i think so_

“This motherf↓cker does not give a f↓ck about you.

He is in his mansion. Playing his Xbox.

You never listen \ You never listen.
And look at you, look at where you are.”

_your mom

The potato bug lay helplessly on her back, legs churning back and forth like an old set of chopsticks being held by a Tourettes victim.

She was hungry. That was for sure.

Her last feeding was nearly two days ago, and she was beginning to lose her will to flip over. It didn’t really matter though, she had been trying to no avail since Wednesday evening, when she fell out of Mr. Shepard’s shoe lining on the corner of Cadbury and Benedict Avenues.

Landon pushed on the meat chest door in his garage again; much, much harder this time with no more success than he had with his previous attempts. “This shit has to stop!” He thought to himself as he plopped all of his weight onto the door again hoping that it might bear a better outcome, but this only resulted in more frustration.

He hopped off of the meat chest and frantically scanned his cluttered garage, looking for anything that might help his cause. His eyes swayed quickly past his battered ’82 Ford Tempo. It was light blue, but he swore to anyone who asked it was, an exotic shade of aqua marine. The stick of margarine he had left on the passenger seat from the previous week, was all but recognizable anymore. The Blue Bonnet logo swimming atop the oily slick on the torn black vinyl seat. Most of the liquid had already made a new home in the tears and cigarette burns that riddled the upholstery. “I should dab that out one day.” He thought.

Landon knew that he had been freezing too many things. Most of the batteries he had in there were likely useless anyway, but he couldn’t bring himself to put them out on the curb. He gazed back at the contents of the garage, this time at the storage area above the ceiling.

“I can’t tell if there are three or four of them.” Chaz whispered.

“I think there are four, you can tell by the reflection off of the van.” Telly said slowly.

“But there are only–” Chaz paused to take another pull off his Winston. “Three stains on the ground.”

“See that busted cinder block over there? That’s where the fourth one hit.” Telly said.

“That doesn’t explain the trail of saliva, or the hair on the wall.” Chaz said as he lit his cigarette with the previous one.

“Now tell me that’s not living foul,” Telly shuttered. “Will you put that out? You’re gonna get us pinched.”

“Piss off, will ya, just piss–off.” Chaz replied in an indifferent tone.

“You’re the best around!” Quaid yelled to Mash as he made his way closer to him.

“My moves–aren’t what they–used to be Q, not–even–close.” Mash said so slowly Quaid thought he’d never get all of the words out.

“I seen how you handled that course out in Shortsville,” Quaid paused to relieve his jaw of tobacco juice. “I ain’t never seen nobody handle a Lavendar like you did that day Q!” Quaid declared proudly to his sack race partner and life-long friend.

“Eh, I haven’t trained in months—plus I’ve only a partial cap on my knee ever since that boched run out in Briksby.” Mash said in a discouraged kind of tone. “Won’t bend a lick, I look like a damn gimp, Q!”

“Shit!”

“I AM A GIMP!”

“Look at my leg!”

“The Lavendar is the most diff’cult sack in the ind’stry! Why, the only other man that could nav’gate Browing Ridge with one of ‘dese was Jay “Hopper” Getty, and he dead a legend par’ner!” Quaid yelled again.

“I can’t barely walk Q, how in the fuck am I going to run a sack again?” Mash asked, his agitation now a factor.

“Easy par’ner, leave that to me.” Quaid said as he pulled a small metal tin not much larger than his fist from his pack.

“What’s that?” Mash asked semi-compelled.

“Suc—cess.” he answered.

“Success.”

“What are you talking about now?” Mash asked bewildered.

“I ain’t sure ‘zactly, but I seen it do stuff that ain’t from this side of the ‘sippi river, nor the other side fo’ that matter.” Quaid said, his eyes unnaturally wide as he spoke.

Remember that time we gifted her like 100 bucks for Christmas and she threw it in the trash because she emptied the trash cans our the office cubicles?

Because that is how I remember her.

I can’t blame her though.
For that, is all she knows—trash.

In hindsight, we didn’t really think that through.

“Alright, whats the trouble Calvin? I was trying to fix supper.” Dr. Morgain asked.

“It’s the pelts!” He said urgently. “They’re all dead! Every last goddam one of them! Even the ones in the o2 tanks!”

“What happened?” the doctor asked calmly.

“Looks like that boy of yours was in here with that damn boom box again, he knows how they react to sound, especially this time of year.” Calvin said furiously.

The lights flickered. Then they went out.

“What the fuck?” Calvin blurted. “Why isn’t the generator kicking in?”

The doctor produced a book light and an extra pack of gummys from his breast pocket. “I like the red ones the best,” he said as he hand picked his favorites from the packet. “Me too,” mumbled Calvin. “But right now we need to fix these lights so I can clear the carcasses.”

And so it begins…

The fridge was broken so we had to use the ice we had stored over the holidays to keep cool. Mom was always a hard ass, she never liked using the ice because, it was, as she put it, “archaic bullshit that had no place in modern society.” I continued to eat the strained pears that she had prepared for me. “Coffee or tea?” she asked, as I lifted my head from the collection of obituaries that had gathered on the table. “Nah.” I grunted “I’m… ok.”

“Some saltines then?” she inquired.

“Fuck no.”