Administrative Matters

8 Feb

She fell in the tub, or out of it, and by the time they called me she had contracted some form of staph infection from the hip replacement operation, which turned fatal. They called from five thousand miles away, so there was nothing I could do.
“Can you…can you hear me? Can you hear me?”
The connection fed back on a loop. I just let him scream into the receiver until the line went dead.
And then I knew he’d just go out back and light a cigarette and plan out a hostile takeover of the land.
Right after he’d sleep with his mistress.

You pour a drink, you sit on a chair, and you count the minutes until it gets dark.
If you’re lucky enough to be able to sleep, you go to the back room and take off your pants and climb in with a can of warm beer.
There is the matter of the estate to be settled, but the next flight out to the continent isn’t until tomorrow evening at 6 pm out of Dulles, and besides…next-day flights run about twelve hundred. Each way. On a basic airline which offers up stale water and the random fly buzzing about, rubbing its excrement-laden feet into your drink.
Let them all fight for it like rabid dogs.
They’ll take it down piece by miserable piece.
Even the outhouse will get apportioned according to some savage, fundamental law of the pigs.

We are living in a stuffy room with boarded up windows with two of each kind of something. We are all alone here and we are dead.

“Hey Henry Miller, close the gates! I hear you loud and clear.”

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