A Carton of Cigarettes and a Bag of Double Bubble

5

You know sometimes I have real goddam problems. I guess it comes with the goddam territory for being a psycho motherfucker, but then again who the hell doesn’t have fuckin’ problems. It might be something very big or a small motherfucker, but either way it catches me right when I’m at my lowest. It’s like God fuckin’ looks down and see’s I’m abou tto get a fuckin’ hand up, and says, “Can’t let that boy get loose just yet.” And fuckin’ nails me with a lightning bolt right between the fuckin’ eyes.
Take this for a goddamned example. I’m sittin’ there in that goddamned coffee shop minding the hell outta my own goddamned business, when this young lookin’ guy and his family come in. It’s one of those family outtings. Jesus, who the hell takes a fuckin’ family outting to the Bronx? Well, anyway they come in, he has a pretty wife and a cute little son and daughter. Both of the kids have on the cuter than hell sailor outfits, lookin’ like first and second mate, and his wife has on this hat with real flowers on it. You can fuckin’ tell their real by how delicate they look. Well they take a seat, and are having a hellova goodtime when all of the sudden the little boy starts shakin’. Jesus Christ, he’s shaking the hell outta the table and his parents are gathering around him and pokin’ these fuckin’ pills down his throat. Goddamnit, I thought the poor little kid was dyin’ so I ran over and asked what the hell was wrong and if there was anything I could do.
The dad looked up at me and shook his head and told me his little boy was epileptic. Jesus Christ. The kid looked five goddamned years old and he had epileptic fuckin’ fits! That got to me. I sorta backed off and watched the little boy calm down and start to feel better. Jesus, I wanted to hug that little kid, or tell him a story or buy him a goddamned toy or something! The little girl sat off to the side with her mother cryin’ while her father cleaned the kid up. I walked over to the little boy and knelt down in front of him.
“You OK, boy”
He kinda nodded that he was OK, so I bought him a fudge sundae and treated that whole fuckin’ family to a free meal, then I sat with the little kids and told them stories and jokes. God, I love little kids, of course that’s got me in trouble before. I’ve been accused of bein’ a fuckin’ pedophile so many goddamned times I lost fuckin’ count. Well, they all ate and I gave both of the kids a handful of gum each, and told their parents how they were swell fuckin’ kids then I left.
Still, that bugged the fuck outta me about that little kid. Jesus he should be having the goddamned measles and staying home eating ice cream instead of goddamn epilepsy. Life is fucked up, man. I found that out way the hell ago. Hell, there are so many messed up motherfuckers in this world it’s fuckin’ ridiculous. I remember one day I was on the fuckin’ Internet in the goddamned library at school, when a huge fuckin’ color picture flashed up on my screen.
It was a drawing of a goddamned girl, looked like that Japanese drawing, but she was all cut up, with her head hanging on by a thread of skin and blood everywhere while some motherfucker was raping her, cutting her goddamned head off. I almost cried, man. Shit like that makes me so sad I could die. Then I look up and see John Keese and Ronald Burlik laughin’ their fuckin’ heads off across the room, makin’ slashin’ motions across their necks.
That was about the time I started hatin’ those motherfuckers. They did that to me every day until I couldn’t stand to see one more murdered girl bein’ violated and I walked over to them and smashed their goddamned moniter with a chair. I went to the goddamned counsellors for that, but I felt like I had avenged those girls. After I got out we had another fight. The music beat the motherfuckers worse than I ever could.
John and Ronald had been a thorn in my side for years, always trying their best to torment me. Why? Because I was different, I had the fuckin’ balls to be different instead of kissin’ the fuck up to their standard of normal. When they looked up Internet porno, I was lookin’ up downloadable books. When they tried to rape a fuckin’ girl I fought ‘em and took a goddamned beating, but they didn’t rape that girl.
Everything about us was so fuckin’ different that if you didn’t know any better you’d think we were fuckin’ trying to be opposite. It had been like that as long as I could fuckin’ remember. I was gettin’ madder and fuckin’ madder thinkin’ about everything all at once. Those pictures kept rammin’ me from every side, the faces of John and Ronald, Tina standin’ naked lookin’ at those two motherfuckers from the park, Slim and Shorty beatin’ the holy hell outta me, and Tina’s voice askin’ me to talk to her.
One image kept coming into view. That one goddamned image of a knife in Slim’s hand, I could remember it flashin’ in that dim subway light, fuckin’ cuttin me to ribbons. Except I saw it cutting Tina, I knew it had never fuckin’ happened, but I also knew that the motherfucker woulda done it just as fuckin’ sure as the day is long. The music was already comin’ in fuckin’ low and fuckin’ quiet. It never really stopped anymore, no, it just fuckin’ quieted down for a little while before the whole goddamned orchestra started playin’ it all over again for the madman psycho to dance to. Well, hell, let the fuckin’ storm rage, the music play, and the psycho dance, man. After all, what the hell you can’t have everything, right?
I guess I just can’t get everything straight sometimes, it all starts rushing the hell at me outta nowhere from all fuckin’ sides at once. The little kid having the fit, Tina laying next to me in her bathrobe, the knife, Slim and Shorty beatin’ the motherfuckin’ hell outta me, the old bum from the railroad, the knife, the music screamin’ the hell away, the knife, Holden Caulfield talkin’ about his little brother, Allie, the knife. That one fuckin’ picture wouldn’t leave. Never would go and still hasn’t. I guess they musta broke part of the goddam thing off in me, because I can still see it catching the light in the subway.
I didn’t even realise it until somebody grabbed me, but I was standing in that coffee shop staring out the window, holding my fuckin’ head and screaming something about how I’d kill the fuckers. I was screaming my fuckin’ head off even while I threw the money over the counter and ran out into the streets. I swear to Jesus for once in my life I was happy to see the sun. I started walking then I fuckin’ looked up and saw the sun going down and coming up and going down again, I can’t remember which it was so damned blurry. Like a goddamned fogged up mirror.
So anyway, there I was walkin’ around in the fuckin’ Bronx, stickin’ way the hell out. Damn, I felt like hell warmed over, then it got worse. It clouded up and started to rain, and I’m talkin’ about a goddamned monsoon. People were runnin’ left and right like it was fuckin’ acid instead of rain, I don’t know, given the pollution it mighta been, but I was so fuckin’ burnt out I didn’t give a damn. I just kept right on walkin’ movin’ out into the middle of the road, soaked to the bone with water dripping off my hat. I didn’t care if I fuckin’ drowned right there in the middle of the fuckin’ road as long as the bastards saw I wasn’t like them.
“HEY MOTHERFUCKERS! AFRAID OF A LITTLE GODDAMNED RAIN? AFRAID YOUR GONNA MELT OR THAT THE FUCKIN’ LOONY CONTROL WILL COME LOCK YOU AWAY? WHAT THE HELL YOU RUNNIN’ FROM, MAN?” screamin’ my lungs out at the people hurrying by ont he sidewalks.
Still walkin’ down the middle of the road, I threw a few pieces of gum in my mouth and laughed my ass of at the silly bastards runnin’ left and right afraid of a little rain. Poor motherfuckers, God bless ‘em. I looked down at my watch and saw it was only ten-thirty. Jesus, my parents had left me two days ago trustin’ that I would behave myself and already I had spent a night in jail, got the hell beat outta me, been in a drive-by shootin’, went home with the hooker who committed it, ate with a homeless man, and was currently standin’ in the middle of the goddam road in the Bronx cussin’ out people for gettin’ in outta the goddamned rain. And it was only Tuesday morning. I told you I was a fuckin’ psycho, man.
Well, I wandered around for a little while thinkin’ I should go home no matter how fuckin’ much I didn’t want to. Then I thought why the hell not? My parents probably wouldn’t care if I did this kinda shit all summer, stayin’ out all night, and even if they did care, what the hell were they goin’ to fuckin’ do about it? Lock the fuckin’ doors? In fact, I was just about to head that way, when I was thrown over the top of John Kesse’s convertible.
If he had been goin’ a mile faster I would have been a dead motherfucker, as it was I was layin’ on the ground bleedin’ every which motherfuckin’ way, wondering what the holy hell just hit me. I was laying in the middle of the goddamned highway, hurting too fuckin’ much to roll over, then that motherfuckers face come loomin up in front of me, lookin’ so fuckin’ smug I almost puked.
I seriously thought the bastard had broke my goddamned shoulder, it was hurting like a bitch, the whole while John was talkin’ shit over me.
“Goddamned loony bird! Next time I’ll dare you to play with six bullets, motherfucker, and win you piece of shit.” then he starts kickin’ the hell outta me.
One kick.
“Motherfuckin’!”
Two kicks.
“Goddamned!”
Three kicks.
“Piece of Shit!”
Fours kicks.
“Psycho!”
Five kicks.
“Loony!”
I guess the bastard thought he has killed me, because he got fuckin’ quiet and started nudging me with the toe of his goddamned cowboy boots. Then he picked me up and threw me in the backseat of his goddamned convertible. I just lay in the back bleedin’ thinkin’ about how as soon as I got my wind back, how I was goin’ to kill this motherfucker. Jesus, my fuckin’ arm was killing.
I lay there, for a good long goddamned hour listening to the rain hittin’ the windshield and John muttering to himself. Bastard was just as drunk now as he was when I left him layin’ in front of that gas station last night. Well, he drove and I bled, and he drove some more and I clotted, until the fucker finally stopped somewhere and started to turn around. It hurt like hell, but I nailed the bastard midturn with a tire iron I had found under the seat.
He slumped over the wheel colder than a fuckin’ cucumber and I didn’t waist any fuckin’ time, I shoved the son of a bitch outta the car and tried to drive away. I say tried because the way my fuckin’ arm felt, what I was doin’ could hardly be called drivin’.