A story. (Pt. 5)

     “Peed on the walls. Had to do it. Stupid bastard touched me,” I gasped and grinned, “nothing else to say.”
   
     Sam shakes his head. He’s still hunched over. His hands on his knees, propping up his body. His breathing, just now returning to normal.
   
     I somehow get the feeling that it wasn’t the assault, the vandalism, or the leaving without paying that was bothering Sam. He seems to have enjoyed it. He seems to have enjoyed it a lot. But, something seems to be bothering him; I just can’t tell what.
   
     Sam tells me about how he had grabbed the old man that had looked into the bathroom. He tells me about how he flipped the man over the counter when the man told someone to call the police.  Sam told them it wouldn’t be in anyone’s best interest for them to be able to identify us. And we left. Quickly.


     Sitting back in the car, I feel safer already. It’s starting to get light out and these two days have run together. I can’t tell where I begin or end. I’m fuzzy on both ends--just like tonight. I need to find somewhere in between. I need time to process whatever the fuck it was that went on today; tonight.

I need a fresh start. I need sleep.

     Hunched over into the window, watching the ground fly past, my eyelids start to fall. Slowly blinking, drif… ting… off…

A story. (Pt. 4)

      Two cups of coffee, three cigarettes, fourteen tangents in conversation. I had watched our waitress talking to the cook for the last twenty minutes or so. They’ve been absorbed into their own little world. And us? Still no food.
  
      I’ve been keeping track of the pace of their conversation. While talking, her arms spring to life. She’s conducting her own private orchestra, the flesh under her arms flapping wildly. His head bobbles around.

A story. (Pt. 3)

     The plump old waitress is caustic, screaming from behind the counter. Her heaving stomach violently juggles her saggy breasts back and forth; grocery bags of runny jell-o. We fly out the doors of the restaurant.