Written by George Gad Economou
“don’t tell me,” Dave bawled with fury painting his trembling voice, “you wouldn’t
“kill all these motherfuckers, if you could! just…pull out an Uzi or something
“and raze’em down, watch them fall like fucking flies!”
“who did what to you this time?” I groaned in exasperation and swigged down gin outta
the bottle.
“the world! the goddamn world!” he cried in anguish. “I mean…
“morons screaming out of their cars for no reason, people walking
“on the sidewalks as if it belongs to them, old women trying to sneak into
the grocery shop line!”
“the world would be absolutely dull without them. besides,
“I’m sure there are plenty out there that wish they could kill us, too.
“you know, the respectable citizens that don’t like lushes and junkies.”
“fuck’em!” he wrung the bottle off my hand—I clenched my fist—and had
a good gulp. then, he handed the bottle back.
“you know,” he smacked his lips, “I’d burn the whole town to the ground;
“the whole world, if I could!”
“yeah, yeah, you’re a killer,” I rolled my eyes and chuckled dryly; wetted my throat
with more gin.
“I am, motherfucker!” he tried to get up, the couch held him down (or,
maybe, it was the drugs in his bloodstream). “I’ll show you later.”
“fine,” I chuckled again; the bottle got dangerously empty. I unscrewed
the lid of a well vodka bottle. “look, you might want to show me
“tomorrow. tonight I got to work.”
“okay,” he nodded. “you think mixing them is a good idea?”
“no; it’s what makes it right.”
“okay,” he sighed, had a gulp of vodka. the lethal amount of toxins
in our bloodstream ought to have killed us more efficiently
than a madman with an assault rifle.
eventually, they got him; they’ll get me, too. I’m still waiting
for the black rowboat.
“will you be able to cook, though? what with…”
“you might want to leave before I start,” I warned him. “could
“be the day I go out in a nice blaze of ice fire.”
“ice fire,” he chuckled. “yeah, it’d be a nice way to go.”
“so,” I tilted the bottle in my mouth, the lukewarm
vodka glided down my aching throat,
“whom are you after this time?”
“some asshole yelled at me from his car as I walked down to the bus stop,”
he shrugged. “in whatever language he spoke. I was about to flip him off, but…”
“killer didn’t have the balls?”
“I was in his turf, he probably carried a knife or something.
“I just wish I had a gun, you know? just shoot his stupid head off and rid
“the world of one asshole. then another.
“in the end, it’d be a wonderful world.”
“the world needs the assholes and the morons. they’re far
“more valuable than geniuses.”
“fuck you,” he groaned and had a long gulp.
the vodka was polished off; it was time for box wine.
we drank mostly in silence till about midnight. then,
he went to take the bus, go back to whatever hellhole
he called home; I finished the box wine, took a two-hour nap
(which was a horrible idea because I woke up half-drunk
and half-hungover, with a vicious headache and sweating buckets),
peeled a battery and filled the plastic bottle withholding
the lithium with cleaning chemicals; each drop of sweat running down my forehead potentially my last
and my hands quaked. not from fear but excitement.
obviously, no grand explosion occurred. I finished the job
and with some joy I pulled another box of wine from under
the bed and sat down to drink.
Text © George Gad Economou
*
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