territory. I am jogging on soft cat's feet and I can still hear that stupid cop thrashing around like a snared rabbit. She's makin' so much noise that I wanna laugh. The stick she was wavin' didn't scare me, but the gun from the car sure got my attention. Even a panther knows when to bail out. I hit the trail before she started popping off shots like Stallone in The Expendables. But not before I chucked a big rock at their frickin' car. Right smack in the middle of the goddamn back window. A perfect throw, if I do say so myself.
Bitches! Both of 'em. I've always hated that interfering cop and now she has a zombie girlfriend. Every time I've seen her, she's just plain weird. And her dog is some kind of useless. When they came snooping around my bog, their stupid mutt walked past me without barking or anything. I wanted to jump out and slap its tail out from between its legs. I imagine what would have happened if I'd done it that day, and it's funny enough to simmer me down some.
That was their first mistake. Trespassing on my bog. Poking around my business. Mind your own business. The bog is mine.
I wanted them to smash into my roadblock tonight and I can't figure out how they knew it was there. It would have been great to see the car burst into flames. I would have danced around the bonfire like a wild savage. That would have taught them a real lesson. The brand new crack in their back window should be a good reminder.
I stop and take the set of keys from my jeans pocket. Balling them up in my fist, I throw them in a nice high arc. With so many leaves on the ground, no one will find them for a hundred years.
In the dark, I nearly miss the fork in the trail and sink to my shins in the swamp. By the time I get to town I'm cranky, my shoes are muddy and I'm thirsty. I could use a beer but this whole damn place closes at 11p.m., which was hours ago. I'm also out of cigarettes so, when I see a pack of smokes sitting on the dash of a parked car, I try the handle. Of course, it's not locked and I help myself.
When I flip open the Camels, I 'm surprised to find a fat little doobie snuggled right in there, alongside the remaining half pack of cigarettes. Never tried one of those before and it feels like tonight's the night. Millions of dope-smokers can't be wrong so I stop by a fence and light up. It tastes weirder than it smells but I inhale and hold the smoke until I'm ready to burst. For the life of me, I don't feel a damn thing. I grind it into the gravel with my shoe and light up a real cigarette to get the taste out of my mouth. I don't care what brand I smoke; it's all the same to me. I suck in a lungful. That's what I wanted in the first place.
The streetlights on this part of the avenue are out. Have been for a while. I guess that 's why I like coming this way. I like walking past the little cemetery at the end. That cemetery is old as dirt and no one gets buried there any more. You can barely read the names on the gravestones and nobody ever visits. They say it's haunted, but don't they say that about every cemetery? Isn't that the point, really? I've never seen a single spook and I've spent a lot of time here. All I know is that it's a good spot to sit and think without anyone getting up in my face. A good spot to walk around.
I take a shortcut through and pause to bend down and read my favorites.
Mathilda "Hildie" Johannson 1898-1962 Loving Mother
Below the name is a picture of an angel that looks like she is blowing her nose. Runny Nose Hildie, her friends probably called her. Cracks me up every time. I read a couple more and come to a freakishly tall one that is familiar.
Harold Woods 1902-1955 Millwright
There 's no picture on this one, but it's the tallest one in the row and always catches my attention. I put my shoulder against it and give a good shove. I'm pretty sure I've shoved it over at least twice before but it just won't stay down. One more push and it topples backwards. Scheisse! I jump out of the
Bitches! Both of 'em. I've always hated that interfering cop and now she has a zombie girlfriend. Every time I've seen her, she's just plain weird. And her dog is some kind of useless. When they came snooping around my bog, their stupid mutt walked past me without barking or anything. I wanted to jump out and slap its tail out from between its legs. I imagine what would have happened if I'd done it that day, and it's funny enough to simmer me down some.
That was their first mistake. Trespassing on my bog. Poking around my business. Mind your own business. The bog is mine.
I wanted them to smash into my roadblock tonight and I can't figure out how they knew it was there. It would have been great to see the car burst into flames. I would have danced around the bonfire like a wild savage. That would have taught them a real lesson. The brand new crack in their back window should be a good reminder.
I stop and take the set of keys from my jeans pocket. Balling them up in my fist, I throw them in a nice high arc. With so many leaves on the ground, no one will find them for a hundred years.
In the dark, I nearly miss the fork in the trail and sink to my shins in the swamp. By the time I get to town I'm cranky, my shoes are muddy and I'm thirsty. I could use a beer but this whole damn place closes at 11p.m., which was hours ago. I'm also out of cigarettes so, when I see a pack of smokes sitting on the dash of a parked car, I try the handle. Of course, it's not locked and I help myself.
When I flip open the Camels, I 'm surprised to find a fat little doobie snuggled right in there, alongside the remaining half pack of cigarettes. Never tried one of those before and it feels like tonight's the night. Millions of dope-smokers can't be wrong so I stop by a fence and light up. It tastes weirder than it smells but I inhale and hold the smoke until I'm ready to burst. For the life of me, I don't feel a damn thing. I grind it into the gravel with my shoe and light up a real cigarette to get the taste out of my mouth. I don't care what brand I smoke; it's all the same to me. I suck in a lungful. That's what I wanted in the first place.
The streetlights on this part of the avenue are out. Have been for a while. I guess that 's why I like coming this way. I like walking past the little cemetery at the end. That cemetery is old as dirt and no one gets buried there any more. You can barely read the names on the gravestones and nobody ever visits. They say it's haunted, but don't they say that about every cemetery? Isn't that the point, really? I've never seen a single spook and I've spent a lot of time here. All I know is that it's a good spot to sit and think without anyone getting up in my face. A good spot to walk around.
I take a shortcut through and pause to bend down and read my favorites.
Mathilda "Hildie" Johannson 1898-1962 Loving Mother
Below the name is a picture of an angel that looks like she is blowing her nose. Runny Nose Hildie, her friends probably called her. Cracks me up every time. I read a couple more and come to a freakishly tall one that is familiar.
Harold Woods 1902-1955 Millwright
There 's no picture on this one, but it's the tallest one in the row and always catches my attention. I put my shoulder against it and give a good shove. I'm pretty sure I've shoved it over at least twice before but it just won't stay down. One more push and it topples backwards. Scheisse! I jump out of the
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