It’s snowed a lot since I settled in and settled up at Marianne’s house. A few days ago, I might have been able to sneak in through the first floor windows, but they are gone, gone, gone. Doors ain’t available, buried deep in the icy shit, but the top floor windows of this new house are reachable. On the front of this house, there’s a drift of snow that done made me a nice ramp all the way up to the top. Might even be able to climb on the roof if I get a good boost, not that I want to.
I came to a conclusion, ya know, that this snow is testin’ us all. We’re drownin’ in it. If I had to guess, it’s cause of all the sin that we done created. Commie presidents, abortion clinics, vegetarians; all that stuff adds up, and one day God says, through some big fuckin’ megaphone so all us dummies can hear it: “Y’all are sooooo fucked.”
If I go too slow, the snow’s fit to bury me, so I pull myself along my belly like the clock is tickin’ faster and faster. I can remember back when I could see the lawns, when What’s His Face (the one with all the painted angels pattin’ each other of the keister) first picked me up on the side of the road. Now I don’t even know where the damn grass is. It’s down there somewhere, but I bet my momma’s headstone that I won’t be lookin’ at it for a long, long time. Reckon I might never see it again.
I can’t hear nothin’ inside, what with all the wind blasting around out here, but I did see a little bit of smoke comin’ out through the chimney. That gives me some hope, and I start to pull myself up the snowy banks a touch harder, digging my nails into that crunchy shit, hollering out loud. I’m a fucking animal when I get backed into a corner, ya’ hear?
It don’t feel much like I’m bleeding (not too bad, anyway) from what that cunt Skipper did to me, but it’s gonna be awhile before I’m healed and feelin’ good again. That’s why I hope this is one of those settle-in-settle-up kinda lily pads.
I make it to the top of the snowdrift and I tap at the window with my finger. It’s so iced over that I doubt anybody could even see me from inside there. And I can feel my face icing over, just like the window. Sure, I could crash my head through, crack it open and take care of business the old-fashioned way. But if I pull that move and I might just get a shotgun in my face. I don’t know who lives in this here house, so I gotta play it cool like cucumbers, make my move when the time is right.
I tap on the window again, resting my numb mug in the snow, hoping to build up some redness to my face, get that pity party-parade moving in the right direction. If I’m out here too long, I’ll get that motherfucker they call frostbite all over my face, and Jesus knows that’ll end it quick. I once saw a man that had to have his nose removed cause he climbed all the way to the top of Everest and then he fell into some ditch. He looked like a fuckin’ twit, with a little black nub where his nose used to be. I’d rather die than lose my nose, cause I wouldn’t be able to smell all that sweet pussy anymore. Zing at nobody in particular.
There’s something on the other side of the window. I can make out a small form through the ice crystals. It looks like a little boy, but he ain’t moving much. He comes closer for a second, and then backs the fuck up again. He ain’t sure what to think of this silly fella that dragged his frozen body over to the window. Don’t blame him, neither. I’d be scared of me too.
I push my face against the window, trying to get a good look at the boy, but he’s gone now. A few seconds later, a man follows the boy into the room. I know it’s a guy because he’s a whole lot fuckin’ taller, but I can’t make out either of their faces, just their shapes.
The taller one gets closer to the window.
And here I am, just waitin’ for them to open the window for me; the world’s meanest fucking possum.
This place is comfy!
Holy shit. This is the place that a wanderin’ man like me (yeah, I know I said that about the last two places at first, but you gotta keep trying til you find the slipper that fits I say) wants to settle in and settle up with. Makes a man almost want to put away his boots for the rest of his days. That sounds a little crazy, what with how special these boots are, but I might just trade the boots for a warm pillow.
They got food. They got warmth.
The guy keeps yappin’ on about his son and how smart he is. Good for him, I want to say, but I hold on to my tongue so I can figure out a proper plan. Kid ain’t all that smart, actually. Dumb little shit, he keeps staring at my boots like I’m some sort of circus freak or something. I’m gonna stick my boot up the kid’s ass.
They got booze, too. The real nice stuff, that top shelf crap that fellas like me aren’t even supposed to know about. Kinda stuff they drink at the White House and golf courses. It don’t even taste like booze cause it’s so dang smooth. Guy keeps giving it to me by the glassful, but he’s mighty skimpy about the fake-ass fire logs and the beans.
He’s shook.
Shook because he thinks the world’s comin’ to a nasty end. I don’t argue with him on that. Tries to keep his voice real quiet-like, sort of like he’s out huntin’ wabbit, but it’s cause his son is sleeping on the floor, snoring like you wouldn’t believe. He says his kid is scared shitless what with not seeing his momma in so long. I know that feeling all too well. Not havin’ a momma is a terrible thing, same for not havin’ a Daddy. It’s been a long time since I had those.
On a side note… oh Momma, look at that Momma!
Every time I walk to the bathroom, I go right by a picture of the whole family. Mommy’s wearin’ something tight and black. Her boobies are pokin’ out just enough to get the mind reelin’, and I swear to Jesus H. Christ and all his disciples that I can see the shape of a nipple beneath that shirt, just trying to sneak out to say hello pardner, care for a lick?
She’s a looker, not like the usual barnacles that I get stuck to my zipper in gas stations, supermarkets, all those places you pick up easy broads with no morals. This girl here—this Momma—she’s grade A. Prime stuff, sort of like Christian’s whiskey supply. The shook-up twit don’t deserve her.
I’m a charmin’ motherfucker, in case you haven’t figured that much out yet.
I can’t wait to charm his wife. Chris says that the Momma’s gonna be home real soon, that she’s on her way. I can’t wait to meet her.
Kid showed me the stashes in the basement.
Christian is a dolt for letting me see this, and his son ain’t much brighter. He is one of those fellas that automatically trusts you. Those are the best kind of cons for wanderin’ men, because we don’t have to work too hard to get that golden goose egg when we want it.
The kid’s named Paulie and he don’t know shit about wanderin’ men. Don’t know shit about stallions. Mostly cause his father ain’t nothin’ more than a wet rag, hangin’ out to dry. This boy needs a role model and I won’t mind bein’ that, as long as his Mommy shows me proper respect when she gets home.
It’s time to settle in.
It’s time to settle up.
Chapter Six
The kid’s sleepin’ for the night. Ol’ Chris Kringle and me are back in the bottle again, but he’s trying to take it easy. Funny thing, is that I’m trying to take it easy too. Need to keep my head straight tonight. We’re racing to see who can be the soberest for longest.
He keeps lookin’ at my shoulder, keeps askin’ about my wound. I can’t do this shit much longer. Somebody needs to shut his mouth up. Little while ago, he asked if I had seen Marianne from next door when I was out travellin’. Said he ain’t seen her in days. I know why, and I feel like if he keeps nagging me I might just tell him what I did to her.