Saturday, June 21, 2008
Sunday, June 15, 2008
He wasn’t sure how he got there, or why there was blood on his hands. What he was sure of, what was painfully apparent, was that she was dead. And Naked. And, considering the incision down her front, the gaping hole that showed her insides in sickening view, that she was the source of the crimson gore that ran down his wrists.
“Ah, Monday already?” said James, strolling up behind him.
“Nah, Thursday,” said Alex. “I figured I get a head start.”
“You always were the industrious one. Have you made quota yet?”
“Let me check.”
The adrenaline fading and his senses restored, Alex fished about in his pocket. He produced a cocktail napkin stained with no small amount of feces.
“About three to go.”
“Jesus! That would make, what, like seven already? It’s only the twelfth, for Christ’s sake!”
Yes, he had been busy. Busy bringing new life to the world around him. Culling the herds, burning the dead growth, fertilizing the soil. There was no telling when the change would come, but revolution was irrevocably coming. There is no stopping that locomotive. Not with all the armies of priests, celebrities, orphans, cancer survivors, politicians, and white-haired, old bitches this sad community could muster.
James was saying something too softly to drown out Alex’s inner dialogue.
“I said the Pittsburg union is talking about a strike.”
“A strike? Christ. Remember when the Miami boys went on strike? I’ll never forget those bastards they brought in as scabs.”
“I know! Fucking necrophiliacs; what were they thinking? I remember when people still had professionalism.”
An old woman walked a poodle past the alley. She glanced at Alex, froze and screamed.
“It’s alright, ma’am!” Shouted James and flashed her his credentials. This did little to comfort her and she ran off shrieking.
“It’s too early for this,” groaned James.