Tuesday, June 10th, 2014

I’ve tried to quit smoking. I really have. There have been several times I’ve torn up a mostly-full pack and thrown away the lighter. Other times I’ve woken up with pain in my ribs, vowing never to light up again. Yet, here I sit this morning after being outside with another menthol.

It’s hard, at times, to accept the root causes for me to do something so dangerous. Other times, I just don’t care. Why am I “saving” myself? After decades of bad timing or poor fits that I’ll find someone I can share this pent-up love? I’ll be wealthy enough to travel the world and not give a flip about paying the bills? I can go anywhere and feel like a friend? As society sits right now, I doubt it. I’m being trampled by other people’s ambition and their human nature.  A nature of all the vices and judgment they swear not to do, yet commit all the same. They call them “rights”.

Smoking is my seppuku. I’ve dishonored my master, America, and not bought into the aggressiveness that wins her favor. It’s a savage thought that is considered “healthy” by her. It’s a ruthlessness that she smiles upon. “Grab her! Take her! She doesn’t understand anything else!” Lady Liberty chides with rusted teeth. “You are animal! She is animal! She demands assertion!” …and so she rewards.

Reserved in nature. Virtuous in spirit. Prudence in money. Controlled in temper. These are all Holy wafers that burn upon the skull of the red, white, and blue madam. They are all treated in suspect and shied away as a Nosferatu would garlic.

I would like to remain positive. I would like to give the people of this world a false sense of hope, as movies and books do. It makes them feel less guilty, less culpable, and they can go back to their business as usual. However, I’m not sure that can happen. Bad things happen to good people.

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Tuesday, February 25th, 2014

I happened to find this article from The Wire in my Facebook feed yesterday morning. The condensed version is Amtrak providing “residencies” to “writers” for “free.” As I’m lead to believe “free” is meant to be they don’t have a price tag yet, “writers” are to be determined by Amtrak, and “residencies” suggest spending a night in a sleeper car. What I gather is they’re still in the stages of determining if this will work out for them.

It all started when a New York City writer made a suggestion that found its way to the right people. Go figure. Once the test run was offered to a colleague of said writer, it made itself into print. Many involved in the writing community have expressed interest in the project for its “creative atmosphere.” I can agree. This combines two of my favorite activities: being in motion and writing stuff down on paper. I write on paper because I like to doodle, and edit, and tap my pencil on the pad and stick it behind my ears.

It made my heart ache for about two hours with flare ups each time I edited this entry.

Why would such a fun idea be so painful?

Granted it’s Amtrak, with its memories of crashes and other problems.

…but so what?

Airlines have their risks. Why the Hell does it hurt so much?

For the business conscious, it’s a matter of supply and demand. I could see the demand flying into outer space. The supply, on the other hand, would stay at a precious few. I did write my reflections on the amount of writers in this world, and how much of a mind trip it is. What would make me so special? Such things are declared to be a case-by-case basis.  I’m never good at case-by-case basis. I’ve known this since I was little.

I find myself often imagining the worst and hoping for the best even when history has given me many examples of outcome. I suppose I could work it around my job, but why even go that far? These things aren’t meant for me. The only time I get anywhere is by having a multitude concrete achievements to precede me. There isn’t anything magical about me.

Society is fickle, very fickle. Winning its favor was never my strong suit.

Monday, February 24th, 2014

I don’t like causing too much of a fuss out in public. For one, it’s much quicker to maneuver around low-quality humans than it is wasting time dealing with them. Second of all, this area is small, impressionable and judgmental. You get a reputation, and that’s not always a good thing. All of this is under the assumption you’re not from money. If you’re wealthy, you can do whatever you please. I’m sure many in America know that unspoken rule.

I decided to have a vegetarian burrito at the local Chipotle last night because guacamole is fantastic and I wanted to take a ride to a nearby town for some brainstorming. When I arrived, the line was at least twenty to twenty-five customers deep. It would be roughly a ten-minute wait. Not a problem. I’m patient.

As I approached the counter, the line workers started to run out of ingredients. The making of tacos, burritos and bowls ground to a screeching halt. Cooks were frustrated, the line crew was panic-stricken, and the sharks were starting to circle. By sharks, I mean customers.

As the replacements slowly came in, a person who appeared to be the shift manager said something to the cooks out of my earshot which garnered a tired, irritated response along the lines “I’m doing what I can.” It was at that point a middle-aged soccer mom got on her soap box. She explained how the in-fighting wasn’t helpful, her experience there wasn’t that great, she didn’t want to come back again, everyone was upset about what was going on, and she wanted to see the manager. I tolerated her whining up until the point she dragged me in on it.

Excuse me, lady? Speak for yourself. If I have a beef with these workers, I’ll let them know. I don’t need your help. Thanks, pay for your food and get lost. It would probably be a good thing for everyone involved if you didn’t come back ever again. Heck, I’ll frequent the place more to cover the loss in business. How ’bout them apples?

By the time I got up to the frazzled staff, I was boiling hot. It wasn’t from the workers; it was that spoiled little brat ahead of me. If I was too hungry to be decent in public, then it’s my own fault for not eating sooner. She could have made her own dinner and saved us all the headache of listening to her. These employees have to churn out meals for dozens of people a night. People like her. She needs to get real. Don’t try to catch people coming and going.

I addressed every employee as politely and friendly as I could. If there was an ingredient temporarily out of stock, I’d say “no worries” and find the next best substitute. The irked cook who sparked the woman’s diatribe went so far as to say “I like this guy!” I raised my finger and said “patience is a virtue” without so much as a hint of emotion. It was the truth. It didn’t need to be doctored up. He smiled. The tense atmosphere cleared out and the other customers who were acting like brats shriveled up like Shrinky Dinks. Serves ’em right. I’d also like to believe it got me a tad bit more guacamole than corporate suggests.

We’ve all been in frustrating and stressful situations before. We’re not perfect. We get mad. That’s normal. If you can’t cut people slack for being human, don’t even bother asking for any when you become such. It’s going to happen, too. I guarantee it.

Saturday, February 22nd, 2014

I read Jen Maidenberg’s blog this morning which came off the heels of another reflective moment in my life. If you haven’t had the opportunity, I do recommend paying her a visit. She’s nice. She won’t bite, which should be a delightful change of pace from me who enjoys mouthing you like an Akita. Get your sanitary wipes out; I slobber.

As I’m sure those who have read my work (even in passing) would simply be shocked to find out I can be cheeky, facetious, and otherwise socially unnerving, I can also be quite kind, considerate, and all-around genuine. Well, last night had me sending an apology to a person of whom I have known for three years. The problem is I tend to think we have some personality traits in common, and for people like us that can rub. I may have been a bit over-the-top with the cheek and irritated the Hell out of her.

How does it relate to Jen? It plays off the idea of secrets. There’s a concern that if we share our secrets with others, then they will shun us or there’s the fear they will shun us. More and more, I feel like the worker that can’t hold the wood in his arms anymore, the guy who blows his nose loudly in a restaurant, or the old man who walks around in his underwear and boots. Some say that’s being “tired of life.” I prefer to call it “etiquette burnout.”

It takes energy to work with everyone around me. Most of it is spent making sure everyone is comfortable by having me as company. As suggested, I think I hit a wall sometime ago. It would have to be in the fashion of Loony Tunes, as that exaggeration describes the feeling well: the crash and slide down as the reel-to-reel grinds to a halt.

So, when I think the opportunity arrives to metaphorically show up in my magenta, polyester sweatpants and flip-flops I take it. Unfortunately, there’s always a limit to being yourself around company. I took too many liberties, and dare say went a Rascal too far. After thinking about it, my mind is now in two camps: the young and the old. The young part of me still wants to cooperate with the rest of the civilized world while the 85 year-old me is taking a nap with the words “as is” written on his forehead.

This doesn’t seem right for a 35 year-old man, yet oddly honest from this side of the fence.

Saturday, February 15th, 2014

I tried not talking about it, but observed holidays aren’t easy to dodge. Valentine’s Day came and went without much of a to-do. That’s primarily because I fell asleep when I got home from work and didn’t wake up until midnight. How hopeless of a romantic could I be? Very hopeless, I assure you.

Earlier, I wrote out a rather sincere holiday wish on my other social media:

“Today is Valentine’s Day. As such I wish all that are in love, happy, and content a wonderful day regardless of orientation. As long as you’re happy with your arrangement, I’m happy for you.

Tonight, though, I raise a glass to the singles. The independents who refuse to let society tell them what to think or how to think politically, socially, or otherwise. I toast to you for seeking your own way, thick with the fear and hatred of others who think you’re an affront to their way of life. I salute those who know what it means socially to suggest a different viewpoint than what is popular. Your mile is just as important as any special interest.”

Now that may have ruffled a few feathers for one reason or another, but the people that truly know me know I won’t bite unless provoked. I don’t go around with the intention of picking fights, but if I can’t say what’s on my mind it gets ugly. That was also on the heels of some people digging into me for suggesting women are human and are susceptible to bad habits like bossiness. Not all “bossiness” is misinterpreted leadership, people. Cut the crap.

Once I shook off my bonds of slumber, I grabbed a pint down at the bar. There wasn’t much to be had for the likes of me, except a game of darts and a Doris Day movie. I did, however, get my first comment on a book review from the dating site:

“hi, i have a business proposal that will benefit both of us.If you are interested, email me to my personal email [redacted] for more details. Please note that chatting is not allowed, only email communication.”

I’m not sure about you, but I think I was just propositioned like a John. That’s an odd feeling, being thought of as a customer. In fact, I really dislike being thought of as a customer in many situations. After a little fiddling, I was able to remove it. People would start to get the impression it was abandoned. If anything, it needs a whole biographical rewrite. I’ve been known to scrap and start from scratch multiple times.

Also, a woman complimented me on my cologne for the first time, albeit the cashier at fast food restaurant. All together, I thought I handled it rather graciously. It makes for awkward ordering, but what can I say? I’m McIrresistible, ladies. Maybe that should be the new form of speed dating? Dinner and a show.

Sunday, February 9th, 2014

Dear Citizens of WordPress Province,

I know it’s highly irregular of me to post three times on a weekend, but this needs to be done for my reflection. Not in the mirror, mind you, but mental reflection. I’m not that vain. This is much like my earlier post about the dream, which I have a vague idea now what I was troubled over. I think I am concerned over making the wrong move again. The two roommates were a thought over the people that I meet in my life. The two were actually one, and the second was skeptical of showing all of themselves to new people. Guarded, if you will.

Right, now for the real point. I set up a profile on a niche dating site. For right now, I won’t specifically identify it but it’s not match.com, OKCupid, or eHarmony. As an aside, the eHarmony starter kit depressed me so much I couldn’t finish it. I read in between the lines way too much, and the “encouraging” lines translated just so to the point I felt like a sorry sack of crap. This place is a tiny website that scares away people who don’t like to read. I’ve given you all the information you need to figure it out on your own.

It has been over three weeks since I started the profile, but the return hasn’t been much of anything. I put everything in its right place, even several short but meaningful reviews of books I’ve read over the years. That’s not to say I was expecting anything, but there it is. The point is there were no corners cut in the effort I put into it. I’ve always thought I haven’t read as much as I should, but looking at other people I’m a little ahead of the game. That’s disappointing, not reading.

Last night, as I finished my flash fiction and laundry, I received a small two-sentence message from another user.

“Biting profile words; I’m hooked. Tell me more, tell me anything.”

As far as I could tell, she wasn’t a spammer. The reviews looked genuine and there weren’t any links to other websites. She was from Oregon, which I later ran the numbers to be approximately 2,500 miles (~4,000 km) away from the Fields. Maybe she mistook the OH for OR?

It was at 6:00pm, and I decided to think about what to say. After all, what do I have to lose from responding with a well-thought out email? By the time I was ready to write, she vanished. It was no more than 17 hours after she said something. I don’t think anything less than 24 is rude, do you? The profile was deleted with no way to respond. I didn’t realize what happened, until I screamed “how the Hell do you respond on this thing?!” That’s when I saw the small-print notification.

What was it that made her bail so quickly I wonder? Was it the time lag or the distance? I can relate to the mileage. All of my “matches,” and that’s in quotes because they’re not seemingly good fits, are on the coasts. That’s a long way, brother. Maybe the whole idea really brought her down?

Whatever it was, I hope she finds what she’s looking for.

Sunday, January 5th, 2014

The Tubes are as 80s to me as the fake-animal-print clad David Lee Roth, and provide Hallmark wisdom in a way only the era could deliver. I did tip my hand too much in the previous post about the strip club experience. It’s not easy talking about such personal memories, being that the Internet is so vast, but if I were on my deathbed would I appreciate not saying anything? This post isn’t going to candy-coat anything. If you are the type to either be easily offended or insulted, I strongly advise you to visit another day. I’m not the type of person to tolerate bullshit either, and this won’t be up for debate. This is simply a story of how my life played out on one Saturday afternoon in April of 1997.

I was 18, and it was a few days after my best friend’s 18th birthday. His rambunctious mind could only think of one thing, and one thing alone: strippers. He was always after ideas sexual in nature: Playboys (for the articles, my ass), video pornography, John Valby aka Dr. Dirty et al. They revolved around him in an electron fashion, only drawing closer to the nucleus with each passing moment. There seemed a sort of Christmas excitement that ran across his boyish face when he talked about it, and he spoke of it for weeks. I knew that day was coming, even though I already had deep reservations about it. Most people don’t give me enough credit for my intuitiveness, but it’s definitely there. Maybe it’s for personal use only? Regardless, I was being muscled into his quasi-wingman as we ventured to a larger city for the venue.

There was a feeling in the pit of my stomach the whole way there. It was not something that sounded great in the first place, but like usual, I felt coerced by societal norms (e.g. “this is what you’re supposed to be like: dumb and horny,” or “why not? Are you in the closet?”). We ended up in a strip mall in Toledo, where I handed over a matinée price of $7.00 to a short man with greasy ginger hair kept in a long pony tail. The insides were painted black, lit with black lights. UV light accented all the fluorescent materials present with a thin veil of smoke drifting from the seats to the stage. It wasn’t too long ago that people could smoke indoors.

The first stripper was a petite blond with cropped hair to match. Her gaunt figure danced upon the pole to a three-set of Beatles songs. “Sexy Sadie” was her stage name, and the bits of metal from her piercings held tightly to her b-cup breasts, glinting every now and then when she’d spin. After “Helter Skelter” was over, she bounded right up to us. Being that my friend was the cause of all this, I let him buy her the brink which turned out to be apple juice. Even though we weren’t of legal drinking age, there wasn’t any alcohol on the premises. I suppose I could see why. Drunk men and naked women could present a problem. My friend and I were also required to have a drink in front of us at all times, and we chose fountain beverages for the free refills. I still remember vividly how bright and pink my plastic daiquiri glass was. It was cheap, exactly like how I felt.

After a few minutes of light discussion, we were hit up for some additional dancing at the booths across the stage. Fortunately, my friend could not turn the offer down and went promptly over there with her. I was left to watch the other two women perform their sets. I began to fidget, trying to keep a calm exterior about myself and pretend I was enjoying it. There were a few other men around, smiling at me. They were having a good time. I wasn’t, not in the slightest. I felt like I was being used, not only by the dancers but by my friend. He didn’t want to go alone, but I didn’t have that many friends. I didn’t want to cause a rift because I would feel awful in a strip club.

The air felt thicker and denser as time inched along. I felt snake-like coils move around my face and head, whispering offers of faux-affection for $40 a turn. I was even startled when an African-American dancer slid her green-tipped fingers down my shoulders. She approached me from behind. So, I never knew she was there until I was jumping an inch out of my chair. I know they meant no real harm, though. They were just trying to earn a paycheck.

So often had I pined for female ardor, it made for many a lonely night. This sadness brought to me by my peers was heightened with whispers of high school girls not quite out of earshot, providing quite the venue of criticism from weight to attractiveness to creepiness. Everyone did it though. There were several males who would make themselves feel better at my expense, but it always stung worse to hear it from the girls. I could be jumped or clotheslined or socked right in the face, but it was their words that would ring in my ears for years. Admittedly, that day in April was the first time being in the presence of naked women. It wasn’t real though. None of it was real. All of it was a delicately-wrapped lie for a price, a group of women trying to sweet talk me only for what I had in my wallet. I didn’t have a whole lot of it to start. It hurt; it hurt like the Devil. I felt ashamed, and tried to overcome a burning face at the notion of having to buy my affection. What the Hell did I ever do to require buying love?

Were they whores? Were they sluts? Only if you include the audience and me. Whether it was for money, lust, or my desperate need for belonging, we all sold ourselves at some price. My area of interest just happened to be the size of a planet, instead of a Marlboro-tainted skin shop. Those buyers and suppliers were not on my list, as I had other business to attend to. After my friend got his inaugural lap dances, we folded tent and left. Rarely have I ever felt relieved as I did that day, with the slight wind at my face and a drive through the fields of Ohio.

My City by the Bay (Chapter 2, Part 2 of 6)

Up-down-up-down-up-down. An urge to vomit grabbed Sig’s stomach as he stared at the water. Sea sickness was calling to him. “Oh, bucket… buck-ET… BUCK-ET!” Wildly twisting to Captain Fryer, he mimed for some sort of medical assistance.

“Off the stern, boy.” Fryer said without removing the nautical pipe from his mouth. Dots lined up on the bridge like birds on a telephone line. He heard a screech, and the Barracuda darted back to Old Town. That must have been the cause of all this commotion. He’ll make a note of it on his report.

*Herf* “Oh!” *hurbrle* “Oh, God!” *hooooool* “Jumpin’ Jesus on a pogo stick!” Sig rested on the railing with his chest. This was worse than being hung over. “I need to get off this boat, Cap’n.” Closing his rheumy eyes, he tightened his face in vain to shake off the nausea and immediately recalled the time he made a mess on the Tilt-A-Whirl at the county fair. Fumbling for his badge, Sig offered it to Fryer with a sour composure. He felt like a soaked shopping bag in the middle of a grocery store parking lot.

“City police, eh? Well, we’ll get you to your station. Before that happens, we’ll need to get your story on all this excitement. You mind?” Fryer’s face didn’t move from its original position since they first met.

“Eh, mind if I send it to you later? I can get back on my own all right. I need to do a few other things first.” No! No paperwork right now. He’d rather make a harmonica out of a cheese grater.

“I suppose,” Fryer said, “but don’t make me wait. Last time I played ball with you boys, it took two weeks to get a profile. I’m not a man to be kept waiting.”

“Yes! Yes. Oh, absolutely! You’ve got it, Cap’n.” Sig’s sickness eased with the glee of a temporary reprieve. The boat moored on the safer side of the Nagawatachumi, and Sig clambered out on to the docks. He was never very graceful, and often felt like the slow clown in a pie fight.

Bus Stop

Sig stood in a lonely puddle, with the rest of the riders clumped conspicuously to the left of him. He might as well be wet; there were storm clouds over him. Pantsed again, and it wasn’t even gym class! Damn gawkers. He plugged another cigarette in his mouth but instantly realized they were soaked, too. “Bah!” He launched the pack at the trash can and made a few of the other riders jump.

The silver box on wheels rolled up and opened its doors with an exasperated sigh. Banners of slick law firms and exotic vacations clung loosely to the sides like the hopes of their financiers. A squeaky slosh was heard ascending the stairs and Ralph Kramden was given his fare, and maybe some algae, for his service. Although this time Ralph was Bunny Washington and he was just as suspicious as anyone else on the bus. “Damn,” Bunny shook his head and muttered, “just when I thought I’ve seen it all. Some honkey has to come and test me.”

With a sluggish gait, Sig sat right beside a little old lady who recoiled from the moisture. As the bus resumed its course, he looked over to her and gave a Jack Nicholson smile. “There’s nothing like a good swim to make someone few brand new. Wouldn’t you say?” It wasn’t his best impression, but it was good enough for jazz.

Apartment
It wasn’t luxurious, but it was home. The wet clothes quickly made a pile near the door, and he lumbered to the fridge. “Great! My car’s gone, and now my beer, too.” He slammed the door shut to antagonize his forgetfulness. Exhausted. Moments later, he was sprawled over his single bed. Before he passed out, he figured he’d go out and buy Star Trek bed sheets. If he were to be single like this, he might as well enjoy some of the small things in life.

© 2013 by Corvidae in the Fields, all rights reserved

My City by the Bay (Chapter 2, Part 1 of 6)

Impact wasn’t the most pleasant. In fact, it was like hitting a concrete wall. As a sign of Sig’s patience with Chrissy, he was “rewarded” with a 5 point racing harness in his Camino. At that time in her life she obsessed with his safety. This was years before the fallout and a bitter one at that. “Get hit by a bus” was the last thing she said when she left him. She always knew how to translate her emotions into words so eloquently.  She probably would have a fit, if she knew it probably saved his life.

“Get out! Get out! Get out!” Sig screamed to himself, but he needed to calm down. A capsized car isn’t the best scenario to be in but it wasn’t like he had a choice. “I’m not dying like this!” The water was filling in the car in no time at all. He took a deep breath and unlocked the doors, hoping beyond hope he could still get the door open.  Fortune was smiling on him as the pressure wasn’t yet enough to seal it. Sig took another breath before he popped his belt. The action made him bathe in Nagawatachumi waters, a questionable source of water for all endeavors. Using the steering wheel as an anchor he pushed the door as hard as he could and slowly pulled himself out.

Disorientation is always a fun time. What is up is down, left is right, and he was desperate for some clarity. Noticing the direction the bubbles were taking, he felt a little better and went with the flow. A burning sensation in his chest told him he wanted more air. He clamped down and wriggled as quickly as he could to the surface. The murky river water brightened then broke, and Sig let out a gasp that would frighten a sea lion.

“Over there!” A voice called out from the patrol boat. “About time someone was on top of things. I’m certainly not.” Sig was huffing like fat kid in gym class. He should know; he was that kid. The boat pulled up alongside and offered him help out. “You’re lucky to be alive, son.” Captain Fryer called to him as the river police yanked him up over the starboard side. The grizzled, pepper-haired vet couldn’t muster a whole lot to say. After his years in the Navy, there wasn’t a whole lot that got him too excited about anything.

“It’s a shame.” Fryer muttered while lighting his pipe.

“What’s that?” Sig peered up from his towel, still a little out of sorts from the whole affair.

“It looked a damn fine car, too.”

© 2013 by Corvidae in the Fields, all rights reserved

My City by the Bay (Chapter 1, Part 3 of 3)

Sliding through all four lanes of Douglass Avenue, the El Camino drifted behind a moving truck. “Mah!” Sig spun the wheel to the left and fishtailed his lane change. The ‘Cuda came alive and began to mime the Camino down the road. Sounds of a bee hive gone mad echoed down the road.

“They’ve got the better ride, but do they know how to jam?” Sig spoke, as his 8-track looped to the beginning. A slight ping notified the permission of a dirty habit. The tip of his menthol was singed and a curl of smoke arrived on the scene. “If today’s the day, at least it won’t be these that are the death of me. That’ll show her.” By “her” he meant his estranged wife, Christine. Chrissy had a way of throwing insults like pizza dough. She had her own spin, and they’d stick when she wanted them to.

The Camino ducked and dodged down Douglass for another thirty seconds, before a sharp right gave him a way north. He jammed on the clutch and power shifted the 8-ball capped stick into fourth. The ‘Cuda’s hockey stop nearly checked a bum into a bench, but it recovered and made another dash to the fleeing car.

“He’s not that great with the goods. That’s a shame. I’d hate to see him get it dirty.” With that, Sig made a beeline to a fruit stand off to the right. The proprietor, torn between dodging and protecting his assets, decided to save his own skin by hopping on a pile of black trash bags behind him. With a quick flick of the wrist, The Camino juked left and only smacked the right-side mirror on the kiosk. As intended, the sprinting ‘Cuda couldn’t dodge the stand quick enough and plowed through a variety of melons and fruit.

“Dammit!” No-neck said. “I just made my last payment on this thing two months ago!”

The gap between the Camino and the ‘Cuda widened and Sig could not push the pedal hard enough. Jumping a few hills, Sig smacked his head. “Moof!” could be heard as the blur passed several pedestrians.

He finally hit the bridge and stood a chance of making it back into friendly territory. The ‘Cuda, once again, recovered and hit the straightaway. The Camino could not match the speed of the muscle car, and soon No-neck was bumping The Camino’s rear end.

“She’s not that kind of car!” Sig screamed as he did all he could to keep the car steady.

Just a few more seconds, and he would clear the crown of the bridge. His grip could crush steel and he wanted to puke that cheap beer he just had at Jack’s. Clenching his jaw, he held on and steadied the car for what seemed like hours.

“Steady. Steeeady. OK, half-way th— OH SHI!” Sig failed to see the traffic jam at the other end of the bridge. It was rush hour, and those lucky enough to live in North Wharf wanted to get out of Dodge. With this distraction, the ‘Cuda made a solid bump and the Camino was out of control. A slam to the right and slam to the left knocked the cigarette from his mouth, and the ‘Cuda went in for the kill. By some fluke, the last slap sent the Camino up and over the rails.

All Sig saw was blacktop, then blue and lots of it. It wasn’t a huge drop, maybe 15 feet, but it certainly was enough to drain the blood from his face. White foam soon enveloped the Camino, and the chase was over.

No-neck slammed on the breaks only to clear a bumper by three inches. Getting out, he went to check on his handiwork. A ring of suds marked where the car had made its surprise splash landing and a police tug was already preparing to survey the site. The river cops were strangely different than the regular heat, as they were more prone to do their job. Provided Sig could get out of the Camino, he would be able to find a route back to safety. No-neck slammed his fist on the steel tubing of the rail.

“He dead?” Tiny stuck his head out the car’s window like a dog.

“No, he ain’t dead.” Said No-neck flatly.

“Miss Redglove ain’t gonna be happy with us.” lamented Tiny.

“Really?! What makes you say that?” No-neck was building in irritation.

“Well, we didn’t get him or kill him. That’s bad. Ain’t it?”

“I WAS BEING SARCASTIC, YOU MORON!”

© 2013 by Corvidae in the Fields, all rights reserved