Poems
Poems of Antiquity
Short stories
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¶ Short Stories (currently)
In Stitches
"two stitches. that's not bad. did it hurt?"
"hell yeah it hurt. that club smacked me good."
"what did the doctor say?"
"he told me i was lucky."
"lucky that you only needed stitches?"
"no, lucky i was out of shape."
"really?"
"yeah. he said, 'boy, you're mighty lucky you're so fat and out of
shape. a lot of times those work-out freaks come in hear with blood dribbling
down their arms, and they're all worried that they hit something big.
well, they did. the goddam problem with those punks is that they think
muscle is all that matters. that ain't true. fat is what matters. looky
here, you keep smoking them cigarettes and you keep on drinking beer,
and you'll live to be a hundred, assuming cancer doesn't get you. but don't
you worry about this cut. it's a flesh wound.'
and i saw that doctor when i left; he was outside flirting with a nurse,
eating a candy bar and smoking a lucky strike. fucking medicine."
"so did you..."
"shh! the game's starting."
the song sung, the first pitch thrown by some aging rock star, and the game was
under way. it proved to be a sparkler.
in about the fifth, the boys got hungry.
"hey ryan, get me a beer, would'ya?"
"yeah, and grab me a hot dog."
"alright, alright. give me some money."
ryan takes the money, puts it in his wallet where it's safe, and walks
slowly to the beer line. a smiling custodian nods to him. he gets in
line. it looks long. not bothering to pay attention, his gaze fixes on the
television. he's hoping to see a fight. he's never seen a fight at a
baseball game, but he has a feeling that tonight might be the night.
he's also never caught a foul ball, but he's met plenty of people who've
said they almost did. fucking people. what a waste.
the line seems to get shorter but he doesn't pay attention. the game is
good. very good. 3-2 in the bottom of the fifth inning. home team winning.
crowd standing and cheering. serious hustle. good pitching. not much
more you could ask for. cept a beer. the line creeps slowly forward. his
gaze remains on the tv.
the sixth inning has already started when he realizes he's almost to the
front of the line. he reaches back to pull out his wallet, and just then a
line drive gets snagged by the first baseman -- oh what a fucking catch.
and ryan cheers with everyone else, and his wallet slips out of his
hands. he bobs down to pick it up, and just as he does he catches something
funny out of his eye. the guy at the counter just disappeared.
but not quite. in fact, he's being dragged over the counter. the clerk
behind the counter is grabbing him by the hair and pulling him over.
the clerk has a gun. the clerk shoots the customer in the head. the
customer dies. the clerk looks up.
"can i help you?"
ryan is almost fooled. his instincts almost got him to ask for a beer.
instead he dodges. the clerk reaches out. ryan lurches right. his eyes
catch sight of a pile, a pile of dead twitching, bloody bodies. 50 or
so at least. and probably more. he stalls, almost falls, then feels the
clerk's hand coming at him. he does the only thing he can -- he grabs
the guy behind him (whose eyes are locked on the tv) and shoves his head
into the clerk's grasp. then he bolts.
momentarily safe, he looks back to see the clerk gesturing. he's making
faces at the guy he just caught. then he points toward ryan. then he
caps the poor sap in the head.
"can i help whoever's next?"
someone else steps up to be shot.
again the gesture. ryan looks around. he sees the custodian. the
custodian is barely holding his mop with his left hand as he holds his gut
with his right and looks at the clerk, laughing.
ryan rolls right and shoots back for the seats.
he arrives in time for the bottom of the sixth. he sits down next to his
two friends.
"hey, where's my beer?"
"sorry. but they were shooting people at the beer counter, and i barely
made it away from there with my life."
a pause.
"did you get my hot dogs?"