Morning.

Pale and bright and.

Pristine somehow.

Peace.

Out the window, blue ocean forever overseen by massive cumulonimbi with acreage enough to turn the sea black for half an hour. They roar over the boat heading the opposite way only slower. Enchanting. Impossible.

I’m good. Energized, optimistic.

An incredibly satisfying crap.

A meditative shower and shave.

Fresh fruit, english muffins and champagne on the balcony. I savor food, drink and Rothko blue water all the way to the horizon. The morning paper is a bitch in the wind. I stuff it under my thigh. Impossible white giants dominate the sky. The slowest motion explosion ever, cruising the atmosphere, punching at the roof. Tall enough to ignore gravity. All of pink and purple violence beneath.

It’s a little chilly so the sun takes it’s turn. Nice.

The Boat docks at noon.

I take my time. Gather my things. I’m anxious to put this chapter behind me and I don’t know why. Some violence, good times and more peace than I’ve had in months. How sad.

It comes to a close, I’m reluctant to turn a page. In my mind’s eye there is a finish line. I don’t look at it. I can’t yet. I’d like for it to stop haunting me before I confront him. I get that’s unlikely.

I think of a smoke shop instead. One with comic books, porn, stereo and science magazines. The smell of two dozen pipe tobaccos collect and make a perfume of raisins, apples and burning hardwood. There’s candy and cigars smelling of cedar and vanilla. A small white fridge full of fish bait rattles in the corner. Beef jerky, lighters and tiny ampules of ginseng at the counter. A yellow cardboard display of of tobacco pipes with lime green text. Saran Wrapped cookies in a basket and Flints and pens with floating things inside. Behind the counter, whiskey and cigarettes. Some plastic bongs, some ceramic ones, a little fimo and lots of cheap imported metal. People I’ve known for years behind the register.

Some temporary buoyancy I’m nurturing.

I know what’s coming.

The molar back left begins to ache.

I haven’t checked baggage since they started putting wheels on suitcases. The tome and dagger is secure among my clothes in the carry-on. I thought about opening the box. I didn’t.

A few minutes to finish up and get organized.

My molar begins to visit a pounder on me.

I pop a couple vikes and dry swallow.

Out the sliding glass for a last smoke and it starts to throb with my pulse.

A swallow of champagne left. It’s coming on fast.

It hits me hard. I’m stepping right back into hell. This is going to suck. A lot. I’m returning to take him on. One way or another, it’s on.

I have no choice. Carlo was relieved he didn’t have to convince me of that. Glad I could see it for what it is.

I’m really not built like this. I’m not a tough guy. I barely know how to fight. I can’t picture it. I can’t even picture it.

My jaw kicks the covers off to show me what it brings to the party. Pain as fresh and old as you can imagine, rips up the side of my head. The skin on my left face is baking off. The deepest ache with a frosting of coals hot enough to melt fat. I stagger.

Two more vikes, another dry swallow and I grab my shit and head to the main bar. All the pantsuits are lining up to file out when I get there.

Wierd. I thought it was a little after noon. I ask the bartender for the time and he says a quarter til. The watch Carlo gave me says noon straight up.

I order a double Sapphire mary.

The woman next to me is festooned with impossible amounts of makeup and perfume. Probably a wig. I look at her watch and it says ten til. I look at mine again and see straight up noon. Her smell makes my tooth scream. I want to cave her head in.

She sports the most beehive of bouffants, resplendently ridiculous. What do I do now? I can tell she collects dolls. Her jewelry and costume clink and rattle. I loathe her.

Spit collects in the corners of her mouth. There’s foam between the point of her upper lip and where it meets the lower. It looks like an elastic band as she talks about not a goddamn thing. I can smell her armpits and vagina over the dense mist of her perfume.

She stinks.

She notices me staring and wincing. She gawks at me wide eyed. The vikes begin to kick but I get that she’s mocking me. Rouge on her cheeks and turquoise in abundance around her eyes. I smile and ask her if she’s ever danced naked with her uncle with a pickle in her mouth. She frowns at me confused and asks me what I just said.

I say nothing. I stare. I wink. I dig for a booger. She turns away.

Pissedoffedness rears it’s horned head and I flick at the back of her hive with my middle finger. She wheels around pretty damn fast. As far as I’m concerned, my startled laugh sounds like a hiccup. I tell her it was a wasp. She frowns but bats her lashes.

Whore.

I spit on the floor.

The entire side of my head bulges on fire. I’m sweating. My balls itch. I’m furious about everything. I think I want to grab the back of her head and pound her face into the bar. Over and over.

My drink comes and it tastes like lunch. It’s the beauty of any sort of bloody mary. Like a breakfast bar. Eat the olives and the celery and you’ve got a balanced offering. There’s the bar nuts and tomatos too.

Then, like gossamer, vicodin saves the day. My rage and confusion subside. I decide I’m in no condition to go far. I grab a cab and get a room. Some chain with a cocktail lounge. Room service. I stop for gin on the way. Fill my ice bucket first thing after I turn on the lights.

Pour one. Wash up. Hit the lounge.

Two things:

I’m housed.

I think my watch stopped.

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