Raptors woke me before I was ready. It was cold, so I found a discarded blanket, the value of which cannot be overstated except by those who senselessly appreciate reality. Snead was waiting, tapping his feet impatiently on the pavement and leaning on his low-slung purple brougham. I asked him for a spare magazine, because he always went into a fight over-prepared and I had used the opposite tactic on more than one occasion. He gave me a dog-eared Argosy. Worthless pulp and I told him so. He shot me in the gonadal vicinity but only hit one. Nature’s redundancy is awesome.
The next day I drove Snead’s car to the Jiffy Lube to get some bottles of fine beer. I prefer to drink my brew from a brown bottle, not green or clear, and they have some good lager over there. The owner, Marge, gave her ovaries to a nun who’d renounced her vows, and ever since my cars ran bad but I never wanted for beer. Marge is a decent woman but her skinny no-good husband Mixer Man is a bumbling failure at the serial killing arts. He’s always letting people escape and run through the shop. I’ve already decided to throw him to the carnivorous tadpoles in the Amazon drainage but I can’t bear to tell Marge. She collects vintage pickles.
“Why won’t you just follow directions for once, you motherfucking fuckers?” This was Mix (a lover of redundancy himself). He couldn’t get his latest victim sweepstakes contestants to agree on the order of their demise. He finally gave up when the fastest of them kicked him in his smallberries. Most of the same lot would be back next week anyway, and pickles don’t go bad.
© Pseudocognitive
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