barking at the dogs

“fuck him. he would probably have murdered me and raped you, fuck him he smelled like he needed a job other than smoking weed or living in a basement”. the door slammed shut in his face and the small door wreath that read “welcome” flew off its pegs bouncing off his stomach and splashing into the puddle formed at the top door step. the lore of a 30-something slightly overweight man dressed like a 19 year old transient in torn jeans and backwards hat with the words “motherfucker” crudely printed didn’t appeal to many as it was, and he knew it, but in that moment, it was the first time he knew it mattered. funny it seems as people were so taken back by his appearance in the worlds current condition that the passing of judgment was so swift. his dying vehicle was either out of gas or out of pieces that remained unbroken a few hundred yards from the only house within 4 miles. he walked back towards the vehicle not knowing what was to happen next, wondering if maybe if he crawled inside over the empty cigarette packs and beer cans and shut the door that the current current’s would wash him away. or at least farther away from this house and closer to whatever was left of the town he had lived inside of for 32 summers. he gripped the steering wheel for a moment and looked across the horizon. a reddish brown line cut through the sky and reminded him of a painting his father had in his apartment of the grand canyon. not so goddamned grand of a canyon if you had asked him but no one did. he tried in vain to start the car again and it didnt. a puff of black smoke seen in his rear-view mirror the only indication the car had any fight left. “fuck this” and navigating over the empty cans again got out and standing, looked at the car in a sort of ‘never was’ type of way, shrugged and started walking towards town. his pockets contained two wallets, neither his. a pack of camels sans filters, 220 dollars, a small rusted knife and a 25. caliber pistol with 5 rounds in it. if someone took account of his belongings they would assume a person with a handful of problems and little was wrong with that assumption. in 32 years he had completed little in school, less in work and 100 years worth of stupid. there it was, his problems divulged and solved in few words. waste of buttons and zippers his mother had said of him the last time they spoke. she died 3 months later and had left a crater where he always figured a hole for her would reside. “bitch” he said as lovingly as the word had ever been uttered. she was a mess of a woman and a disaster of a mother but god the pain he felt for her loss. let the ashes fade and the dirt settle, the next heartbreak within sight.


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