It’s all tumbling down and all he hears is the dirty talk. The talk of hope, change, sex, and drugs.
Blowing coke up the ass of a certain political candidate can’t be the only way to make a living. We need something better for ourselves. Something more gratifying than begrudgingly tip-toeing around the back window of a pet store, just to hear the breathing of a hundred animals as they sleep, wishing we could sleep with that much purity. Then when we do sleep, with our evilness, it’s for most of the day and part of the evening in intervals only partitioned for munching food…
If he had a tee ball bat he’d use it on that snotty girl at the bookstore. If she existed, he’d ask her, “Hey, yo, do you like have that one freakin’ book about, ummm, fuckin’ cars and shit?” Then she’d turn to snicker and he’d lay into her. The first three hits are the hardest to accomplish. The first one wasn’t even full strength, but it floored her. The second one made the beginnings of a Kadinsky painting about two feet away from her stupid skull. The third one is the kicker. That’s the one where the screaming turns into gurgling. That’s the one where her eyes open a third of the way. That’s the one where her face turns a precious shade of blue. That’s the one where her eyes can just be plucked from her arrogant face. After that he never bothered to even keep count. Who cares after the Holy Trinity of skull hits?
She’ll never dirty talk again. Her lips will never purse in that way. The way he knew meant sex…sex.
He didn’t check, but he hoped she wasn’t dead. He just wanted to hurt her as much as she hurt him, but he just couldn’t be as mentally taxing as she was, hence the bat.
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