The Influence
by Sam HaiNe

He never knew he could fly.
But he sure bounced off the windshield of that 85' Chevy like he'd wings.
December 20th @ 1:55am, dead time.
Body parts scattered, broken glass, skipping stones across the pavement.
Freaks lined up to watch the limbs tell fortunes like they were chicken bones off a fortune tellers table.
A chain smoking rubber neck wax museum; scarecrows, night flyers and street urchins watching all the deputies and EMTs pick up the pieces and put the puzzle together.

Yellow tape segregating the intersection. Walking distance, gas station.

Two meat suits. Disenfranchised. Lazy. Blocking the door.
Pick up truck T-shirts; slap nuts & ass face. Puca shell necklaces, hemp bracelets, skinny jeans and loosies.
Too broke to spit wishes in a well. Too stupid for a helmet. Dead beats droning at the the K. whistling Dixie in their Menthols.

"Pardon". Door obstructed.

Shit boxes. Saggy bottomed douchebags. Frosted tips. Talking spicy with their Red Bull eyes and Vodka in their speech.

The volley of bottles followed - Smirnoff mortars exploding my boots. The christening of a Timberland ships.

Foot race. Hot pursuit, across the wash, over the wall, into the parking lot. They advance, all offense.

The first click, then three, my forefinger coiled around the orange grip. The first slash, took the leader down. His face opened like a gutted baseball. 148 stitches. Laces out.

A few more movements from the box cutter and the roaches ran. Blood trails and old spice. They were off.

One of the them ran left, when he should've went right, over the headlights and face first into the drivers lap. Broken knees broken everything; eggshells. Tire smoke and loose change.
The driver in shambles. The car a tomato can. 85' Chevy. Dead guy - hood ornament. His wallet was in a ditch; now it’s in my pocket.
A Coke and a smile on my way to my girlfriend's place.
"But, don't blame me".
Magic 8-ball.

Channel surfing weekend. Tribal dance. Dry ICE. Orange juice and windshield wiper nails across the mirror. Hipsters giggling, writhing, dancing. The speakers must have spirits. Basslines punching. Stomachs turning. Spin cycle. Hand over mouth, saliva. Into the wash room, unattended, vacant, sacred. Kicking the stall door open. Puking, purging, pain, tears, all that shit. Finally, relief.

Wake up or rather woken up. Stacey wants attention. "Stacy?"
Sad face, pretty, lipstick, smells like sugar.

Hands up against the wall. Fingers deep. Clean box, no fish smell, muted. Penetration. Push back. She’s moaning. You leave a stain.

She waves you away.
She wipes her back.
Finds the placebo you spit on her back.
Disbelief.
She reaches for her cocaine.
Disappeared.
Empty handed.
Slight of hand.
"Don't blame me"

Days fade, watches break and clocks stop.
Sand turns to glass with the hours. Moments are fragmented and imagination mutilated in Technicolor attire and smoking over a rocks glass and ice cube pacifiers. Imaginary drips of candy coated teardrops shimmering of the fingernail of winter.
A distortion of a human being. A one man show. The audience an abattoir. The grand guinol. All reality is satire, a parody, the impotent revolver. The pain - a laugh reel. The lemon between your teeth. The bitter punchline.
"Step on a crack, shit in your father's hat"
"Two tears in a bucket, your mother's a chicken nugget"

"Do I play Call of Duty?" I rather play at the gun range. I play a veteran on weekends, shell shocked. Convinced my imaginary friend is my service animal. We shoot what's on the DLC.
After a few rounds into the FN57, a loud explosion occurs. Shakes my sternum. It sounds like a howitzer. I checked my feet, it felt like rocks we're blowing by. I saw a nose and a bottom lip whispering into my sneaker laces.

Some Fuckhead accidentally shot his girlfriend in the face. Her head turnt to hamburger helper down the range. I peeked from my cubicle and saw the headless debutante on her knees n flayed backwards. Everything above the collar bone looked like disturbed soil and beef stew.
Her boyfriend frozen still gripping the foregrip of his gold plated Mossberg. That perfect, pale and matter-of-fact expression of "I fucked up", cemented across his brow.

All cellphones were ordered off. The weak boweled were escorted off the premises.
Those of us that stayed were fully refunded and given coupons. The coupons were for a free afternoon and reduced prices for ammunition and rentals on the next visit.

Many of the patrons were still coping with the traumatic experience.
Shit, I was there the next day with new kicks.
My better self was out to lunch.
"But, don't blame me I was under the influence"
-End