The Mayors Nemesis.

Such a catastrophic disappointment, and what's worse is who'll care? Just a hint of a backround while this surely numbered cigarette burns down to the callased deposit between fingers. It hasn't rained in weeks aside from short bouts of snow everytime my girl has my sick dick pressed against some tooth on its way out from years of my paying no attention and her dispute between vinyl or brick walls.

Now by this time my head has been shaking like a bopper girl behind an orange curtain waiting for another shot of her bosses private stock. With one foot out the door I can hear a pin quiver and a latch slam with anticipation while some companies micture of standard oil slips from the tip of the hood down past her tonsils... Merry Christmas. I finally muster the audacity to look out the windshield but only through the rainbow seperated by the line our wipers couldn't reach. Some conversation strikes up in the back of my head having to do with the now late Lymphatic Residuals new release and how given the opportunity, "We'd so hit that."

It's so clear. More profound than her father sitting accross from his second ex-wife who'll surely be picking potato pie from her cheek with a fish-bone. If I wasn't so sure that I'd need to check under the table to find out who had been tugging my pleats first to have had any omnipitance in carrying on with the utterly dismal evasion of pop-pseudo culture references I might have touched the fish. The 60 year old draft dodging con-patriot is clearly nudging me now in approval of what those tits must look like out of that dress and I whince catching the glisten of face make-up from when she kissed the stranger as an elite non-objective spectator of our melodrama.

A countdown begins, a rapid exchange of poorly calculated words and a lifetime of tyranny scaling the better half of the century. A cold front will reach a warm front in...
twenty seconds, count it...
nineteen seconds.
A storm will have to be built when the warm high flying clouds from the south pacific colide with the low drifters from Oh Canada, and build themselves a turbulant comradery of turbining molecules and filth to brew our holiday gift.
Eighteen seconds.
Seventeen inches cumulatively.
Predictions are made about my devotion to my family after merely sixteen years of tolerable devotion.
Sixteen seconds.
Fifteen seconds.
A question for my choice of desert wine. With limited time I drop her skirt and run to the cellar.
Fourteen, thirteen.
Obviously the grappa. Cold and just, unlike the port I'm sure the color of fathers climactic dick head.
Twelve seconds and counting.
Eleven.
Because of the anime' that made this O.K. to talk about.
Ten seconds, count!
Nine Seconds.
A cork breathes a sulfur meant for my nose only.
Eight seconds.
The rotten aged wood sound of our legs climbing the staircase back to her room.
Seven seconds.
Six.
A joke is made and glasses exchanged.
Five.
This cunt in my hand and my loaded barrel eager.
Rawr.
Something about a bounced check and a need for my services.
Three.
A head rears back and smacks the wall.
Two.
She squeezes tight around her groin and squeaks while mother calls for her.
One.
My bag is already packed an my rooms belongings sit on the front steps of the old home where I once grew. Eager and wondering who'll break first, in silence as we drive back the same way we came to help papa get his life on track. A resounding feeling that nothing has been created by our wrestless finger tips.