Saturday, August 30, 2008

Johnny Rumble:
St. John's

“Here, take your fucking cab fare! Fucking use you were last night!”

I fell on to the cold morning concrete of her front stoop, still wondering what the hell happened last night. “Hey! Can I at least get some water?”


That’s lovely.

Squeegeeing myself the best I could, I wrapped up against the snow. The street was empty this morning…or was it afternoon? I was never sure anymore. Either way, I was lucky the street was clean of people, because the trees were looking a little parched of water. Relieved, I struck up an inhaling contest with a fag, and he was giving me a good run for my money. Unfortunately, the fag was done for after two blocks. I had to find another one, and soon. Watching one’s own footprints disappear into the horizon is an interesting experience, so long as you don’t run into somebody else’s garbage cans or themselves.

The lines at confession were one deep. An altar boy waddled awkwardly out of the priests office, followed quickly by the priest himself.

“It’s not what you think,” he stammered.

“Whatever you say Father Jonas, just light a candle for him next time.”

God’s frozen piss was starting to come down again, and I had to find my way to Saint Brigid’s pronto. My vision was becoming clearer by the minute. The footstep trail got longer as the wind got faster and the white shit got deeper, and my mood got sourer the soberer I got.

“Fucking fuckers! I’ll fucking kill every single one of them. I’ll kill them all. For Ronny. I’ll kill them all for Ronny. Ronny and Pete. I’ll fucking kill those fuckers! And where’s the fucking Eddy?!”

I watched a shit brown rabbit scurry through the snow.

“Fuck this!”

I trudged through the shit weather. I kept thinking of Ronny and Pete.

“Saint Brigid’s. Fucking finally.” The oak door was solid. Fortunately, the lazy-ass barkeep was there. “Gimme beer and keep it coming,” I shouted at him. He was hesitant until the bar rattled. I wiped the water from my cheeks as I chugged my glass and pushed it back into the keepers hands. My face was getting wetter and I tried to hide it with the second glass of gold.
“You can’t keep running away forever Dan. Ronny and Pete lived well.”

“Fuck you!” I cried into my empty beer glass.

1 comment:

  1. you're getting better on the fiction, the tone and style... keep it up, it's way to go