Happy usually did not partake of such artless acts. Whiskey Wednesday withdrew our wicked and wild wingding. Jameson and Cokes were only three clams a piece—so we participated until not even the most lavish of lady licks could liven our lessened libidos.
We trotted toward town. A call from Kathy in his hands and a Camel smoke in mine. I am promenading perfectly, and he is uttering ugliness. Apparently Kathy is a bitch.
Passing by the padlocked swings, the roundabout still turning, we spot the lagomorph. Happy gives chase and I chastise. Drunken tears ebb. It is agreed that rabbits and human beings can only coexist without chase.
I went home because that is where my bed resides. I tumbled in and used it well. Happy contemplated mistakes as he reached into the middle drawer for a pen. The note was an apology and was aimlessly endorsed with a salt-stained scribble.
My attempt here is to apologize…for the malarkey I pulled yesterday. I am hoping that you might accept it…the apology that is. We left some veggies out for you. Did you smoke them out? Faford set them on the porch right by the pile of uncollected community newsletters. To hell with the community, right? Ha-ha! Wait, wait, I know, I know. To this, you can conjure little laughter. Is it that you hold this neck of the woods very dear to you? Well, regardless of what you think, that is where it is headed. Hell that is.
To my point:
I will cooperate to find peace. One day there will be no chase, and trust will be discovered. This is a start. This is my hand reaching out. You waggle and quiver, yet I assure you there is no race today, and there will certainly be no pursuits in our future. From the bottom of my ticker, I am truly sorry.
All the best,
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
The sound (assuming that there was a sound) cracked an iffy grin across the face of the world's richest man. He slithered out of his well-built and rather expensive shelter up the narrow tubing and shot his hand upward, blindly fingering the vault for its handle. The hinge on the vault snapped like a worn guitar string and a rush of sunlight ran through a thin crack in the shelter's lid. The world's wealthiest gentleman worked himself up to his feet and nonchalantly observed the world's newfound expanded emptiness (nonchalantly because he knew what to expect. The only thing that was “blown away” was the conglomeration of all living things (minus one Thomas S. Eiselberg). As he ambled down the street, he decided it would be nice to have a drink and something to smoke. Eventually, every third footstep triggered something else, something else he must have (as if inheriting the entire world was not enough).