I’m sitting naked on the can at my mother’s house trying to remember what happened last night.  Hot steam fills the room to mask the cigarette smoke from my mom.  Between the alcohol and drugs the night and my dreams slur into a haze.

At the bar there was this kid, Jackie, that I hate.  I grew up with his sleazy ass and had enough of a dose of him then.  He sits in the booth with us trying to act tough or cool, I can’t tell the difference.  People are filing in like ants to a picnic, young, sexy, horny people.  The bar is hot, not just hot, but extremely hot.  The window next to us is open to let the muggy summer air in, but it only lets our drunken catcalls out to a sober world.  Heels clip-clop down the street begging to be noticed.  With Jackie riding high from pandering neo-hippy nonsense to anyone with a low IQ I need some fresh air.

There’s a cage around me so others can’t sneak in.  I light up.  The smoke hangs around my head for a moment and then drifts into nothingness.  The bouncer sits on his giant ass and stares at me as I puff puff puff.  I was trying to fill a hole that mere magic smoke couldn’t fill; it just oozed out. 

            “Got a light?”

            “Sure.”

I light the guy’s smoke serenely like a man would a woman’s in a 40s film and he starts telling me his life story.  He’s a doctor, but not a real doctor, a doctor of chemistry; but he’s not a chemist.  He’s a drug pusher.  He works for Pfizer and travels around selling good feelings to sad people.

            “You know, Viagra wasn’t made for old men to get it up?”

            “No shit?”

            “It was made for angina, that’s a heart condition, and one of the side-effects was guys get stiff as a board.  Now that’s what we sell it for.”

My cigarette’s out.

            “Alright man, I’ll see you inside.”

I don’t think I saw him again.  I wade through the tide of dancers and try to find my party, but they’ve separated into a million pieces.  There’s parts of them here and there, they’re goddamn everywhere. 

Standing at the bar I notice the sultry blonde bartender wearing a blouse with rose print.  Being the smooth cat I am I speak up.

            “Our two shirts would make a pretty stellar bouquet,” I shout over the music and point to the red roses on my western shirt. 

The puzzled look on her face tells me she’s an idiot.  I pay for my beer and turn around.  Riley’s behind me leaning on some girl and waving me over.

            “Want a shot,” one asks.

Back at the bar.  Jack.  Down.  Hot.  Tequila.  Down.  Hot.  She reaches for a lime and I slap it from her hand.

            “Only gringos need a lime.”

She laughs.  We laugh.  We move.  She drags me back to her friend and Riley.  Neither of these night vixens have faces.  They’re both just a smudge on my memory.

I can remember wanting to dance.  The pills I took on the way into the club must’ve worked.  The dance-floor is a jungle.  Dark creatures watch from all sides as I strut into the middle.  There’s a group of girls, I laugh, they laugh, we laugh.  My white-boy feet feel the rhythm as well as they can, and my hips grind in all directions. 

That’s it.  Now I’m here and the rest is black.  I sneer as I push the last bit of my guts out of my ass. 

Wait, there was something about a girl that I missed…

I know I haven’t posted for a while, so here it is.  I want some comments because I’m planning on changing my style a bit.  Let me know what you think.

Sitting on the front porch I fill my lungs with plumes of grey smoke.  After smoking dope I love the taste and smoothness of cigarettes.  With each deep sigh of an exhale I’m a dragon.  The sun sits low in the after dinner sky and the pot makes me introspective/retrospective.

I am this way because of my father, the toothless prick of this city street.  It doesn’t matter what city, because at the heart of them all they’re the same.  That man is the broken foundation of the house he lives in.  I live here too because if I didn’t no one else would.  He can’t take care of himself.  Each day he drinks a quart of that sick golden piss from a bottle.  It might have been the war that made him this way, or his father before him.  I’ll never know the exact reasons. 

            “Close that goddamn door!”

I walk back inside and sit with him in front of the T.V.  The staticy image bounces about on the screen and agitates my tired red eyes.  Football players dance in black and white dreams of pride and glory.  Beside me, sitting in his worn-out armchair is a broken man – drunk for years.  His gaze doesn’t come off of the television screen as I examine him.  Thick contours run across his forehead and compliment the dark bags under his sunken eyes.  With each drink from his glass a gummy mouth parts.  As the lack of sunlight darkens the living room the iridescence of the T.V. makes his greasy face shine.  As repulsive as I find him, I can see myself in him. 

My mouth is dry.  It’s not just dry it’s empty; no saliva, no words.

Short attention spans of advertisements dance across the static screen.

            “So why don’t you ever have girls around here?”

Girls don’t like me.

            “Huh?  When I was your age I was swimming in pussy.”

He licks his thin lizard lips.

            “What is it?  You a faggot, boy?  I never raised no faggot.”

His words marinate in disgust.  He doesn’t even look at me the same now even though I don’t answer.  The real answer is that I’m too embarrassed to have anyone enter my life and see what it truly is.

            “I knew there was somethin’ different bout you, but my God, a faggot?”

My muscles tense and I clench my teeth.  I’d like to kick that old bastard’s remaining teeth in.  I’d like to burry him and piss on his ungraceful grave.  Before fire tears of hate well in my eyes I leave the room.

Thick pulses of deep bass resonate from old speakers.  The record spins and I turn the volume as high as it goes.  What’s going on over there, the neighbours are asking themselves.  They know that it’s not a party.  I slowly strut down the stairs to the living room, back to my father.

            “What the hell are you doing?  Shut that noise off!”

I feel the beat enter my body.  I snap my fingers as I sultrily walk towards him.  I tap my foot as I slowly peel my t-shirt off of my pastel skin.  My vision is a blur and all I can hear is the music.  I slap the shirt down in front of me and slide backwards into the T.V.  To be theatric I kick it off of its stand. 

1-2-3-4.  1-2-3-4. 

I gyrate my hips to the rhythm as I unbutton my faded Levis.  I couldn’t have picked a better day to not wear underwear.  As the speakers vibrate and pulse so does my heart, sending hot blood through my veins.  I delicately slide out of my jeans and strut towards the armchair.  The rush of hate swells my flip-flopping phallus. 

A hard punch of wet glass hits my face.  I go blind, I fall, I end up on the ground naked.  In my daze I watch his mouth scream.  My ears ring.

            “Who’s the faggot now?”

With a smile.

I’ll be back posting next month.  I’ve had a busy summer of adventures.

The cool night makes my piss steam as it trickles down into the ditch.  The silence on the road, and the complete blackness could be unnerving to some, but years of camping as a child have made it a preference to me. 

The hum and clunk of the van’s engine as I step back inside breaks the peace.  I sit in the front passenger seat.  The small lights of the instrument panel eerily illuminate the driver’s face. 

“Christ, how long were you holding that one for?”

“Since damn near yesterday.”

We whisper so as not to wake the others.

P.  D.  We’re off.  The headlights ghostily light the pavement as we cruise along the empty road.  I sit up front because I can’t sleep in a moving vehicle, and because I want to keep an eye on Mark, the driver, to make sure he doesn’t fall asleep at the wheel.

“So where are we going to hit tomorrow?”

“We’ll wait to see where we get by morning and make a plan then.”

We start to talk about the trip, that leads to life, that leads to women, that leads to why I’m in a van full of people I’ve only known for three weeks.  Don’t get me wrong; you get to know a lot about people when you’re with them for twenty-four hours a day for three weeks, but you still don’t know everything. 

The night wears on, and we share our lives.  I usually don’t believe what most people tell me, but Mark seems genuine.  His stories are just dull enough for me to trust they happened.  The stories are from real life, raw and unromanticized.  I share my life.  I enjoy telling tales.  I embellish here and there, but never to take away from the story, just to make my point that much more solid. 

Our lips whisper in delight satisfaction of honest lives, and the road goes on.  The road always goes on.

Our road has been empty up to this point, but now ahead we see hazard lights blinking a cautious red on the side of the road.  Dawn is going to be coming soon because the stars are beginning to disappear. 

“Should we pull over?”

“If you didn’t pull over you would never have met me.”

Mark signals and pulls behind the vehicle’s camper trailer.  He kills the engine and pulses the van’s signal lights. 

“If I’m not back in five minutes come see what’s going on.”

As I walk to the front of the vehicle I hear violence.  The lights of the van behind me shine steady and make me feel secure.  I come around the front of the vehicle.  There’s a man, an axe, crying children, and a deer fighting for life.

“Do you need any help?”

The man wielding the axe looks at me with tired eyes. 

“I don’t think I can do it.  I’ve never killed anything before.”

He’s been fighting with himself for courage, but can’t seem to find it.  He’s lost touch with his true instincts.  He’s been two, three, no, four times removed from his true element as a man.

I look at the deer, a noble buck.  Its front legs kick and fight trying to escape fate, as it drags its ass across the blood stained pavement.

“I just didn’t see it.  I looked down for a moment, and there it was.”

“Is your truck alright?”

“Yeah, just the grill got cracked.”

With each word we exchange the deer fights harder and harder to live.  I look at the man and gesture for the axe.  By this point Mark has come out.  He stands with the man and watches as I approach the animal.  The closer I get I can feel the fear of the stag.

“Shhhh…”

I stand before the kicking beast.  Snot snarls out of its nostrils.  I look back towards the headlights and see the haze of the men’s breath drift about their heads.  I raise the axe above my head.  I look at the deer’s eyes, aiming between them.  With all my force I swing down.  As the heavy blade drops the deer raises its antlers.  My hands rattle with shock as I swing through an antler and hit the pavement. 

I feel like a disgusting savage torturing an animal like a ritualistic pagan wanting to appease the gods.

When I look up the men are no longer looking at me.  I raise the axe again.  My muscles flex.

“I’m sorry.”

The kicking stops.  The road is silent again, but it isn’t peaceful.  The men help me drag the carcass off of the road.  I can feel the blood that’s splattered across my face and idiotically lick my lips.  It tastes of wild fear. 

My silhouette walks back towards the light.