Chapter 8

Chapter 8

            A long time ago a Frenchman who’s dead now wrote about being the king of a rainy country. I think that he meant that he was sad all the fucking time. Morose is the word that comes to mind. We are talking here of the sort of sadness that bleeds out into everything you see or touch. That, by the way, is the Midas touch.

            The same frog also wrote about being a drunkard. At the end of that poem he talks about lying in the road and letting a carriage wheel crush his skull.

            They put him in prison for that.

            Instead of going to prison I wake up and tell Pinky to pack her shit and go. I’m not gonna tell you all the nasty details. I don’t feel like it.

            She’s gone and that’s enough. Stop being a voyeur. 

            So now I’m on the floor, naked, a half empty bottle of scotch next to me in danger of being  tipped over. There’s blood trickling down my arm describing lines that seem to be a schematic of everything I’ve done wrong and everything I’ve missed. I’m working the tiny little point of the knife around in a circle, widening the hole I’ve made and trying not to cry.

            Something moves. I look up to catch the small form fluttering toward me. It’s Quetzalcoatl, flapping his feathered wings against the silent air and coiling himself aloft as he approaches. 

            As he gets near I reach out my bloody hand and run it along the length of his scales.

            He coils against my leg and looks at me with his lidless eyes.

            Just for this moment I feel at home. Quetzal feels like family. Just me and him.

            Alex, by the way. My name is Alex just like the main character in A Clockwork Orange. I'm not quite as interesting as he is, though. Amen and all that cal. I can't quite think of why it took me so long to tell you that.

If you have enjoyed this nonsense, please consider spending a couple of bucks to buy it. I need to eat. 

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