pathetic and alone. But how could he quantify the measure of his life? He had certainly worked hard for the last ten years; he felt he should take some satisfaction knowing that he had made a positive impact on society, and yet he was not satisfied; he felt he still had some impression to make. A million profound images flew through his subconscious as he watched squares twirl in circles around rapidly spinning triangles. Maybe he should paint a picture. At this point, it seemed like an exceptionally good idea. But first, a snack. Brain food. He fished out from his closet an art set which had inexplicably survived from his childhood. A sign. The next moment, Bob was hunched over a canvas with a granola bar slathered in nutella in one hand and a crayon in the other. He feverishly began to draw sweeping strokes, tears pouring down his face as he scrawled across the canvas as if he were possessed. A child was holding a dead rat from its tail in one fist and a book in the other. Blood was dripping down his chin as lightning flashed behind him. In his haste, Bob realized that the images which filled his head had become mixed up in this, their physical manifestation, and yet upon further consideration he could not remember the significance of any of the images on their own. He was losing touch, with his own thoughts and his surroundings.
ReplyDeleteBob was suddenly inspired to go onto his computer, to check the youtube video which reminded him how to "roll the perfect joint." The contents of the large bag he had recently purchased were somewhat different from that of the video, as it appeared to be covered in a fine white dust, and yet it worked well enough. Tearing another thin page from his bible Bob rolled another joint and in a minute the thoughts had returned to his head as though a floodgate had been opened. Intangible, ungraspable thoughts, and yet he somehow knew that they were significant. If only he could articulate them somehow.... Bob looked over at the painting he had created. It wasn't very good, but he knew that art was very subjective, and thought that perhaps there could be an audience for his work, some genius critic who could pick apart the different pieces of the picture and discover the thoughts Bob could only consider floating through his brain. He picked up the picture and walked out his door, grabbing a pack of fruit gushers on the way. A song was playing in his head, one which was as alien and yet familiar as any he had ever heard. Even though it was cloudy outside, Bob felt as though the sun were shining on his face. He approached a man walking down the street with an army cap on.
"Excuse me, would you like to buy this painting?" Bob asked him. The man just scowled and continued walking. Bob sensed that the man was struggling, fighting some unfathomable cruelty, bathed in the agony of his own sorrow and not likely to consider the finer points of an artistic vision spontaneously presented to him on the side of the road. Bob continued walking until he came to a market selling fish. He presented his painting to the fish vendor, and almost immediately regretted it. It was the man he had met in the liquor store, the man who had been shot just the other day. The man scowled at him, and Bob could even feel the energy of the man's hatred exuding from him like heat from a fire.
"Fuck off." The man snarled. But Bob could not divert his gaze from the twisting features of this man, the ageless power which seemed to be channeling through his expression directly into Bob's chest. It seemed to Bob that these were the only two men left in the universe, standing on a precarious platform spinning wildly through space. Bob vomited onto a selection of raw fish, and the last thing he saw as he fell to the ground was a pair of bleeding eyes staring down at him before his world went dark.