“I always say I’m going to do things like that, and I never do. I used to be so daring… when I was a little kid I mean. But then all this unexpected fear kept welling up inside of me. Every day it grew and grew, and I couldn’t keep a hold on it. It’s like… like I had something important to do. Something important to say. But the words never formed properly in my mouth. The thoughts in my head were just sort of swimming around and around and around, never going anywhere, and…”
Never going anywhere? Yep… I hear that shit, hombre. Yadda yadda zing.
Needless to say, Teddy didn’t last too long. Fella ran his mouth a lot, as ya’ can tell. We started out with some garlic bread, which he said was for dipping in the chicken stew. Whatever. I dip my shit where I like, no recommendations needin’. He said it in a way that I didn’t much like, something I can’t even put my finger on.
Since I couldn’t put my finger on it, I put my knife on it instead.
He bled out pretty fast—sort of pretty, like fireworks blastin’ off on New Year’s Eve. I like when they go out quick like that, so I can move on to other things. Nothin’ like somebody looking like they’re dead and then they start crawling for the door, or for the phone. They reach for it, like they’re actually gonna put my ass in them handcuffs, and that’s when I stomp it out of them. That’s when I take what’s mine.
I got that freewill comin’ out my ass.
So here I am, getting’ my grub on; Hungry Hungry Hippo that I am.
As I slurp on my chicken stew, steppin’ over his body, clutching a ceramic bowl to my chest for warmth. I wander around Teddy’s house, takin’ in the sights. The dude loves paintings (or should I say, he loved paintings, I reminded myself to put that fucker in the past tense already), so much so that every last wall in his house is covered in them. They’re all different styles, different colors, and different levels of silly bullshit. Bright greens, yellows, and pinks. Every last painting sort of reminds me of a fuckin’ Trapper Keeper on the outside. Remember them things? I used to keep lil’ bags of pot in my Trapper Keeper. I’d sell it to all the other kids in the seventh grade, ‘fore I dropped out. I knew how to make a buck.
I take my knife to a couple of the ugliest paintings. Rather than give some fancy-mouthed review on them paintings, I do things the old-fashioned way. One crappy painting really gets me fired up and pissy. It’s a picture of two angels, hugging each other in these neon green clouds. They’re smiling, patting each other on the ass it appears. Can you believe that shit? Jesus would be super angry if he knew two boy-angels was pattin’ each other near the brownie holes. I know they’re boys because they have these eensie-weensie dicks, lookin’ a whole lot like little baby dicks. Not only do I slash that paintin’ down the middle, but I put it on Teddy’s fluffy blue carpets and I piss all over it.
A man of boundless free will gotta make a point sometimes.
I refill my stew (damn tasty, almost as slick as m’boots), grabbing some more of the garlic bread. Gonna make my breath stink, but I ain’t going out anywhere, not anytime soon. Once I take care of all the paintings, the joint might be livable.
I start rummaging through the cabinets looking for something manly to drink. I find some red and white wine, which I’ll drink but only on rare occasions, like if it’s the end of the night and I’m not completely shit-canned yet.
There is one beer in the fridge, but it looks like one of those beers that fancy college boys drink. No thanks, I like my beer to look a little bit of red, white, and blue.
I check the basement, where I find more of those God-awful paintings. One of them looks like that guy from The Doors, all blues and whites and oranges and hippy-ness. Another one is more of that baby angel noise, except this one is smoking a cigarette and watching television. It actually isn’t so bad. I can get behind that kind of angel, as long as he’s not touching other angel’s asses.
I find a liquor cabinet and a pool table. The pool table is pretty fuckin’ B-O-S-S. Looks like it’s brand new, or at least like it was never used much. I turn on the overhead lights so I can jimmy open the liquor cabinet with my knife. It takes a few minutes, but finally, I get into that bitch.
Schnapps. Bloody fuckin’ hell.
Fifteen different kinds of schnapps. Not a drop of whiskey. Not a drop of vodka. Not a drop of gin. Fucking schnapps—peach, peppermint, and root beer. A sugary waste of alcohol. With that, I know I can’t possibly stay here, not with this kind of selection. Sure, Teddy kept good grub in the pantry (lots of Pop Tarts—boy oh boy do I love me some Pop Tarts) and had a pretty swanky looking bed, but I can’t support this bitchy cabinet of schnapps.
I go back upstairs, picking the watermelon schnapps as I walk away, just about to cry like a baby, though part of me wants to smash the bottle on the ground. Come on, Teddy! He seemed better than this nasty swill, but I guess not. I hope Teddy is in hell.
I turn on the television and they are talking about a big old storm that they are seein’, but ain’t exactly believin’, and it’s coming all over, as in every inch of the dang country. Fuckin’ hell, I think. I guess I might have to hunker down after all. I slug on the schnapps and I bite back the urge to vomit. If I drink enough of it, I’ll feel all right. Even though Teddy had terrible taste in his drinkies, the fucker knew how to keep an ample supply. I decide I’ll drink it until I puke, need be.
I look out the window. I can see one of the neighbors shoveling. She looks like she’s about to keel over from workin’ so damn hard. Stupid suburban assholes—always trimming their lawns and shoveling their driveways, and for what? So they can do it all again the next time? Just let it be, I say. Toss your kick-ass boots off (have I mentioned my boots yet?), watch some television ‘bout some ridiculous bullshit that makes you feel like you live on Mars, and drink some… well, don’t drink watermelon schnapps. Drink something better than that, ‘cause you only got so long before you go to meet Jesus, standin’ on his pedestal, tossing all them sinners off the clouds, throwing them back down to Earth to drown in the snow.
The snow is comin’ down hard.
“Hey, Teddy,” I call out. He doesn’t respond. “Hey, Teddy, where you keep the stogies and matches? I could use a smoke. If I go rootin’ around and find one of those goddamned electronic cigarettes or a big fuckin’ dildo, I’m gonna stomp it out in your eye, right after I shove this watermelon schnapps bottle up your ass,” I shout. I snicker to myself, addin’, “But I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
Teddy just got zinged.
Chapter Two
Dear fuckin’ diary: I’m bored as all hell.
This is what happens to wanderin’ men. This is why we take to wanderin’. What did you think would happen, huh? You think I’d just get all-cozy and shit—make a home here? You think I’m gonna start goin’ to the gym, trying to make myself look like some fuckin’ model? Think I’m gonna start buying some ass-grabbing angel paintings and drinking schnapps? You think I’m gonna start shopping for minivans with low interest rates? Open a bank account? Get a cell phone? Play in a softball league with my best buds?
Fuck that noise.
This is what I do. I take what’s rightly mine and then I enjoy it for a spell. You know what I mean… I get my eat on. I get my drink on. I enjoy the fruits of my labor and then I hit the gravel. I never know just where I’m goin’ next, cause I hafta wait for it to show itself to me. Jesus puts a little bug in my brain, ya’ see here, and then I know where I’m supposed to head next. Real simple.