Doc's Corner...All Fucked with the Lights OffA Story by E.H. Monroe
Doc’s Corner …all fucked with the lights off
“He beat em, dragged em and fucked him in the street like some sort of animal. No one wants to watch that s**t. This is small town politics, son. Small town politics are big time tyranny. S**t, if Hitler was mayor, we’d all be goose stepping in small towns across the great divide.”
The rain s**t terribly all over the window pane of Doc’s Morning Dive and the grimace on Paul Rifter’s face was permanently cemented into the deep carved lines in his yellow stained countenance . He hacked up lung mung into a hankerchief and brushed an unnatural amount of sweat off his brow on a 62 degree day.
I clicked my finger tip against the side of the pre chipped, porcelain coffee mug that hadn’t received a hearty washing in over a decade and the smells of cigarettes and bad memories swilled along the rim, just inside the lip.
The ambulance pulled up, lights flashing amber and yellow, distress calling, reflecting a terror rainbow in every raindrop that plummeted to its death and was gobbled up by the sewer’s w***e mouth.
I flicked a rogue walnut off the top of my blueberry muffin top and took a bite. It was stale, but not brick enough to cause an uproar of my more sensible, consumerous side. One look back at the waitress, an overweight, hairnetted glum fairy who’s probably played cum dumpster behind this shithole on more than one night to passing truckers and mariachi band members reminded me that this place was hell, and she would much rather ring her c**t lips out on my napkin than give a f**k about my 5 star food needs.
I tapped the glass.
“The beast on the left, that’s Pitmane, the mayor’s kid. Real f****r. Real b***h. He drives that lemon yellow camaro across the street. Two years ago he fucked some 15 year old. That f*****g kid is 23. The cops questioned him, found his blood under her finger nails and his cum in her bed. Nothing. Nada.”
Rifter saw the s**t in Vietnam. He saw a couple of good ol’ boys play hide the tip of a XM148 with a few mothers while hog stomping the heads of the native sons and daughters.
“You expect that behavior. That was war, this is home. I came back to behavior just as bad. To waving American flags and these mongrel jackoffs.”
The lights were low and the morning raised its head into noon. The newspapers were from months ago and the ice was stained grey. The only other patron in Doc’s was Sam Marshall. He was tucked in the back under a stained glass window. Word is he’s been waiting every Sunday for his daughter Annabelle to come and have coffee with him before his cancer eats at what’s left of his brain stem.
It’s been 15 years and she’s been dead of a drug overdose for 7 of those. That doesn’t stop him from looking up every time the bell rings, the door opens, and another one of God’s drop outs slithers into Doc’s, before burying his head in disappointment yet again.
These are not the days to live, and these were not the fools to envy. This was the turf of small town monsters, and behind the ornately carved Welcome signs were graveyards of lies spilling out into the roadways and caking the paint with a residue that could not be wiped clean.
This street, some 80 years ago, used to be the strip for high rollers with American Muscle and hard bodied teens in short shorts and bandanas. Two by two, the big block monsters would belch hot grease into the air that melded with the joys of ignorance of the damage to the Ozone layer, AIDS, or crooked technological god play. They cracked the code of the great wide ease, and the days were long to soft guitars and Ricky Ricardo crooning at band head. The deterioration has made way to rot, and the rot is a f****r with bad diction and has crawled to us from the pit of giants.
The counter phone rang; a long, drawn rattle of mismatched tones that reverberated harshly off the quarter wood paneling. The locals had no time for the distraction, for they were fairly sure that it was death and no one had time to stop long enough to acknowledge his place in their lives.
The rain had finally gotten to the power grid and the couple working lights inside Doc’s shook, crackled and were extinguished allowing only the lightning bursts, flashing cherries from the ambulance and the dim hum of depression to highlight the unpolished surfaces.
© 2012 E.H. Monroe
Shelved in 1 LibraryAdded on May 10, 2012
Last Updated on May 10, 2012
hate your f*****g guts, NJ
AboutS**t eating fuckbag of the crapocalypse. Dystopian Bard and general word rapist. like me here, and i'll kiss you on the face.. http://www.facebook.com/pages/EH-Monroe/226600554032025 Its here .. more..
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