march 31st, 2011

Here's a story I wrote in collaboration with a damn good friend, Justin Gordon-Cooper. I had a lot of fun with this one as I'm sure he did. The first paragraph was written over a month ago and after various tweaks, additions and edits, I feel it's done... for now. Enjoy.

chinatown


Foster woke up in Chinatown with a venomous hangover. Beads of sweat rolled down his forehead like tiny snakes made of satin. What lie inside his mouth was not a tongue, but instead a twisted and arthritic beehive of cackling caterpillars. His melodramatic yawn collided with the sound of exploding thunder in the distance. A raspy and familiar voice began bouncing around his throbbing skull, “You’ll always be a hyena. Always.”

Where the fuck am I? What the fuck did I do last night? Forget the headache and just figure out where you are. Come on big boy, get those legs extended. Goooood, now walk on over to that bus bench. Easy does it. Goooood. Now relax, gather composure and figure out where—and what—you were last night. Who made an appearance and why did you wake up lying in a gutter? What time is it? Is that Chinese writing on that veranda? It must be. I’m in Chinatown. Yes, I must be in Chinatown. Sager, you son of a bitch!

It’ll be an oppressively warm night in hell the next time I drink moonshine, that’s for damn sure. Alright, venue confirmed—pecking order to be determined. Investigative efforts into this conundrum will have to be put on hold though. The remaining brain activity willing to cooperate is busy ensuring I feel every nuance of pain coming from the gash on my left eyelid. The slice is playing an excellent equator, creating two nonfunctional, mutually exclusive half-moons of reedy flesh. Motherfucker.

The scholastically heinous image I’m projecting on to anyone lucky enough to be within eyeshot is an effective one to say the least. I feel like the poster child for failure, or better yet, the spokesman for why religion will save you; a portrait more powerful than the glowing face of a priest hovering before the eyes of a grief-stricken, misunderstood, desperately hungry orphan child. But I take solace in the fact that however bad I must look, you should see the other guy. And Sager is that guy. It must have been him, that piece of shit! I can smell the stench of his anguish in the webs of my fingers.

Pecking order confirmed. Sager’s plans were thwarted and my battle wounds showcase the victorious outcome. Throw old Foster’s fist skyward I say! Clench it tight in the salty morning air.

Now get yourself some food, some cuisine, Chinatown style. Lo Mein—stat!