Mother died today.
Or maybe yesterday.
I don’t remember.
Wait, no, it had to be before yesterday, because I had tennis lessons yesterday. Maybe Wednesday.
Actually, come to think of it, Wednesday was the International Friends of the Koalas Day Donation-drive Call-A-Thon. And that was after she died, too. I can’t believe I don’t remember. Shit. Was it over a week ago? Last… Tuesday? Jeez. Time flies when you’re having fun, I guess. Wait, if it was Tuesday–
Fuck, I’m late.
The conductor comes up to me. His arms are crossed. Continue reading
December 17th 11:48 pm – Wherein a Life of Crime Meets Its Logical End
A puke green Volkswagen van idles in the middle of vast parking lot. Its engine loudly passes gas into cream puffs of exhaust that dissipate into the prickly winter night. In the van, sit the Brothers Parcheesi whose nicknames (C-Drive, Dingo, and Bradbury, in respective birth order) have superseded their real ones, and whose long string of crimes have kept county law enforcement so puzzled as to why they were even committed long enough to let them get away with each one.
A month ago, they ran a test drive circuit to every dealership in town, leaving the Mustang or Ferrari or Prius they got from the previous place in exchange for Volvos, Saturns, Pontiacs, ultimately winding up with a van painted the same color as the bug splats on its windows.
Two weeks ago, they bought an entire vanload of canned cat food and poured it out onto the lawns of random residents of Tweaker St underneath the Turnpike 404 overpass, then, days later, went door to door, Bradbury armed with a flame thrower, Dingo eating the cat food, and offered “pest extermination” services to the unfortunate individuals whose homes had been overrun by an influx of feral felines that constantly made meals out of beloved pet birds and guinea pigs and kept entire neighborhood awake every night with an unsettling symphony of mating frenzies.
In the end, no transactions were made; no cats were cooked; many cops were called. Continue reading