Thursday, September 4, 2008

on the hoof

Unfortunately, he knew this mistake might be. And the life or death might be his own. Born a screw-up, raised a screw-up, marriage a screw-up, and a screwed-up inglorious death to top it all off. Well, hell, it hadn't meant that much to him anyway, but he worried about his wife, about how she would manage the bills, if the police would look a bit too closely into things, or if they would just shrug, and tally up another death of a lout to random street violence.
Of course, it wasn't random, wouldn't be random, he wasn't dead yet, but christ almighty he wished he had learned to pay attention, and not have his attention swayed by the blonde in five inch heels and not much else across the street, and that terrible embarrassing sweaty-palmed heart-shuddering fear that caused him to jump and stare at each distant automobile sound, and the heart attack that nearly followed that annoying as fleas on a stray bitch that was a bit too eager to make new friends, and, yes, he had screwed up. Again. And this wasn't some god forsaken domestic chore that he had neglected, this was going to explode in his face.

Slumberland / Paul Beatty [exquisite]

suddenly September