Splotchy’s Infected Again- And in Related News: Hookers in Georgia Go on Strike
Here’s what I would like to do. I want to create a story that branches out in a variety of different, unexpected ways. I don’t know how realistic it is, but that’s what I’m aiming for. Hopefully, at least one thread of the story can make a decent number of hops before it dies out.
If you are one of the carriers of this story virus (i.e. you have been tagged and choose to contribute to it), you will have one responsibility, in addition to contributing your own piece of the story: you will have to tag at least one person that continues your story thread. So, say you tag five people. If four people decide to not participate, it’s okay, as long as the fifth one does. And if all five participate, well that’s five interesting threads the story spins off into.
Not a requirement, but something your readers would appreciate: to help people trace your own particular thread of the narrative, it will be helpful if you include links to the chapters preceding yours. -Splotchy
I had been shuffling around the house for a few hours and already felt tired. The doorbell rang. I opened the front door and saw a figure striding away from the house, quickly and purposefully. I looked down and saw a bulky envelope. I picked it up. The handwriting was smudged and cramped, and I could only make out a few words. (Splotchy)
“Meet me at two o’clock at Grisham Square. Don’t be late!”
What? I already had an appointment at that time. In fact, that was the only reason I had even taken off work that Wednesday. But, when I saw the photos, I knew I had to go and see what the hell was going on. Oh gosh, now I wish I hadn’t, but how was I to know then that Elizabeth would take this whole thing so far? (Freida Bee)
During the car ride over, I got out the photos to take another look, “How did she know?” I asked myself, “How? It’s simply not possible, I’ve been so careful.”
But there, on the passenger seat looking up at me was…the evidence, and I had to accept the truth. Regardless of how she found out, Elizabeth was onto me, and considering she quit halfway through the Film Developing class she enrolled in last summer, at least one other person was involved.
The only question going through my mind at this point was, “Who else knows, and what am I going to do about Elizabeth in the meantime?” (Actually, that’s two questions) I thought parenthetically.
I knew, despite my inner protests (“NO!”), I had but only one Choice. I took a deep breath, a swig from the Fifth of Wild Turkey I had between my legs, five or six Xanax, and what I think was a Vicodin, and slowly opened the glovebox. There, behind the scattered unused condom packets, and sample boxes of Valtrex, it was, my Salvation, and as I cradled the cold steel in my hand, the realization that my life was about to change forever crept through me like a burglar.
“Forgive me Elizabeth, but if anyone in this world understands what I must do, it’s you. No one can know about my secret or my career as an Underwear Model is over, and I’m just not ready to hang up my Drawers.” (fairlane)
I was contemplating Elizabeth’s forgiveness and the powerful steel object in my hands when there was an abrupt knock on the car window.
“Hey, Shit-for-brains, roll down the window!”
I glanced up and was instantly nauseated by the visage of The Bruiser’s strong arm man, Pete McDugan, and that of his toad faced quarter-brother, Re-Pete.
“Whatta ya doing with the dildo, shit-head?” Pete said.
Damn, he was right. I had grabbed the wrong powerful steely object from the glove box. I rolled down the window.
“Ya, shit-head,” Re-Pete said, sticking his acne-splashed, Clearsil-free face into the car and washing the interior with his odiferous,moist,rotting, fungus-infected hot breath, “gonna blow your brains out with a vibrator?”
The fragrance of his breathe took me back to a cheap, un-airconditioned brothel in Caracas on a memorable saturday night in 1972. Back when life was good.
I watched the Wisconsin State Park sticker peel off the windshield. “Shit,” I thought, “something else to replace. And the Potawatami 200K bike race is next week.”
Pete pulled his in-bred kin from the window orfice and substitued his own maleficent face. “The Bruiser wants his money, loser! Ya play the ponies and lose, ya pay up!”
It all came back to me. Last week. The Carousel Races in the Menominie Park playground. That fucking orange horse never wins, but at 10,000 to 1 odds, an Acid addled brain takes it’s own chances. I could never resist. The goddam carousel pony races were always a weakness. And I knew I could never cover that two dollar bet.
“Show Time,” Pete said and wrenched the car door open with a Sears Craftsman nine-inch adjustable and pulled me from the car.
I reacted instantly, flipping the switch on Steely Dan and, hoping the Duracells were fresh, stuck it up Pete’s nose. Re-Pete had slunk behind me, though, and had a Louisville Slugger aimed at my brains…….the fan was about to hit the shit.
I was just about to give up hope when there was a chunk and a spit of gravel….A fiery horse with the speed of light, a cloud of dust and a hearty “Hi Ho Silver!”…..It was Elizabeth in her 65 Mustang with the 289, four on the floor, dual feul injected carb….and vintage 8-trac…..she rolled down the window and yelled…” (OkJimm)
I’m required to “Tag” five other people.
Okjimm (You can leave it in the comment thread if you’d like, or you could get a FUCKING BLOG! Everyone’s doing it. They’re the new Hoola Hoop, but unlike Hoola Hoops, Blogs are much easier to Navigate when Drunk).
~ by fairlane on May 16, 2008.