are not in my favor. A cop’s odds are exponentially greater.
There’s movement in the car. I look harder. K-9 Unit. The cop’s furry partner presses its steamy nose to the window. Below him, Paunch is airbrushed in willowy cursive upon the car door. Paunch. Like Paunch and John from C.H.I.P.S . Cute. German shepherds are very co—
The cop taps me on the forehead with his flashlight. Not hard, but not soft. The impact makes a meaty thumping sound and obliterates my train of thought.
“I’m talking to you,” he growls.
He thumps me two more times for emphasis. This time they are very light, more like touches than thumps, but these are far worse because they are purely rude. Extreme disrespect.
“Hel-lo?” Exaggerated, as if he is speaking to a retard.
“Yes, sir?” I answer quietly and restrained. I turn my eyes down as fear mutates into anger, expanding, sharpening—a pike in my guts, a bloody thorn in my abdominal workings. Childlike worry dwindles and my skin goes flush. The cop continues to talk but I can’t hear him. His stupid mouth moves and moves, pushing out noiseless words. Blood rushes too loud and it sounds as if I am underwater.
I see a streak of red out of the corner of my left eye. The cop nudges my backpack with his foot and then gives me a little kick. He is getting pretty peeved with my deaf act. I look up at him and try to tell him with my eyes that this is no act, that for some reason my jacked-up brain won’t let me hear. Officer—I read his nameplate—Lumply or Lumpy or something, is losing his patience. His eyes narrow and he jabs me in the chest with his flashlight. He takes a few steps back and I am able to read his lips as they mouth for me to stand up. I obey.
Over his shoulder I see another streak of red. I stare lazily, expecting nothing but the usual, typical flashes of fading color. This time however, the color doesn’t fade. It stands a few feet behind the cop. It smiles and waves. My jaw drops and my eyes bug out and my groin tingles. The “it” in question is none another than the red-haired girl from the library.
She’s dressed the same, shocking red hair, bondage pants and a tight baby tee, except this time the shirt doesn’t read Fuck You . Instead it reads The Dead Hate The Living . This is ultraweird because The Dead Hate the Living is the title of a low-budget horror movie I caught on late-night television a few days ago. It pretty much sucked, but it figures with this girl. Remember, “Individuals” who run around in groups of “Individuals.” There’s probably a whole group of “Individuals,” a cult if you will, in love with this shitty little movie.
Anyway, the girl continues to smile, and like before, her strange eyes trip me out. For kicks, I hold my gaze and attempt to stare her down. Her pupils dilate, forever widening, the black bleeding into the white. Dark whirlpools, endless holes, and I am falling, sucked in, air gone moist and thick.
In my head I hear: “All of this could be yours.”
All of what?
This isn’t a sex thing. I am well-conditioned. Despite that blasted tingling below the waist I’ve got things under calm control.
Then what?
Her mallrat, fashion-revolution, makeshift anarchistic attitude? Please, I have no doubt her ideals and tenets are as plastic as the credit cards she uses to maintain her punk aesthetic.
Then what?
The eyes have me. I am trapped, locked in, unable to look away. It feels as though something inside her is comingling with something inside of me. Like at the library, she’s trying to tell me something. Like at the library there is something strangely familiar about her.
I think I can hear Officer Lumpy yelling at me, but I ignore it, I am determined to figure this thing out.
Deeper and deeper, the girl’s eyes have gone completely black, unblinking. At her core a beacon, a pulse, a magnet. It mesmerizes and pulls harder. I see a tiny planet e arth doing tiny revolutions. Closer and closer. Its
There’s movement in the car. I look harder. K-9 Unit. The cop’s furry partner presses its steamy nose to the window. Below him, Paunch is airbrushed in willowy cursive upon the car door. Paunch. Like Paunch and John from C.H.I.P.S . Cute. German shepherds are very co—
The cop taps me on the forehead with his flashlight. Not hard, but not soft. The impact makes a meaty thumping sound and obliterates my train of thought.
“I’m talking to you,” he growls.
He thumps me two more times for emphasis. This time they are very light, more like touches than thumps, but these are far worse because they are purely rude. Extreme disrespect.
“Hel-lo?” Exaggerated, as if he is speaking to a retard.
“Yes, sir?” I answer quietly and restrained. I turn my eyes down as fear mutates into anger, expanding, sharpening—a pike in my guts, a bloody thorn in my abdominal workings. Childlike worry dwindles and my skin goes flush. The cop continues to talk but I can’t hear him. His stupid mouth moves and moves, pushing out noiseless words. Blood rushes too loud and it sounds as if I am underwater.
I see a streak of red out of the corner of my left eye. The cop nudges my backpack with his foot and then gives me a little kick. He is getting pretty peeved with my deaf act. I look up at him and try to tell him with my eyes that this is no act, that for some reason my jacked-up brain won’t let me hear. Officer—I read his nameplate—Lumply or Lumpy or something, is losing his patience. His eyes narrow and he jabs me in the chest with his flashlight. He takes a few steps back and I am able to read his lips as they mouth for me to stand up. I obey.
Over his shoulder I see another streak of red. I stare lazily, expecting nothing but the usual, typical flashes of fading color. This time however, the color doesn’t fade. It stands a few feet behind the cop. It smiles and waves. My jaw drops and my eyes bug out and my groin tingles. The “it” in question is none another than the red-haired girl from the library.
She’s dressed the same, shocking red hair, bondage pants and a tight baby tee, except this time the shirt doesn’t read Fuck You . Instead it reads The Dead Hate The Living . This is ultraweird because The Dead Hate the Living is the title of a low-budget horror movie I caught on late-night television a few days ago. It pretty much sucked, but it figures with this girl. Remember, “Individuals” who run around in groups of “Individuals.” There’s probably a whole group of “Individuals,” a cult if you will, in love with this shitty little movie.
Anyway, the girl continues to smile, and like before, her strange eyes trip me out. For kicks, I hold my gaze and attempt to stare her down. Her pupils dilate, forever widening, the black bleeding into the white. Dark whirlpools, endless holes, and I am falling, sucked in, air gone moist and thick.
In my head I hear: “All of this could be yours.”
All of what?
This isn’t a sex thing. I am well-conditioned. Despite that blasted tingling below the waist I’ve got things under calm control.
Then what?
Her mallrat, fashion-revolution, makeshift anarchistic attitude? Please, I have no doubt her ideals and tenets are as plastic as the credit cards she uses to maintain her punk aesthetic.
Then what?
The eyes have me. I am trapped, locked in, unable to look away. It feels as though something inside her is comingling with something inside of me. Like at the library, she’s trying to tell me something. Like at the library there is something strangely familiar about her.
I think I can hear Officer Lumpy yelling at me, but I ignore it, I am determined to figure this thing out.
Deeper and deeper, the girl’s eyes have gone completely black, unblinking. At her core a beacon, a pulse, a magnet. It mesmerizes and pulls harder. I see a tiny planet e arth doing tiny revolutions. Closer and closer. Its
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