Wednesday, July 19, 2017

A fiction on special powers of perception.

"gimme some hair-wan" I said.  While he grabbed it from the plastic cooler he kept his stash in, I talked some more: "Got the Ford fixed."

He brought back the cash crop.  "Them fat women see that Ford tearing ass down the thoroughfare," he said,  "they'll throw something on you.  Whether you want it or not."

"Cowl-induction cold-air intake", I said, vacantly, inspecting the product.  "I was born with a cowl over my face.  That supposed to mean you got the second sight."

"That 'tornado' mess you write on that other site?" he said sitting down and opening a beer.

"No, man" I said.  "Like a sixth sense."

"The touch, you mean?" he said.

"If that's what its come to, then yar" I said.

I looked at the heroin.  I hoped it wouldn't stop my heart this time.  I had took to hitting alone.  I'd be a goner if it went wrong.

He took a sip of beer and said "the ESPN in 3-D!".  I heard the beer cap clink against the porch floor.

As I walked away, I heard him say, "bet the doctor thought it was a pumpkin-head."

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