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"Like what?"
"Got any metal? Pantera, Dark Slave, Lepers Peel, Fear Factory, Slayer, whatever? I even like punk...Clash--"
"You fuckin kids all jacked up on your fuckin speed and your metal and your racehorse lifestyles...take a
break, man! This is the good shit, Syd Barret...you wouldn't remember, man."
"Fuck that old foagie bullshit," I smile. "The new generation is where it's at. Slayer...fuckin
Lepers Peel..."
"You can fuck off with that shit," he says. "I'm putting on some Rolling Stones!"
"Fuck the Stones!"
"Fuck you, man."
"Fuck you too! And fuck this place! When was the last time anybody but you even set foot in this fucked-up
dungeon of yours!"
"Other'n you? Never! I made an exception with you and you should be grateful, ya fucked-up goddamn arson youth
motherfucker!"
"Fuck it all to hell."
"Give it to em, Jagger," this old fucker spouts, as some ancient-ass bullshit streams through the speakers.
"Hey, I know about that Gila lizard," I say. "I'm not dumb, something brought back my memory. Those
things are endangered. You're not even allowed to keep those things as pets, much less in a fucking cardboard box!
I remember Science class in High School. Do you even have airholes for that shit?"
"Muffler's got all the air he needs."
"Does he have food?"
"He eats. He's a goddamn lizard. Course he has food, course he takes food."
"But do you give him any?"
"There's flies up there, spiders, whatever."
"That's cruel and unusual punishment!" I say. "I'm gonna set him free right now."
"You'll do no such goddamn thing!" He starts walking towards the staircase.
"Watch me!"
"Oh I will!"
I go upstairs but he doesn't follow me. I grab the cardboard box and tear off the lid. There he is. I start down
the stairs when I see Proosteau standing there in the living room and he's got something dark in his hand--a goddamned
handgun! Where the fuck'd he pull that from? He's got it raised toward the ceiling, arm fully extended.
"Still wanna let him go?"
"He's an animal," I say, shaking and sweating, courtesy of the weapon's presence. "He deserves just
as much as we do, right? We're Americans and we value our freedom. This is an American lizard. He should be free.
We abolished slavery how long ago? Come on now. He deserves more."
"I get joy outta having him around," he says, lowering the gun, aiming it at me. "He'll stay."
Some inexplicable impulse sends me through the door and out on the porch and I reach into the box and pull the
Gila out and wing it and instantly there's a massive pain in my right index finger and even though I'm a bit drunk
I can still feel the full brunt of pain and I feel almost like I'm gonna pass out as throbs of red and black course
through my vision, but I regain myself and look at my hand and the index finger of my right hand, up to the first
joint, is gone. There's just a tangle of pulpy knots sticking out where the fingernail should be and I just stand
there jaw-dropped and watching and--
Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!
Proosteau's started shooting.
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