*******
“Yeaheaheah….Hahahaha…New shitnewshititit!...” a car radio speeding past Dopplerized.
Gary Flingerzmith barely noticed the gangsta rap lyrics. He had shit to do, and lots of it. Complicated stuff. Not your stupid little simple shit, like buying the week’s groceries or getting that tattoo from college lasered off. No, this shit was intense. And Gary Flingerzmith knew it.
In fact, the complexity of it was what drew him to it. Gary Flingerzmith wanted to go down in history. BIG time.
(In his whiskey lullaby dreams, and Spaghetti-O nightmares, Gary was always doing arithmetic. Not because he had to, but for fun.)
“I dunno about angels,” Gary muttered to himself, “but it’s fear that gives men wings.” He wiped at something on his lips and said. “Goddamn video games, video games, Goddamn.” Gary Flingerzmith took another swig from his flask, and continued right on walking, directness be damned.
When the whole world wanted you to get dead, the proper perspective was hard to come by. It didn’t really matter what was in your head so much as what was in your heart. Things became fragile and everywhere you turned, shards ripped up your feet as you tried to get from here to, like, right over there and shit.
Times always were hard for Gary. Ever since childhood he was known as “Big Head Bob” because of his massive cranium. He had killed his mother. Well, his head did, technically. It was so massive, that at birth it caused “complications.” And when those complications were over, his mother, Florence Flingerzmith, or “FloFling” to the rag-tag tabloids, got dead. And it was all his damned fault. And he hadn’t even been, like, a whole minute old yet. So, when you’re a minute-old murderer, you kind of know that life ain’t gonna be a walk in the park, know what I’m sayin’?
Gary's mind sputtered and wheezed: Damned dogs howling in the night. The mice prowl, the cats cowl themselves with shadows, and the dogs howl at the moonlight. Human vagabonds kick foul shadows around the streets, but it’s as useless as a towel in the ocean. All of them are left with a hollow pit of a stomach. The only winner is the moon. The discarded cigarette butts in the gutter come a close second.
Yes, it’s true. Even your best friends will sell you out for a dime and a cheap lunch. If you don’t know that by now, either you’re not paying attention or you’re just a damned fool. Some people you just can’t help.
With a mad thunderstorm making the roof sound like it was taking a barrage of small-arms fire, you turn over on the couch and understand how much worse it is when it’s your own family who sells you out to the highest bidder. Revenge? Sure, it’s an option. But you know, deep in your burgundy heart, that if you don’t make it something spectacular, something unique, something the grandest of legends feasted on, then it ain’t worth doing. No way.
Next stop, Las Vegas, Nevada. Home of Sin City, Hell heat in the shade, and one Mr. Heimerdinger Flingerzmith.
In the land of the blind, the one-eyed man is king. But in the land of the bland, he’s just another jackass running around.
--
First thing Gary Flingerzmith did when he got into Vegas was to hit a pawn shop and acquire a nine millimeter pistol and some ammunition. Then he checked into his hotel, played some slots, had sex with a hooker, and went to sleep.
***
Labels: brooklyn frank, fiction, frank marcopolos, short story, story, the whirligig
