Friday, July 10, 2015

JUNKYARD KING

                                                                     PROLOGUE
Driving through intersections, I frequently find myself wishing the birds would hang in the air a little more than they are sometimes likely to do.







                                                              JUNKYARD KING
                                (Original Title: “The Jizz-Crazed Love Stewardesses”)

Biff narrow-eyed Vince from across the table. “All I see when I look at you is twenty years of life wasted,” he said. “You're not gonna see me here in ten years! I'm gonna save my money, go to Harvard fuckin' University and become a lawyer!”
Vince decided to humor him. “Okay....so, exactly what area of the law do you figure you'll be specializing in?”
Biff stared at the surface of the table for two or three minutes, frowning.
“You're an idiot,” scoffed Vince. “Ten years from now you'll be squatting in a blown-out factory, whacked out from 50 hits of acid, listening to old Black Sabbath records on speed 78, drooling like Pavlov's dogs and looking at God.”
“No---YOU will!”
Vince wasn't getting dragged into any more childish, futile arguments. He took a long drag off his cigarette and blew the smoke in Biff's face. Biff spluttered and tried to wave the smoke away.
“You dick! Haven't you ever heard of Secondhand Smoke? They're gonna ban your filthy habit!”
“Fuck you,” said Vince. “Don't you be walking around the dirty city air and cry to ME about Secondhand Smoke! You haul chemical waste for a living, so don't you talk to ME---”
“I'll talk to you all I damn please!”
Vince took another drag. “You know what your problem is?” He asked, blowing another cloud of smoke in Biff's face. “You have no sense of perspective.”
“No----YOU have no sense of perspective!”
“Shut up, douchebag. Have you ever thought about the way flocks of birds explode up from roads just barely to flee oncoming trucks? How they interrelate with power plants, nuclear weapons and clusters of grapes? Have you ever seen a head in a burlap bag, seen Kings and Queens fornicate with the dead, dismembered remains of their servants----have you ever, in depth, studied one of DaVinci's anatomical diagrams?”
“What, are you crazy?”
“Am I? You think you're going to Harvard fuckin' University to become a lawyer, and you think if people stop smoking your ass will be immortal! I wish, just once, you could hear the sky crackle the way it does, so thick you could take a butter knife to it....”






Biff rolled his eyes. “Oh, spare me.”
“Okay,” said Vince. He reached into his pocket, pulled out the Nine and shot Biff in the head, sending him promptly to Heaven.
Vince sat up, walked into the back room, folded up his makeshift cot, got undressed, packed his things and threw on his walking clothes. He headed out the door and into the midday city. As he hit the intersection, he caught the symphony of tangled telephone lines above and listened to each one humming its individual part in the great, electromagnetic orchestra. 


Published in VOX (Albuquerque, NM) 1996. Copyright 1996 C.F. Roberts/2015 Molotov Editions



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