Saturday, August 29, 2009

Scenes 37, 38 & 39

“Where is she,” demands Tom Thick. The bartender says, “Left a while ago, Tom. Hey, nice shirt.” He gestures at the Angry One’s Sucke Brothers Petroleum uniform top. “Where’d you get that shirt?” Thick Tom glowers at the guy. “Who was she with?” The bartender shrugs. “She was up on the restaurant side. I couldn’t see. I think she was alone.” Tom’s great head kind of vibrates and folds over on itself, he’s so mad. The man needs his wife. “I’m gonna find her. I’m gonna tie her to a sonofabitchin’ chair.”

The bartender says, “Take it easy now.”

Tom wheels and stomps. “Clown,” he says darkly.

Because even now the guy is unaware of the fake fire door trick, Tom goes back out the front door. He’s about to stomp over to the Deluxe when he notices a funny glow to his right, back toward the station. It’s very small, but bright.



Charlene is sliding up and down on Myron. It’s almost dark out. Myron’s all splotchy with excitement, and breathing through his nose.

She slips off, sits astride him and leans down to nuzzle and talk.

“You know,” she says in a murmur, “I have the funniest dream.” She runs her nose along his neck. “It’s not really a dream dream, though. Because it happens when I’m awake.”

“Hmmm,” replies Myron. “What happens. In your dream.”

“I have a vision.” She rears back for a moment, stressing the final word, pressing her arms to pooch out her boobs. Myron inhales and reaches up for her, but she takes his hands and pins his arms.

“In my vision,” she says, “I see the garage.” She’s working his neck at this point. “At the Fuel King.”

Myron makes a positive noise, on the order of “Uh-huh,” but less articulate.

“And I see my husband.”

The mention of Tom Thick interrupts the rapid relocation of Myron’s brain to his weiner, now fully underway. Zot! goes the message to Myron’s amygdala, the structure that manages fear and operates the klaxon horn. Myron’s eyes get big. Charlene, observing this, is quick to get the process reversed again, using a variety of procedures.

“Oh, Myron,” she says, and etcetera.

“Now in my vision,” Charlene resumes, “there’s a certain person in the garage. Mm-hmm. Working on a car. That’s right,” she continues, nuzzling and kissing him tirelessly. “And do you know what?” she adds. “That old garage door is down.”



“...Dumb bastard!”

Someone is shouting at Blinky. “Run! Run!” His eyes labor to fix on a figure in the dark. “You...stupid bastard!” The guy looks like Napoleon. He’s bellowing, and he smells like bourbon. “Get up!” Napoleon is hitting him with his hat. “Get up and run!” Blinky is conscious of warmth and light. His feet are scrambling under him.

Blinky is beginning to ask himself where this Napoleon guy gets off, but most of his brain is occupied by making his legs move. He’s traveling into the cold.

Wayne! he thinks, racing instinctively. Turning back, Myron sees the big man with the hammerhead thundering on to the scene. Sprinting like a wild man.

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