Bandwagon jumpers, johhny-come-latelys, whatever you want to call them, I don’t like them. There is something to be said about staying loyal to well, anything, rather than place your allegiance based on a team’s winning percentage at the moment.
I actually switched my fanship long ago from the geographically convenient Los Angeles Rams to different teams because I became more interested in players as opposed to the teams themselves. This all happened after players started chasing the money as opposed to staying with their same team for the length of their playing careers.
As promised yesterday, I am posting not one, but TWO short-short stories. The first is called Perfect Fit and the second story, which totally came from I have no earthly idea where, is called Point of View:
It was a sleepy Sunday morning and my friend-for-a-night was stirring in the next room. I guzzled down the last of my lukewarm beer, fired up another joint, and dared a peak into the gilded mirror.
Man I really could have done without that. I rubbed my swollen bloodshot eyes and stumbled back to the front room. I plopped my weary body into the blue beanbag chair and reached for the cooler. The cooler? What the hell was a beer cooler doing on my Persian carpet? A family legacy, the magnificent rug was an instant reminder I was supposed to “mount and secure” the carpet per Lloyd’s of London Insurance. I forgot. I picked up the cooler and checked underneath. Dry. Nothing else of concern. The carpet was fine. Big sigh of relief. I will definitely take care of this today.
The sun tried fighting its way through the early morning marine-layer along the coast, but lost the war when it reached my dusty back-door kitchen curtains. It was still pretty dark for nine in the morning. I reached for the magazine on the coffee table and started flipping through the glossy pages of models with perfect smiles.
Now this is one that looks good. It is cut to show off my six-pack and pecs I’ve been training so hard to get. Oh wait. No, maybe this one. My ass would look outrageous in that one…Hold on, stop the presses. If I wear THIS one I will definitely……
“Hey, Dan, are you coming back to bed?” she asked sleepily. “What are you doing going through my lingerie mag? Are you buying me something?”
I looked over at her. I’d forgotten how smoking-hot she was.
Focus Daniel-san. Focus.
Point of View
It was a squalid, cramped two-room apartment perched over a rusty garage roof but it looked to Dylan like a tomb. The cleaning agents under the stained white sink emitted all the ambience of an autopsy lab. The small sliver of light peeking through the dingy curtains illuminated his last real view of this planet. If only he could untie himself and remove the sticky duct tape that was choking off what few breaths he had left. Maybe he could crawl…maybe…someone would hear him!
Maybe someone would save him from the Beast.
The door was sealed; the wooden planks across it were nailed tight as a… …coffin.
In the other room, the Beast slept soundly.
Dylan’s mind was racing now, his temples pounding. He had about fifteen minutes of sunlight left. The Beast would be waking soon. As he pondered his waning existence, the cold gray walls mocked his every thought.
On the stained Formica countertop, a chopping block with sharp cutting instruments lay agonizingly out of reach. He stretched every last fiber of his body, straining to make the slightest of contact. If only….they could free him from this madness. He tried to control his breath, rushing from his lungs in a whoosh. Shit.
Time was running out.
The dingy flowered sofa cover would most likely serve as my death shroud, he thought. This was not the way he wanted to leave this world. Not by a long shot.
In the other room, the Beast stirred to life. She was terrifyingly calm, almost surgical in her carriage and demeanor. The powder-white walls made her smile.
This was home.
Her sparkling little kitchen always smelled clean and fresh. She had nailed the door shut so they could be alone. All alone. Away from prying eyes and distractions.
Distractions like her.
The new French curtains she bought saw to it they would not be disturbed. She enjoyed the thought of the great bargain she got, paying only a few dollars for them. Singing a little ditty she just could not seem to get out of her head, she calmly walked to the counter, stepping over Dylan’s broken legs. She picked up her favorite boning knife and plunged it deep into her husband’s chest, blood gushing out in a two-foot fountain.
“I told you if you ever cheated on me, I would kill you!” the Beast wailed.
As the life seeped out of Dylan’s body, she strolled over to her comfy little sofa and wrapped the flowered sofa cover around her shoulders. She wondered if she could get a new one made out of the same material as her curtains.
They were such a good bargain.