Thursday, July 28, 2016

A moebius tale


too quiet.
"What did you say?" inquired Chartreuse ominously. Emily shifted in her chair. Apparently her g-string wasn't as comfortable as she'd expected.
"Really need to get this chair recaned," she mumbled.
Billy shuffled the cards with maniacal deliberation, his attention apparently fixed on this process to the exclusion of all else. A stray hair fell maddeningly across his forehead.
"I said," began Chartreuse, a little louder...but he was interrupted by the explosion of the wide-screen television in the next room.
Billy laid the gun on the card table and picked up the cards. His hair was perfect. "Five-card draw?" he inquired, one eyebrow arched slightly. Emily shivered. She hadn't seen him like this since the night his brother disappeared on a 24-hour trick-or-treating spree last Hallowe'en.
"Billy," she said, "I'll make some tea." She hurried into the kitchen, trying to surreptitiously rearrange her clothing into a more comfortable position.
Chartreuse picked up the card table and hurled it in Billy's face. Cards, glasses, and the revolver sprayed across the floor. Billy sprawled on the floor, blinking through blood and beer, as Chartreuse turned and leaped across the hole in the floor. He was apparently trying for the family room. He didn't make it. His fingers scrabbled at the carpet on the far side of the hole. He


hung on grimly for a moment and then was gone.
Emily dashed in from the kitchen. "Oh Billy," she cried, "what shall we do now?"
At first he had no answer, and then the beginnings
of a hideous plan began to crystallize in his brain like mold
forming in chicken soup left far too long in a plastic box in the refrigerator. He examined it from every angle, as it drifted downward...yes, the plan was perfect. And he grinned.
"Billy," quavered Emily, "what are you looking at me like that for?"
Her grammar was execrable. But no matter. None of that mattered now, not her hairlip, her political connections in Cleveland, nor the worthless fish-and-chips stock on that loathsome blue pseudo-parchment, nor the collection of warped vinyl records stored by her brother under the sink in his mobile home. All of that was history, from this day forth! He went into the kitchen, opened a drawer, and took out a knife.
"No!" she screamed, as he moved towards her, treading implacably on the Sears "Persian" carpet. Pretentious piece of junk, he thought. Still, it was worth something, better not to spill anything on it. Faint screams came from the apartment below, shots, then more screams. The tea kettle began to whistle.
Emily backed out onto the balcony, and he followed, like a fork stalking a pea. Billy


advanced onto the balcony, where Emily was entangled in the ferns. She uttered little mewls of fear and knocked over an African violet. She appeared to have wet herself.
"Let me help you with that," he muttered, and cut away her left sleeve. It was a revolting mélange of anthropomorphic farm animals. He cast it aside.
"I'd better slip into something more comfortable," she said, "this g-string is a pain in the ass." She ducked under his arm and headed to the laundry room. Billy picked up the African violet. It was dead anyway ... overwatered. He looked over the balcony. There, 5 stories below him, a brilliant red '57 Chevy was parked illegally. Several meter maids clustered around it like kids at an ice-cream truck. One straddled the driver's-side mirror, sliding a ticket under the wiper blade. Billy dropped the plant, scoring a direct hit on the hood of the car and spraying the girl with dirt. The doorbell rang. It was Chartreuse, looking a little the worse for wear. He staggered in and collapsed on a chair. "Got any beer?" he gasped.
When Emily reemerged they were playing cards. She had not changed her clothes.
"Do you like my new car? It's a Fillmore."
"Yeah, it's really cool. Deal. And by the way, where are my records?" Billy was playing it close to his chest. Emily shifted nervously in her chair. She was getting thirsty. Chartreuse scowled and spat on the floor. Billy belched. It was quiet, very quiet. Some might say it was

No comments: