Mer Rouge (Part 28)

His eyes grew heavy and his mind wandered. It was another lonely road to god knows where in a godforsaken land just south of the Arkansas border. The priest hadn’t felt the comfort of a warm bed in days and the gas gauge was still reading a quarter tank despite driving it over a hundred miles. It must’ve been broken, the priest thought. Or a 1970 AMC Gremlin simply had one hell of a gas mileage. He drove through Mer Rouge before turning down yet another lonesome highway. And eight miles outside of town, he made a right onto Kurtzy Road. There was no particular reason. He did it on a whim. And as the gravel kicked up beneath the Gremlin, leaving clouds of dust in its wake, the priest took out a cigarette and popped out the car’s cigarette lighter. As he tried to use it, the vehicle hit an unexpected pothole, causing him to drop it to the floorboards. “Goddamnit,” he said to himself. When he reached down to grab it, the road suddenly turned smooth, and when he popped back up to look out the windshield he saw nothing but new pavement in front of him. “Thank fucking Christ,” he uttered. He had completely missed the heavy road construction behind him.

But Kurtzy Road came to an end and the priest made a right turn. Again, on a whim. A few miles down the empty highway, where the pines grew tall, the priest couldn’t believe his eyes. It was a sign for St. John Chrysostom Greek Orthodox Church. He turned down the dirt road where, to his disappointment, he found the church abandoned and in disrepair. He contemplated telling himself ‘fuck it’ and lay down camp for the night, but that had been his plan the previous four nights. It was time for a real night’s sleep. He restarted the engine and resumed his southbound journey down whatever cursed highway this was and found a roadside motel just miles later. The parking lot was empty. He pulled up to the lobby and sauntered inside. No one was behind the reception desk.

“Hello?” he called out.

He approached the desk and dinged on the bell. When that didn’t work, he dinged on it harder. Seven minutes later, the old man with his WWII cap, now inexplicably turned backwards, and flannel red robe stumbled from the back and cursed at him. “Well shit, father, you should have hollered for me!”

“I did! Turn your hearing aids up, old man!”

“Well excuse the shit out of me for trying to squeeze in a nap! I rarely have more than one tenant a night!”

“But the parking lot’s empty.”

“Yeah, a couple of homos walked in off the street.”

“Excuse me?”

“I said A COUPLE OF HOMOS—“

“I heard that part! What did these fellas look like?”

“What do you care? Are you a queer too?”

“Shut the fuck up before I slap those dentures out your mouth! Tell me what these guys looked like!”

“Jesus, padre, alright! To be honest, I couldn’t tell! They were wearing shades, leather, a helmet, and were carrying two large duffle bags!”

“Shit,” the priest whispered beneath his breath. He stroked his beard and thought. “Alright,” he finally said, “gimme the room next to theirs.”

The old man shook his head and slapped the room key on the desk. “You people fuckin disgust me,” he said. The priest dropped a $50 bill and told the old man to stick it up his ass.

TO BE CONTINUED…

kingdom of god 23

Stephanos puzzled at the strange man sitting across the fire. The boy snuggled up to him and the man reached into his duster for a canteen. “I’m sorry,” the preacher said. “I’ve seen so many faces. Forgive me if I don’t recognize you.”

“It doesn’t matter,” the drifter told him. “I’ve seen hundreds of your kind. All with different faces but the same prying eyes. None of you know Jonny from a hole in the ground.”

“That’s not true,” Stephanos protested.

“It’s not? Do you know who that fellow over there is?”

“He was of the agency.”

“Yes. He was Javier Gomez.”

“And how do you know him?”

“I know an enemy when I see one. That’s the difference between you and me.”

“But there are no enemies in the eyes of God.”

“God? Do you think his kingdom dwells in the heavens? Or does it dwell down here, with flesh and blood?”

“As equal creatures in the eyes of God, we will all be relieved of the burden of flesh and blood once we enter his kingdom in heaven.”

The drifter smiled and picked his teeth. His scars flashed as malicious augury against the flames. “You have some funny ideas, preacher,” he said. “Your kind is always searching for the unexplainable in the mystical. It’s indistinguishable from the nonexistent. While tales of magic inspire awe, it prevents you from seeing what’s right in front of you. Evil is real and it sits right next to us. God is not a god of unseen power but is force is itself. To extinguish evil, it takes power. It takes force. You don’t believe in god. You believe in vanity. There is no future for you, only the complacency of an ever cursed present.”

The preacher didn’t reply. He considered reaching for the Colt but the drifter already had fingers on the shotgun. “I don’t want any problems,” Stephanos told him.

“I don’t either,” said the drifter. Then he lifted the shotgun and blew a hole in the preacher’s chest. After emptying the shells, he approached Stephanos’ corpse and took his pistol and placed it under his duster. Then he took the child by the hand and they resumed their path down the king’s road.

TO BE CONTINUED…

kingdom of god 23

The preacher lifted Gomez over his shoulders and carried him down king’s road. Passersby only glared at the men as sweat drenched down Stephanos’ face. Blood trickled down his smock. Urgency coursed through his veins as the midday sun beat down upon him. “I’m a dead man,” said Gomez. “Just leave me here.” But the preacher ignored him. Miles ahead and his knees began to buckle. He saw a thicket of trees yards off to the right and headed towards it. In a small clearing, he laid down Gomez’s whitening body and tended to his bleeding. “Thank you for your help preacher,” the dying man said, “but there’s nothing more to be done.” Blood puddled into the grass and Gomez grew cold. Before nightfall, he was dead.

Stephanos sat silently beneath the trees for several hours while Gomez’s body rested peacefully against the oak. The nighttime prairie glowed from a full moon and the preacher figured he would bury him in the morning. Numbed by the day’s pain, he struggled to make his bed. Against his better instincts, he dug through the deceased man’s remains and made a fire. He didn’t eat and he didn’t drink. His eyes remained fixed on the smoldering flame.

The hours passed. The preacher’s eyes grew heavy. Then there was a cracking at the edge of the meadow. He turned around to find a hunched over man walking hand in hand with a small boy. As they approached, the fire illuminated the man’s face. He was scared and bundled up in a charcoaled duster. What appeared to be a cane holding him up was actually a long range shotgun. Staphanos thought of reaching for the pistol but the small boy threw him off. The boy was five or six years old and said nothing.

“Excuse me sir,” the man said. “Mind if we rest by your fire?”

The preacher drew a sigh of relief and welcomed them in. “Of course,” he said. “I’m sorry but I have to food or water to give you.”

“What about that fellow over there?”

“He’s dead.”

“Did you kill him?”

“No. I found him wounded on the side of the road. I couldn’t save him.”

The man straightened out his coat and sat next to the fire. The boy sat with him. He sat the shotgun off to the side and held his hands over the fire. “I’m Stephanos, an emissary of Jonny,” the preacher said. “I won’t hurt you.”

“Yes I know who you are,” the man said.

“You’ve seen me before?”

“In Cessa in fact. You claim to have received the word directly from Jonny.”

“That is true. I have received the word.”

“Then tell me preacher. If you’ve received the word from Jonny, why don’t you recognize me?”

TO BE CONTINUED…

kingdom of god 22

And with Cessa gone, the preacher wondered senselessly toward the bountiful vista. He thought that when the king’s road ended he might journey further into the marauding lands. But as thoughts of an unknown future conjured, he held the pistol and considered burying it under a stone or tossing it into a passing creek. The path was lonely. Only an occasional drifter came coursing along towards the beleaguered south. No words were exchanged between the parties. They both knew fate had them marching towards perdition. But a little deeper into the steppe, Stephanos happened across a traveler beaten and battered behind a small sandstone deposit. He was unconscious. The preacher dabbled water onto his lips and when he came to, he noticed the traveler was stabbed and his leg broken. He rested him against the rock and tended to his bleeding. They rested there for several hours and at sundown, the preacher made a fire and gave him what little substance he could provide. Afterward, he stood watch throughout the night while on the lookout for returning marauders.

He thought about the pistol. He took it from the holster and held it firmly.

By morning, the bleeding had stopped. The traveler awoke and asked for water and the preacher provided. “I’m Stephanos, an emissary of Johnny,” he told the traveler.

The man lowered the canteen from his lips. “I’m Javier Gomez, a representative from the Agency,” he said.

“How did this happen to you?”

Gomez struggled to recall. “I was attacked on my HUV returning to Nisan. I don’t know. They must have taken it.”

“The vehicle?”

“Yes.”

“Were they going south?”

“Yes.”

Stephanos stood up and stared down the path towards the horizon. The sun was climbing towards its zenith and the nearest inn was miles away. He knew he would have to carry Gomez the entire way and that they wouldn’t make it before sundown. “I suspect you were followed,” he told Gomez. “You’re from the agency. Why were you traveling alone?”

“I wasn’t alone.”

“What happened to the others?”

“I don’t know. I was returning from Cessa.”

“Why?”

“Because the Shepherd had called for me.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

kingdom of god 21

Stephanos left the temple before dusk and trekked north from the city center past the beggars and the guards through the morning dew and back towards the northern steppe. Outside of the walls where the sheep herders and common traders were gathered, he attracted a small flock led by Jena and she accosted him while men gathered stones and small arms. The preacher threw up his hood and held his head low but Jena spat and cursed upon him. A stone struck his back and knocked him to the ground, but before the crowd could descend upon him, the woman fought back the agitators and permitted him safe passage. With the city behind him, he prayed to the god which had forsakened him for the forgiveness of his transgressors and for the soul of Nisan. The preacher never returned.

He traversed the king’s road past the sandstone barriers which marked the northerly entrance of the Nisan province and the road gently sloped downward into a sea of green and gold grasses. The prairie flattened. As the sun lingered in the sky, Stephanos could make out specks floating along the deep blue horizon. While the wild horses were long gone, the preacher presumed them to be travelers or a caravan of light vehicles that once dominated the steppe. But as they drew nigh, it was apparent that they were indeed men with horses. With caution entering his mind, Stephanos threw up his hands with his left showing the sign of Jonny. They came closer. He could see they had faces painted like those of marauders with spears of scalps and bones, and when they were in earshot, he greeted them in the Saranian tongue.

The leader returned his greet. “I speak your tongue,” he told the preacher.

“Then you should know I hold no weapon,” Stephanos said. “I am an emissary of Jonny and I’m returning to Cessa.”

“I can see that,” the marauder informed him. “I do not intend you harm but you must surrender your gold and silver.”

“But I don’t carry much.”

“Then give us what you have.”

The preacher lowered his hands and surrendered his satchel. A marauder climbed off his horse to gather it and slung it around his body. Pitying the dispossessed, the leader reached into his saddle and tossed Stephanos a Colt revolver pistol sheathed in a leather holster. “Cessa has been destroyed by Nighthawks,” he informed the preacher. “You will need that weapon on the road ahead. I suggest you use it.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

kingdom of god 19

At the citadel, the preacher was hastily questioned by police and stowed away in the stockades overlooking the marching grounds outside along with the common thieves and the revolutionaries. In the yard surrounding them rested bones and rotted flesh and the black flies and vultures of death. Stephanos prayed to the god that be for his safe passage into the next world as men were dragged out by chromed guards and were summarily beaten and bound. Some were shot and bodies left where they fell. The revolutionaries were tied up and bayoneted and their leaders stripped and humiliated and the prisoners were called to attention to witness the execution of the latest ringleader who appeared before them bound and naked to the bone. He was buggered by the barrel of a rifle and his genitalia cut off and when it was over he was whipped and clubbed and he took it all with the serene power from a god the Preacher could never fathom. But bloodied and battered, the condemned man stood almost defiantly on his feet with his ankles and wrists bound and a noose around his neck. The other end of the rope was tied to a motored vehicle and the engine roared and the dirt kicked up beneath the wheels. The driver roared off and the prisoner flew forward behind him and his body was dragged and tossed through the mud before the vehicle swiftly turned and flung the prisoner’s body away from his head.

Stephanos wept at the horror. He clung to his sacred texts and hopes in a desperate cry for a reprieve and in the dead of night, he was whisked away to the watchman. He was brought to his knees and the watchman looked him over and questioned him. “You’re not a revolutionary, are you?” he asked the preacher.

“No. I’m a messenger of Jonny.”

“There seems to be a lot of those these days,” the watchman mocked. “Where are you from?”

“I’m from the steppe.”

“Then I suggest you return to the steppe. We can’t have large gatherings on the streets. I hope you understand.”

The preacher reluctantly nodded. They unbounded him and marched him down the hill and to the city streets and the watchman warned him that if he saw him again, he will be shot.

TO BE CONTINUED…

kingdom of god 7

Satisfied with the representative’s response, Wade left the Agency’s office and headed back towards the inn. When he arrived he informed the innkeeper to hold his room for a few more days while he went north yet the innkeeper only moaned and protested.

“I took a closer look at that gold ring you gave me and it ain’t worth two rat shits put together. You’ll have to find another form of payment,” the man said.

But Wade spat on the floor and put his hands on the desk. “I’m gonna need the silver. I’ll pay you when I get back,” he told the innkeeper.

“No sir. I need payments up front.”

“And what about you snoopin around rooms while your guests are away? I doubt the Guild would take kindly to what’s going on here.”

“The Guild don’t have no say in how I do business! Now you get your shit and get outta here!”

“Then I want my ring back.”

“Why?”

“If it ain’t worth two shits then what difference does it make?”

“And what about the whore?”

“I’ll settle up with her later.”

The innkeeper gave the ring back and Wade gathered his things with the satchel dangling in front of him and rifle case around his shoulder and he departed towards the river’s edge. There a ferryman stood by and Wade gave him a piece of silver to boat him to the northern shore. As the ferryman cast off, more Nighthawks scrambled overhead and the ferryman chuckled.

“Ya know, they say that the longer you spend on this river that the river will eventually speak to ya,” the ferryman joked. “But I hear nothing from this water. The only thing I hear is that damn screamin from the sky. I found two bodies floating downstream yesterday. Last week I found six! I suppose the creeks from them mountains are washing the bodies down here. Goddamn. I don’t know what kind of fool would want to go up that a way but I imagine if anything is talkin these days it’s the folks up in those hills. The only folks they sendin down this way are their dead and a graveyards ain’t known for being jovial.”

Wade said nothing as he watched the waters glide underneath the boat.

“I can see you ain’t much of a talker neither,” the ferryman said.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Anaideia 12

I hopped into work with bells on my toes and my head held high. I greeted each coworker with a joviality that would make John Candy smile. “Good morning Mike!” I said to one.

“Who the fuck are you?”

I danced and twirled all the way to my work station where Dale was hard at it. “My goddamn bitch of wife came back from Florida,” he said to me immediately. “She said she went there to visit her grandma but I called bullshit. I told her to get her shit and get the fuck out of my West Covina trailer. She cried and cried over the children but I told her ‘bitch! My dick’s been dead for 20 years! Fuck the children and FUCK YOU!’ So she grabbed her things and is staying with her friend in Hacienda Heights. I got rip roaring drunk and called her up and begged her to come back but then she threatened me with a restraining order! Can you believe this shit?”

“Good morning Dale!” I said. “Yeah that sounds fucked up but I’m sure things will work out. You gotta stay positive, ya know?”

“Yeah, I’m positive I’ve got a polyp in my ass!”

I nodded and began putting on my heavy duty work gloves and protective glasses. As I picked up a cloth to help wipe down the toilets rolling off the assembly line, Dale gave me a puzzled glance. “It’s 6:45am,” he said. “Work doesn’t start until 7. You’re four hours early!”

“Well goddamn,” I said. I stripped off the gloves and glasses and headed straight for the bathroom to commence my extra long shit. But before I could get there, the boss man announced there was an all hands meeting in the break room. I forwent the shit and followed the gaggle of workers into the cramped break room and waited for the boss man to appear. Finally, 45 minutes later, he shows up all smiles. “Great news everyone,” he announced, “my son who attends USC will escape all sexual assault charges from the Los Angeles Superior Court. Thank god for expensive attorneys.”

He lead the crowd with a round of applause.

“Unfortunately I have some bad news,” he continued. “Toilet sales are down and the only way for this factory and corporate shareholders to turn a profit is if we have mass layoffs. Now look to your left and your right. There’s a good chance that the person next to you won’t be here next week. But that’s all I’ve got for you folks. Let’s go out there and have a productive day!”

Some shuffled out of the break room shedding a river of tears but I wasn’t gonna let this news ruin my day. So Dale and I returned to work where Dale continued to bitch and I halfassed my responsibilities.

“Fuck it,” Dale declared, “if they’re gonna lay me off, I’ll just go home and blow my brains out.”

“Yeah that’s one good solution Dale,” I said. “But I prefer less violent resolution to my problems. I’d probably pick off a liquor store or steal from my senile grandmother. There seems to be too much finality with death, ya know?”

As Dale pondered my comment, the boss man approached and asked me to follow him into his office. Figuring my inevitable termination, I tossed off my gloves and spat on the ground. I followed him past the lobby and into the office area where several corporate officials sat around a conference table. I was instructed to take a seat at the end of the table with the bulldog-looking plant manager on the other end. The boss man sat on one side while HR sat on the other.

“You’ve been an employee here for a long time,” the plant manager began. “How long has it been?”

HR shuffles through some papers before landing on my name. “Four weeks,” replied HR.

“And you’ve been a very productive employee,” the manager continued. “You show up, you wear clothes, you eat and breathe, sometimes you talk…”

“Spare me the bullshit,” I interrupted. “I know I’m getting canned so jump to it. Is there a severance package? If not then let’s stop jerking each other off and let me go home.”

The manager nervously chuckled and scratched his head. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “We’re not laying you off. We’re giving you a goddamn promotion! Congratulations buddy! You’re one of us now!”

I cock my head. “Promotion?” I say. “You mean more money?”

“You’re goddamn right pal!” he beams. “How does a dollar or a dollar and a half sound?”

I raise my head in suspicion. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch. You get promoted to supervisor and we pay you more money.”

The manager flicks a piece of paper across the table and it slides towards me. I pick it up and attempt to decipher the legalese. Then a pen comes sliding towards me from HR. “Just sign it,” the manager urged.

I shake my head in disbelief. “You know I can’t read this shit,” I say.

“Look,” the manager pleaded, “all we need you to do is do the work of seven to eight people with minimal help or support from us and you’ll make $8.36 an hour. It seems like a fair wage.”

My palms were sweating as I contemplated signing the document. It was a lot of money to just come in and take three shits per day. But I felt a higher calling. Something felt different about this day and I had to follow my instincts. “I can’t do it,” I say, “something about it doesn’t feel right.”

The manager takes off his glasses and sets them down in front of him. He clasps his hands. “You understand that if you don’t sign it that you will be laid off,” he explains.

“No shit?” I ask. I take a moment to collect my thoughts. “In that case, I tender my resignation,” I finally said. I stand up and straightened out my piss stained shirt. “Good day gentlemen,” I say.

“But if you resign before you’re laid off then you won’t be able to collect unemployment,” HR informs me.

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” I say. I proceed to the doorway and release a massive ass fart before closing the door.

Outside as I walk back to dingy apartment, I stop to smoke a cigarette. Under the glorious Los Angeles sun, I felt unyoked for the first time in my life. Perhaps now was the time to pursue my dream of owning a head shop in San Bernardino, or at least I kept reassuring myself that. But before I could ignite my lighter, I noticed a familiar face staring back at me from across the street. She was holding up a pair of binoculars while sitting in the driver’s seat of a beige Chrysler 200.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Anaideia part 9

Randy placed his hand on the small of my back and guided me into his study. Inside the walls were adorned with books of both ancient and contemporary origin. The clear scent of brown leather upholstery filled my nostrils. This would have made a fine library if it weren’t for the three Asian men sitting silently around a single pedestal table. Behind each of them was a large blazer-wearing man of Eastern Europe descent. “The men standing are Chechen. And the ones sitting are Chinese,” explained Randy. “I don’t expect any of the Chinese to walk out of here alive.”

“Do you think you want to be saying that out loud?” I ask Randy.

“Oh don’t worry,” he says. “None of them speak English. This is just a business negotiation. I met the Chinese in Hong Kong while I was acquiring exotic meats. You know, panda and the like. Well wouldn’t you know it, Chinese intelligence caught wind of my operation and my business license was revoked. In fact, the second largest country in the world wants me dead! The only logical conclusion is that one of these fellows talked. Hell, they might even be Chinese intelligence themselves! So I invited them out here to Norco under the guise of a trade deal. But what they don’t know is that under each chair is a deadly contraption: A trap door that leads to a fiery pit under chair number one; Chair number two is just a deceptive-looking electric chair; and chair number three, well, that guy will just get strangled by the Chechen behind him.”

“But what if none of them are informants or Chinese intelligence?”

“Oh don’t you see? That’s the genius of my plan. This is what’s called a Croatian negotiation. When you’re in the business I’m in, all your competitors and peers are monsters. You never show weakness. All these freaks understand is force. Don’t you get it? I’m the good guy here. I’m simply speaking the language that they can easily understand, which is that no matter what, I come out on top.”

Petrified into deathly silence, I stand motionless as Randy undergoes his negotiations. The three Chinese men sit blissfully unaware of the terror that awaited them.

Randy approached chair number one. “邊個講嘢?” he said.

Chair number one immediately panicked and lifted his finger to chair number three. Randy signaled to the Chechen behind him and the Chechen stomped his foot onto a pedal below the chair. A trap door opened and swallowed the Chinese fellow into a fiery inferno below. There were no screams. There was no time for that. The flame briefly erupted into the floor above causing intense heat and slightly singeing the table. The remaining two captives, still silent, were sweating.

It took every ounce of self-control to stop from pissing myself. “Uh, Randy,” I say, “what if he was telling the truth?”

Randy chuckled. “Possible but unlikely,” he said. “By immediately throwing his compatriot under the bus, he was unwittingly telling on himself.” Then he taps on his temple. “A little trick I learned from Star Trek VI.”

Randy approached chair number three and they exchanged a few words in Cantonese. The Chinese man nodded and Randy looked contented. “It looks like we struck a deal,” he says to me. But the Chechen behind the chair mistook the signal (because the Chechens didn’t understand English either) and grabbed the Chinese man’s head and snapped his neck. The Chechen released the body and the corpse’s head slammed onto the table below.

“Oh fuck! That guy was Chinese Intelligence!” Randy exclaimed. He screamed a few words at the Chechen in his native tongue then began pacing back and forth. “The Chinese will trace me back here,” he says to me in a panic. “I can’t leave any witnesses.”

Randy steps behind chair number two and slams on the pedal underneath. An untold amount of electricity rushes through the Chinese fellow’s body causing an unrelenting amount of blood to flow from his ears and mouth. As steam poured from his head, his eyes popped out of their sockets before his body lumped forward. It was a sight I hoped to never see again.

With the Chinese dead, Randy pulls out a small revolver and shoots the Chechens behind chairs one and two. Sensing his fate, the Chechen behind chair three charges after him. Randy sidesteps around the table behind chair one. Before the Chechen could reach him, the trap door opens and the Chechen falls to his demise.

In a matter of minutes, six men were killed before my eyes.

Randy wipes the sweat from his brow. “Phew! That was close!” he said. I watched him drag the other four bodies to the trap door to be incinerated. I continued to stand motionless. When he was finished, he slapped his hands together for a job well done. “The things I do to make a buck, eh?” he jests.

He takes a swig of vodka before coming back to his senses. “Oh, forgive me!” he laughs. “What brings by today?”

I begin to stammer a bit. “Uh, well, you know. It’s just been a minute since I’ve seen you.”

“You came all the way from Los Angeles just to say hi?”

“Of course,” I say nervously.

“No it’s not,” Randy states. Then he squares off in front of me and looks me dead in the eye. “I owe you $72 for the strip club the other night.”

“Oh that? I’ve forgotten all about that,” I lie.

He steps closer until his nose is mere inches from mine. “You know you shouldn’t lie,” he says. “The Bible says you shouldn’t lie.”

I nod and lower my head in defeated concession.

“Well goddamn, why didn’t you say so?!” Randy beams. “I feel like such an asshole.” He reaches into his jacket pocket to pull out a checkbook. “Forgive me for not repaying you sooner. My mind sometimes wonders.”

He finishes writing the check and places it into my hand. “I’ll be in Los Angeles on Tuesday,” he says. “Strip club next week?”

TO BE CONTINUED…

To Sire, With Love (Part II)

She laid the shit and piss stained sheets over the moldy mattress. She was as plain as the prairies of Kansas. The words failed to come when she asked me if I needed anything else.

“A bourbon if you got it,” I said to her.

“There’s no drinking on the premises, Mr. Watkins,” she replied.

“Please, can you call me Donny?”

“Donny, pleased to meet you. I’m Sam.”

“Short for Samantha?”

“Just Sam. My parents abandoned me at the hospital so I’m named after the doctor who delivered me.”

Sam…a name that forever be etched onto my heart. “What’s your last name?” I asked.

“Malone. Sadly.” Sam then handed me the last bit of toiletries. “Breakfast starts at 6am,” she continued. “Please get some rest, Donny. I promise you that things will get better from here.”

“Will you still be here in the morning?” I ask.

“My shift ends at 7. So please wake up early. I hope to see you there.”

I nodded. “I promise I’ll be up.”

Sam gave a slight smile and departed the room. I didn’t bother stripping off my ratty ass clothes before I climbed into bed. I laid there for awhile thinking of Sam’s smile and soft voice before I dozed off. My roommate ripped a loud fart and I was fast asleep.

It was around 5 am when my roommate awoke. He was humming the words to some godawful song. “Lick it up! Lick it up! Ahhhhaaaahhhahhhh!” he shouted.

“Hey buddy, do you mind?!” I yelled.

“Yeah I do mind!” he replied as he was putting on his shit-covered boots. “It’s a new day. My dick still gets hard. And I got $12 in my pocket!”

“I have bad news for you,” I said, “you’re at the Salvation Army. That means your life is in the ditch! And Kiss sucks ass!”

“YOUR life may be in the ditch. But in three days I’ll be out of this shithole and in New Orleans.”

“New Orleans is a shithole too.”

“Cheer up, good buddy,” he said as he completed tying his boots. “Do you smell that? That’s the coffee brewing.” Then he farted. “And that’s the smell of the last vestiges of yesterday’s chili dog. I’ll never make that mistake again.”

The smelly roommate stood up, ran a comb through his hair, and took a piss. As he was about to exit, he told me one last thing.

“I’ve got a history lesson for you: Did you know that Bill Clinton’s father drowned in a ditch in Missouri?” he asked. “I can’t think of a worse way to go.”

TO BE CONTINUED…