forty-eight:
accessories after the fact
SOMEBODY WAS pounding on my door in a very determined manner. Really thumping away. Every impact seemed to crash through my head like one of those super-slow-mo videos of someone shooting an apple to pieces. I groaned and fumbled around on the floor next to my bed for my automatic and clutched it against my chest. If the pounding didn’t stop soon, I was going to use it, either on the idiot at the door or on myself, whichever would end the suffering quickest. I didn’t feel that way because I was hung over, either. I mean I was, like a motherfucker, but the drinking and the aftereffects were just byproducts of how little I gave a shit about anything.
Thump, thump, thump. “Bobby! Open the door or I’ll kick it in!” It was Sam.
“Fuck you a hundred times for making so much noise,” I shouted, but that made my head hurt as much as the pounding had. I swear, even for someone who’d recently dug into his own brainbox to remove an angry intracubus, this was bad. “Go away, or I’ll shoot you in the dick.”
“What’s-his-name was right—you are a whiny little putz. Come on, get up and let me in.”