The media surround Eeba Go-Hard’s victorious stock car and she begins to field questions:
"You just started driving last year, Eeba. What makes you so good?"
I dunno, mister. I just push- I put the piddle to the middle and swing on ‘til sunrise. I guess I was born to do it. Got a need for speed. For speed and weed. Puff puff pass on the right. Poof, goodbye daddio, I’m a cloud of smoke, in a cloud of smoke; I’m smoke within smoke, hold ya breath, you gonna choke. Inside track, man, inside job. 9-11 was an inside job. Don’t rip me man, just take a rip of this bong. Another trophy. Thanks.
"People got some theories about how you’re so good, lady."
It’s because I’m so small, you see. Like the jockey on his abused, but beautiful steed, I’m slapping my leather boots against the steel walls, man, my smaller size gives my car a little more oomph. Gives it some bite. A little spice is nice sprinkled over the rice. The rain in Spain, daddio! Gives me better gas mileage, so fewer pit stops except for chips. Chip stops and snack time, I got the checkered flag, I got the Domino’s pizza. It’s a guess of chames and game of chess out there. You’re chess is as good as mine, but I’m the king swinging up the lane with two queens. Four wheels burning rubber. I could go on and on about the mechanics of it all, but then I’d just end up lying, as I know very little about my motorcar.
2 months ago
A wizened old man strums a guitar, his gravelly voice quivers these lyrics:
Colton Burpo went up to heaven
looked god straight in the eye
said listen up you sunnabitch
I ain’t gonna die
A trio of old-timers turn from the bar, their whiskers scratching the collars of their dirty old shirts as they crane their necks to see the man. He’s singing a song they all know. It’s a story that’s old around these parts but ain’t got old quite yet and it goes like this:
3 months ago
Or: “Upon Seeing a Man Wearing My Shirt.”
I was told there was just one; that it was forged by the hands of a blind seamstress with a cursed needle made from the bones foraged from the rubbish bins of a concentration camp and from a thread spun by spiders who feed exclusively off of the bodies of lame orphans. I was told all of this, Eeba, and I was told the seamstress perished in a quite explainable fire, where once she completed her terrible work, she doused herself with kerosene and set the candle, which lit her room, not for her sake or the sake of the snow white, useless orbs that sat in her sockets, but for the sake of the shadows, who still need the light, though they despise it so, to haunt, at her feet. The candle is what she placed at her feet, that is, to set herself ablaze. And this is why- or so I was told- there was only one. When I pulled the shirt from the skelequin- that’s a skeleton playing the role as mannequin, as I am sure you surmised- I was disgusted by the garment. I nearly threw it to the side, to the dogs that guarded the dressing rooms to insure only those who paid the quarter were allowed to peep on the nude bodies within. I nearly did that, but some diminutive elf-like creature stopped me and she said, “oh, but would you do that to a one-and-only?” I certainly couldn’t, so I bought it from that wretched store- Kohl’s, I believe it was; such a demonic name- and so you can imagine, that seeing that shirt again, on the back of another man, that I bristle. I feel lied to. I feel cheated. At the very least, I feel indignant that, if indeed my shirt was a one-and-only, that this man would pass himself off as something he is not with a forgery. Or perhaps it is pity that I should feel, that he was taken in by such a forgery- a fine forgery, no doubt- but a forgery nonetheless.
4 months ago
As the nurse entered the hospital room, the patient turned to her and asked, “do you know who I am?” The nurse shook her head and to the other nurse already in the room, she said, “so the mystery patient still has amnesia, eh?”
The other nurse answered her, “no, he just remembered he was rich.”
And then…and then…
And then the two nurses pulled out cleavers and slaughtered him, chanting, “Class war, class war, class war” as the lights flickered and the howls of the workers echoed down the hospital hall and rang in the ears of the man.
And the man’s head, now sitting in a bedpan, held his lifeless eyes, but still chattering teeth. “Do you know who I am,” the head continued as it was carried down to hell on the back of a massive worm. And then…
And then…and there it sat, stuck on a fence post- one of many fence posts, each with its own head fitted atop it- and it was turned away from the other heads, its nose pressed against a brick wall, its teeth still chattering, the head still asking the brick wall, “do you know who I am?” And for eternity, the brick wall will say nothing.
4 months ago