After sitting on his nicotine drenched
chair for what felt like the time it would take to carve a life-sized
Dolly Parton out of trailer park marble, he finally parted with the
grappling, leg-locked, sweat soaked men adorning the recently
purchased 55” LED long enough to lean forward from his
appropriately titled “Laz-E-Boy” to gurgle the words, “you've
grow'd to be just the right size of pussyfart I'd always know'd you'd
be.” His grunting barley audible, drowned out by the greased up
pros. A recent target in a 30 year prodding.
“I'm the only one that will come and
visit you. You know that right?”
This declaration sends him back into
the comfort of the Hans Solo-esk imprint of a broken man, permanently
inverted in the deflated brown cushions. His coffee&cigarette
stained grin momentarily silenced by the gravel like stubbles that
sandpapers his face.
“Why don't you make yerself useful
and go an getme an Arizona Sweet Tea from the icebox”, his daggered
eyes releasing their gunlock, positioning their aim back to the waxed
banana-hammocks grinding all over each other on the t.v..
Compliance only reinforces his turgid
tongue. Still, better drinking than talking. So I get up to get him
his goddamn drink.
Ironic that this sugar-filled shit goes
in his mouth all day yet only the blackest pig intestine cancer makes
its way out.
As I walk to the kitchen I can't help
but to think of this reoccurring dream I have where I can almost fly.
I can't fly, instead I hover. I jump from ledges, I fall off
balconies and just before I plummet to the ground, right at the very
microsecond of certain facial explosion I float. All the while I
feel that I can fly, that I can soar through the condensation
building in the air, feeling the cool mist freckling my face as the
wind powers through my hair, yet I am subjected to any and every
guiding gust, any and all intentions except my own.
He's crying foul play to the televised
referee as I hand him the drink. He doesn't so much as look up at
me, unable to pause his defending argument. Apparently a folding
chair was illegally used to crack Bishop Bison's face when the ref
was distracted by Mr.Glitz's manager and her big ass tits. I stare
down at my rotting bloodline, stomping his feet and throwing the
remote, and can't help but wish I had a metal folding chair.
