I love this song. That's the great thing about listening to the radio. When you hear a favorite song come on, it's a sign: I'm meant to be doing whatever it is I'm doing.
You don't get that from an iPod. Okay, so this is me pulling up in front of Ray's house. Of course it's not really Ray's house, but we all pretend he doesn't still live with his mom.
Funny thing about his mom. She's not who I would have picked to play the part. Ray and her don't look anything alike, except for the way they both scratch their earlobes. I think it's a bit much, but that's what they do.
Watch how I saunter up the walk. I'm a bad-ass motherfucker. Samuel L. Jackson, he would turn and flee.
The doorbell didn't work. That was a surprise. Banging that door that way, I got bruises, but I made my point.
Too bad I didn't keep the car running. Then I could still hear my song, at least until it ends.
Ray opens the door.
Close-up on his face. Shock. Fear. Pain.
Stare into my eyes you snitch, you bitch, you ... itch I'm gonna scratch.
He falls as I hear the gunshots echo. Boom. Boom. Boom. Ray, he's screaming and crying and shitting all over himself. He grabs my leg and won't let go. I kick him in the head but the way he's hanging on to my pant leg, my foot lands nowhere even close to his head, and now I'm off balance and falling on top of him, covered in blood and he's wailing in my ear and I am gone but I can't get to my feet but then I'm up and doubled-over and puking all over Ray who's thrashing around like he's trying to squeeze the bullets out.
Cut to the car and I'm gripping the steering wheel as if that's how you start the engine. It's not supposed to be like this. I'm supposed to be the bad-ass motherfucker, not the fucker covered with snot and blood and piss.
Keys! Where are the fucking keys?
The keys are in my pocket, and then I can't find the ignition. The car won't start. It starts and then stalls. I swear to keep from crying and try again. It catches. I kick the accelerator and knock down the mailbox as I'm getting the fuck out of there, wondering what the fuck happened to the gun.
Radio's playing a goddamn commercial.
Bio: Over five hundred of Stephen's stories and poems have appeared in more than two hundred publications. His website, www.stephendrogers.com, includes a list of new and upcoming titles as well as other timely information.