Search This Blog

Friday, August 19, 2011

135 Matilda Aftermath

Let's go on, my friend.

Stranded in the desert three thousand, three hundred and thirty three miles from my home in a river valley, I had hit rock bottom.

Actually, it was the first rock bottom, but not the last.


The warm orange glow exploded into a steam dragon that howled and hissed and flew away into the night sky. Fire trucks circled the tiny, melted rocket ship, and the pastel stucco on the houses across the street flashed blue and then red between orange, lime green or dusty rose.

Officer Tingletot wanted to know why I had set my car on fire tonight. He seemed particularly curious about why tonight, during the work week, instead of on the weekend, as was the usual.

“I killed her.” My own voice seemed to be phoning in from a thousand miles of string stretched between two tin cans.

Tingletot’s eyes went big. “Is she in the trunk?”

“She’s gone, man. She’s in heaven now.” I just stared at Matilda, not feeling much of anything at all.

“But what about her body?”

“What a body indeed. Tig-assed bitties, and a rear that wouldn’t quit. Friggin biker boyfriend, can you believe it? Asshole. But she was a bitch for not telling me about him.”

Tingletot wrote this all down. “Where is her home?”

“Off-skirts. Way up north. House sits on a bluff. Just follow the trail of butter drippings. You’ll end up there.”

“Butter trail. OK. Gotcha.”

At first they had deemed me unfit to stand trial for murder, but then the steam died down and they got the trunk open to look inside. No bones, nothing but a chest of ruined tools, a burned up Chilton’s guide to automotive repair and engine rebuilding for a 1972 Toyota Celica, and a toasted spare tire that didn’t have a single mile on its treads...

“Sir, I could arrest you for making a false statement to me. You said you killed someone.”

“Yeah, Matilda. My car. Just look at her.”

Tingletot flipped his little notebook closed as loudly as he could for such a floppy little notebook, then he simply turned on his heel and stalked off.


“Weeeee-ill! What the fuck dude? Get yo ass in the car brutha!”

“Thanks Joseph. Ffffffuuuuuuck.”

“What the hell you doing way the fuck up in Clovis anyways?”

“I was running from an angry biker dude. I fucked his girlfriend in his driveway.”

“No shit?”

“No shit.”


Before the memories of milk jugs and skydiving bikers came slipping back to me like burning coffins down a muddy hillside, the sun awoke me in my crisp, clean sheets, and the fresh scent of a cool spring breeze came in through the open window.

It was early.

I’d gone to sleep early, exhausted from one hell of a date. First I’d eaten at my favorite place with a hot chick who had a good sense of humor. Then I was winning in a race, how awesome is that feeling, ya know? Then we rode to heights of glory in the saddle of my mighty little steed. Next thing you know, I was fleeing in terror for my life. And it all ended with the death of my rocket ship.

Yeah, I’d had some strange dreams that night I tell you.

But there, in the fresh, clean amnesia of the bright morning light, I stretched in my sheets and let out a big yawn. My door opened in a couple of minutes and little Galen came in, dripping splotches of sweet, creamed coffee on the floor from the huge mug she carried in both hands, halting with every step.

She smiled big for me, little morning person that she was.

She set the mug on my night stand and I grabbed her and tossed her into my bed and tickled the shit out of her.

Then Spamela appeared at the door and next thing you know she was tossed into the ruckus as well.


My mom set her paper down when I came in with Galen and Spamela over my left shoulder and my mug in my right hand. “Good morning Will. How was your night?”

Ah. Yes. Thanks for the reminder, Mom. It started to come back to me. I set Galen down on the couch next to Spamela, facing the television. Strawberry Shortcake was on.

“It was pretty interesting.”

“I should say so. The police called because they needed a mailing address to send the bill.”

“Ahhhh. Jeez. I have to pay for all that?”

“Well, Will, when you set fire to your own car in the middle of the street, they aren’t going to foot the bill to put it out and then clean it up and haul it away.”

Shit. That’s how my coffee tasted now. Like shit.

“Does this involve drugs, Will? Were you drunk or something? Why would you do that to your car? I thought you had so much invested in it.”

“I had everything invested in her. She was our ticket out, Mom. I would never torch her.” So I told her everything except about the fucking.

Her eyes grew big each step of the way, and when she was done, she said, “We need to press charges and make that mother fucker foot the bill. He owes you a new god damned car, Will!”

Good ole Mom. But I explained that it was me; I’d blown my own engine showing off, and then, instead of standing up and fighting the old biker dude, I ran off like a scared little bitch and burned up my car in the process.

“Will. You are a sixteen year old high school kid. You had no reason to stand up to an old scrapper on his Harley.”

“I’ll be seventeen in a month. I’m almost a man. And I’ll never, ever, run again. I can promise you that, Mom.”

Of course, that was the exact opposite of what she wanted to hear from me.

And it would turn out to be wrong, but that is another chapter.


Holocene. For your Saturday AM toon time.

BON IVER "Holocene" from nabil elderkin on Vimeo.

Now we can store data in glass. Nano-style. Awesome.

Here are The Outcasts. From the 80’s, in England. Badass Bikers.

For our troops returning home missing legs, and anyone else who wants to become a cyborg, a real bionic leg.

Long ago, pit bulls were called Nanny Dogs, because they are fiercely loyal and protectively maternal to kids. These dogs had to be inter-bred and mistreated to become fighters. Anyhoo, here’s a baby that loves his Pit Bull. Good doggie.

Cool pics. Some actually have not been Photoshopped. See if you can tell which.

Russians and Eurodicks will put a human on Mars before USA. What The Fuck?

Prank pics from people who have way too much time on their hands and need to do something productive and constructive instead.

Demotivational pics. Incase you haven’t seen these yet.

Sports gif files. Huh.

Louis CK on Conan’s show. His dog didn’t appreciate him saving it’s life.

God Help You.

God Help Us All.

---willies out.

OK, One More For Ya.

Gymkhana driving, for you uninitiated, (weak) drivers. Learn how to drive, honey.


No comments: