“Alice did not feel encouraged to ask any more
questions about it: so she turned to the Mock Turtle,
and said ‘What else had you to learn?’

‘Well, there was Mystery,’ the Mock Turtle replied,
counting off the subjects on his flappers–‘Mystery,
ancient and modern, with Seaography: then Drawling —
the Drawling-master was an old conger-eel, that used
to come once a week: he taught us Drawling,
Stretching, and Fainting in Coils.” -Lewis Carol

I need to ask you. What would you do? I mean just what in fucking hell would you do?

One of the few things I’ve actually learned in life is that the thing to do with an antogonist is to seize any opportunity to ignore them.

This is convenient for me as I sit at the bar. It works. He fades.

When later I look, I can still see my name in the glass like ghost writing on the mirror long after the steam is gone.

It’s still early. The only thing I can think of is to drink. Finish my drunk. I make up my mind to do it like William Holden. I switch to scotch and think about picking a fight. I’m too much of a pussy and know that If I’m successful at getting into a real fight, I’ll lose because I’ll be so fucking hammered and I don’t know how to fight and I’m a pussy.

So that’s out.

I have another and decide the rosy cheeked kinda dumpy chick in her Sunday best is sexy. She’s happy and I’m drawn to it. I’ve never been the type. I don’t know how to do this.

I send her another of whatever she’s having. The bartender winks at me when I ask him to do this. I stare through him. What a dick.

She seems to be game when she gets it. She waves to me and mouths hello. I’m close to shit housed or I’d have no chance here. I wave back and try to look like I have humility. She giggles and picks up her green drink in a silly glass to approach me. I learn from her approach that she has big tits, skinny lips and nice legs. Two out of three ain’t bad.

Guess where from? Alaska. The furthest you can get from America and still be American. She smells great.

Her name is Shirley.

Fuck Hawaii.

Whatever. She’s friendly and I’m as honest as possible. I was recently involved in a car accident and I just couldn’t take it anymore. I was going bug fuck and needed to get outta the damn house. I’m single. Nope, no kids. I guess I’m selfish and understand that about myself. Better than being a shitty parent. I tell this all to Shirley.

I’m happy not be on my candy apple red invalid cart.

Maybe it’s the watch.

I tell her how cool my suite is. She doesn’t have a window. I have a balcony. She wants to see it. Look at me, I think. We could watch a movie she says and tells me her name is Shirley again. In the elevator she takes my hand and hopes out loud that I like to snuggle.

I want to roll my eyes but it makes me glad.

She may have a bit of a moustache but it’s blond.

Trying the door gives me pause. I’m fucking scared. I know he’s in there.

She’s got her hands on my shoulders while she breathes some green drink on the back of my neck.

I know he’s not. I smile and get the door open. If she even had a single clue she’d run panicked, screaming, snot and drool.

No smell of pigs.

She goes to the balcony and I take a piss. His electric knife is in the sink. I take the batteries out, throw them in the trash and cover them with toilet paper.

His knife goes in the toilet tank. I’m hoping to ruin it.

Somehow she’s found Steel Magnolias on the flatscreen above the mini bar.

She asks if I have a robe. I take it off the bathroom door.

She’s in it and her bra is orange. Orange? It matches her lipstick. Her tits look pretty good though. Milky white with a small mole halfway down the expanse of rather voluminous cleavage on the left. I’m thinking Shirley might have double scoops.

She smiles at me and lifts her arms under her breasts so they swell. I resist the urge to roll my eyes but I don’t abandon the idea of giving her the business. I have an eye for subtle and slutty. It requires rosy cheeks and a certain youthfullness and I appreciate the contrast.

Kinda like a bleu Stilton and a nice pink grapefruit marmalade on a cracker.

Whatever blows your skirt up. She does smell nice. Very clean.

She spends time touching me. She does it well. Her nails, fingers and toes are pristine.

I ask what she would be up to tonight in Nebraska? Alaska, she says. I’m too drunk to be embarrassed. I’m not sure what I’m doing but I press on.

Hot and bubbly.

She pretty much blows the lid off by asking me if she can put me in her mouth.

She climbs on top of me.

She’s bigger, but I like the way she feels in my hands.

This is going well.

Her mouth is on mine. It’s blissfully sublime.

She reaches behind with a thumb and yanks her underwear down to her thighs. She then uses her foot to take them off.

Cool trick. I begin to wonder about my blowjob.

Turns out to be a scorching hoovering.

I sleep fitfully. My forehead sweats but my feet are freezing. At first, there’s the standard not being able to run very fast or hit very hard sequences. Next, I dream of a mushroom cloud. Orange and fiery on the water, it parts the clouds. The sun is a sixty watt bulb. The wind picks up and the ground begins to dance.

Death comes. Death on the way.

A knife with a hollow green blade.

3 Responses to “Oh man. Man in picture.”