[powered by orphans]

Burger King

December 29, 2007 - 2am

It had been three, maybe four weeks since I’d eaten anything that hadn’t come out of a take out box or through a drive-through window. I’d gained fifteen pounds, looked like shit, felt even worse.

I accepted my double Whopper with extra cheese value meal from the counter monkey with a sneer.

“Keep the change, junior.”

I tossed the twenty-something cents on the greasy counter at the seventeen-year-old zit-faced fuck. A few of the pennies overshot the edge and slid onto the floor. He didn’t move to pick them up.

I turned to leave. I could feel his stare burning up my back side as I intentionally pushed open his freshly Windexed glass doors with a greasy, unwashed hand. This kid hadn’t done a damn thing to me. Nothing. He’d actually been really nice, and I think he’d been trying to brighten my day with a cheery smile and a few attempts at conversation. I’d instantly shot them down with unrestrained contempt.

I’d instantly hated him.

I’d hated his shiteating grin, his eagerness to please, his kindness to a disheveled mouth-breather like myself–but most of all, I’d hated his potential. He had his entire life in front of him, and here I am, thirty-seven, divorced, in a job going nowhere, up to my ass in debt. He can do anything he wants. He’s probably a month from being valedictorian, and then off to some Ivy League school where he’s going to be knee-deep in hot, rich, pussy. Probably bang a dozen girls in his first semester if he has a clue what he’s doing.

I sat in my ostentatiously expensive sports car and wolfed down my fast food filth, not tasting a bite of it. My stomach twisted around the rock of low-grade beef, but I ignored it.

It wasn’t for the sake of getting away from junior that I’d left the “restaurant.” My rapidly growing stomach, declining hairline, and the deep bags under my eyes were more than enough to make me turn away from any reflective surface these days. That included the large windows of the place’s lobby.

“Hey.”

My head jerked up from the burger wrapping unfolded in my lap and the remaining overcooked fries. The kid had followed me outside, and was staring down through the driver’s side window. Christ, he’s going to beat the shit out of me. Good. Maybe he’ll kill me and save me the trouble.

I rolled down the window a crack and screamed at him. “What, goddammit?!”

“Um… you were… cry–you looked distressed… distraught. I just wanted to make sure you’re OK.”

I twisted the rear view mirror to look at myself. Tears lined my face, and more sat in the corners of my eyes waiting for their cue. I’d been crying and not even realizing it. Had I been crying in the burger joint? When did I start this time?

Did it matter?

“Yeah…” I managed a wan smile for the kid and looked him in the eye. I wanted desperately to loathe him. Like a long string of other unfortunate strangers, I wanted him to take the brunt of my self-pity and rage instead of me. Just for a little while.

He smiled back. “You sure?”

“Yeah.” I nodded slowly and wiped the tears out of my eyes. My eyes flitted to his plastic name badge. “Thanks… Thomas.”

“It’s Tom. And you’re welcome.”

A squawk burst from the mic headset he was wearing. Tom pressed a button on the box hanging from his belt.

“Welcome to Burger King, may I take your order?” He smiled again and waved silently, then turned and walked back to work.

I turned the key in the ignition, and the German-engineered beast purred to life. I opened the glove box to stare the pistol lying on top of badly folded maps and old chapstick. I pushed it shut again and drove away.

Nepenthe

December 5, 2007 - 6pm

[This is based on a dream I had a few weeks ago. Most of it is my dream, almost verbatim. I left out a few distracting details, like someone handing the main character a derringer.

Inevitable dash of pretension: 'Nepenthe' is the drug of forgetfulness in Greek Mythology.]

We walked through a rather ordinary-looking sunlit atrium, and rounded the stairs up into the cloakroom of a large banquet hall.

My partner-in-training, Max, and I surveyed the room. It was brimming with people sitting in long rows of tables. I estimated about two hundred people. Despite the large number of people, the room was strangely quiet. A pall hung in the air, as if something was about to begin.

The far wall of the room seemed obscured by haze, though no one appeared to be smoking. It gave the room a distant, dreamlike quality. A small lounge sat near the entrance into banquet hall, with a bar, a few chairs, and an uncomfortable-looking couch. The lounge stood empty, and the bartender leaned against the bar with his chin on his fist. He glanced at us as we walked in, then resumed glaring off into space.

“This is it, huh?” Max asked casually. “Looks pretty ordinary to me.”
Continue reading Nepenthe…

Parasite

November 25, 2007 - 12am

[I have a lot of chunks and bits of stories floating around in mind, so I'm going to start posting story fragments here--and I do mean fragments. I have a few other pieces lying around that I'll post soon. However, actual complete stories will be rare, assuming I manage to complete any at all. Everything will be posted in the 'story fragments' category.

I don't know where this story came from or if it's going anywhere. I doubt you'll be surprised to learn I'm midway through a Stephen King book right now.]

He rose from the toilet, hitched his paints, and glared sullenly at his leavings: a thick black tarlike substance oozed from one piece of feces, and a sprinkling of bright red blood dripped down the sides of the bowl. They confirmed his suspicions: the black was old blood from high in the digestive tract, and the red was new blood from very near its end. The host was still fighting him and tearing itself apart in the process. He stared for a moment longer, then flushed.

Dammit, he thought angrily. I thought this one would last longer.

He opened the stall door and paused in front of the truck stop restroom’s mirrors. A gaunt, pale young man looked back at him through haunted, sunken eyes.

Shit. Hadn’t this one been a linebacker, or tight end, or quarterback, or some other damn thing a few months ago?

He tried to search the host’s memory, but the degrading brain returned only bleary, incoherent responses. This one had never stopped screaming, and he could still feel it feebly clawing at the edges of his mind. That would probably account for the steep decline in health since he assumed control.

Bitter, hateful, ancient memories taunted him.

It wasn’t always like this. They used to give themselves willingly and submit completely.

He pushed them out of mind and left the restroom. Staring at the floor to avoid the eyes of other travelers, he shuffled into the rest stop lobby and outdoors. He crunched through dirty brown snow to a stolen, rusted-out ‘89 Ford Festiva. The bitterly cold winter air stung his lungs, and he choked back one of the hacking fits that had started last week.

He plopped down behind the driver’s seat and cranked the ignition. The engine coughed, shuddered briefly, and died. Punching the dash split open his hand and the heater controls, but did little to help the engine start. He cursed for a while in the old tongue, then tried the key again. Pumping the gas pedal finally jerked the engine to life, and he slowly accelerated toward the on ramp.

Father, he thought. I’ll go see Father. He’ll know what to do. Father always knows what to do.

His broken, bleeding right hand dripped on the center divider. It was hard to shift without screaming. It didn’t matter, though. He’d have a new car and a new host soon enough.

Father would see to that.

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