New stuff...2

I know it’s been a while since I last updated the blog-type-thing. I’ve been busy and under a little more stress then usual. A couple of weeks ago I picked up the keyboard again to work on this “thing.” If you have never been here, scroll down to the previous post and read it first—this is a continuation. The formatting on this website is bad so, again, bare with us here at indulge moderately. Remember that this is merely a fictional story and is not intended to reflect the beliefs and actions of ‘indulge moderately’. But I love to hear responses—even if negative (really). There’s more so expect updates soon. Included is:

Island Life
Compensating

Cheers…

P.S.
Chauvinist is not spelled with an "S".


Island Life

The town I live in, Trophy Lake, is on a desolated island in the middle of North Texas. The only thing that connects us to the outside world is the interstate. There are a series of mostly identical sister islands that connect us to the mainland of downtown Dallas.

On the connecting sea of interstate, are a collection of big-boxes, Super Wal-Marts, and chain shops that make consuming easy for us natives by making their shops remarkably identical to one another. The coconuts and torches they sell are of the same quality but much cheaper forcing smaller merchants, tiki hut craftsman, and banana tree climbers to be fed to the cannibals. The Trophy Lake natives threw a celebration to the Gods after the opening of the local Wal-Mart giving tribute to their benevolence and affordably priced sand dollars, starfish, and beach umbrellas. The Gods instructed us to ritualistically sacrifice the local merchants by casting them into the mighty volcano; in reward, the Wal-Mart’s exterior was crafted to resemble an old English village exterior thus blending in too Trophy Lakes facade of new buildings made-to-look old and quaint.

Provisions are not the only items Wal-Mart provides the natives of Trophy Lake. Inside the Gods recently constructed a shop to design your very own tiki hut. Included in the options are choose-your-own sand color, designer clam shells to decorate the walls, convenient storage racks for spears and pig-spits, and stylish hay stuffed bed nooks blessed by a shaman to prevent malaria and tarantula infestations. Recently the Gods began offering a service to chop down bananas from the islander’s palm trees. Uuga, the native banana tree climber was forced to sell his wife and daughters as slaves to the headhunters. He now stocks coconut bras in their women’s apparel department for a third of his previous wage and no health insurance.

The only way for a newcomer to distinguish the island of Trophy Lake from our sister islands is by mile markers and interstate signs. When we invite guests from the mainland I give them directions by Wal-Marts and chain restaurants. “After you pass the third Wal-Mart on the right, take a left before the second On-the-Border. At the intersection, you’ll see a Best Buy on the left corner at which point you’ll take a right passing the quaint new Chilis with the English village street lights in front. Now, if you pass a Wal-Mart with a Chilis in the parking lot—you’ve gone too far!”

The big boxes make life easy for us natives by offering individual credit cards so we can buy unnecessary provisions to sustain our boredom from the monotony of suburban life putting us deeper in debt with large financial institutions who offer us low-financing, home improvement loans and mortgage refinancing to feed the powerful cannibalistic tribes. Upon miss payment, these institutions attempt to sacrifice the lowly natives to headhunters who ritualistically harass us with sharp spears and invasive phone calls till we’re boiling in a hot cauldron of bed room sets, teak wood patio furniture, and designer curtains.

***

“Bobby, what the hell is this?” Mitch said as he looked down at me sitting at my desk.
“It’s the beginning of my Fish Profile that HR requested,” I responded.

Phase one of Publicon’s “Living Fish” theme requires every employee to fill out a profile of themselves to show-off our true personalities. Once submitted and reviewed for blasphemous statements and critical comments, one of the fluff-pieces will be featured every week in a mass internal email.

“Where are the other 14 questions? You wrote two pages on the first question, ‘Where do you live?’” his grin jutted his flush cheeks upward, which appeared to make his thin, wire glasses crooked.
“Yeah, I had to take that home last night and finish it. I just started on question two, ‘Have any hobbies?’ I spent most of the morning grinding-that-one-out. It’s trickier then I thought!”
“Cannibalistic tribes, pig spits, boiling cauldrons?” he responded adjusting his glasses then scratching the top of his short, gelled hair that appears to never move. “You’re crazy if you think I’m gonna allow you to submit this!” Mitch said as his eyes narrowed as if he was trying to make out a person of vague resemblance to someone he has met before.

Mitch is the head copywriter at Publicon Dallas and my direct supervisor. He hired me straight out of college and is beginning to increasingly show his discontent on his decision. He has a sharp tongue that cuts my bloated, fat copywriting into petite statements for the purpose of clarity and lack of ambiguity. The first time I submitted copy to Mitch it was returned with more red then if it was used in a ceremony to sacrifice a virgin.

“You know, huh, you need to reevaluate your goals and career path with Publicon. You’re one of the most creative people in this office but you’re also the most inconsistent writer in the company!”

I’m the weakest link in the office and I’m in fear of being voted off the island. I wore out my immunity long ago after I wrote a two-page email to Mark Stoller about my disdain about the decision to replace the Mounds bars in the vending machine in favor of fresh bananas. The head of the tribal council has spoken.

“Do you understand me?” he asked while I stared at the Hawaiian Hula dancer jiggling on top of my MAC; I could only interpret his words as ‘ogga bugga, ogga, bugga!



Compensating

“I’m not gonna wear this shirt!” I said defiantly.
“Come on, man! Everyone has to match—it’s league rules!” Joey responded.

We just started our softball league. Every Friday for two months we have a legitimate excuse to drink copious amounts of beer while getting out of the house; a married man’s break from domestic bliss. Girlfriends and spouses have been known to show up but most understand the sanctity of the softball league. Amy views the league as an excuse for girlfriend time—even if she did give a damn about watching her heavily buzzed husband running around like a fool chasing a ball, with our recent spatting the time apart is needed.

Joey spit a rather vulgar concoction of beer and chewing tobacco from his swollen left cheek as he handed out the remaining jerseys, “Besides I gave everyone a nickname this year,” he defended himself in a tone partially blocked by Copenhagen and his thick country twang.

“Jesus, Joey, the Cowboys—that’s real freakin’ original, man!” Denny responded as he demonstrated a curiously unnecessary round of calisthenics as if he was batting cleanup for the Rangers.
“That’s a great team name, man! We’re like America’s team!” he responded laughing as the newly anointed “Cowboys” groaned in discontent as we chugged beer before the first inning in the visitor’s dugout.

We’re a collection of old high school friends, new additions to the pack, and random extras. We all know Joey has a greater talent to get-under-more-skin than a well-hung porn star. Denny and Joey are considered to be mere acquaintances rather then friends, the pair has constantly competed between each other since high school. Denny’s short frame barely contains his cocky attitude and paunchy stomach all of which seem to be held up when he bows his barrel chest. Like Joey he was a great athlete in high school but his body seems to be decaying and falling like a once proud but aging football dynasty. His thick, black eyebrows are manicured just enough to hide the formation of his uni-brow and his equally as dense late-nineties-hip goatee does little to filter out his opinionated, aggressive language.

“’Stumpy’! Your such an asshole, man!” Denny responded as he looked at the name on the back of his jersey.

The light shadows under our eyes and rounding faces give the since of our pre-thirty aging; not so much a prevalence of age but an evident lack of youth is shown. We’re sluggers slightly passed our primes who finish the season in the fall realizing they have become veterans.

“Yeah, just like a little stump!” Joey said while his long arm reached down balancing his beer can on a stop sign-red faced Denny’s square head.

We have no great war to fight; we have little opposition to protect our families against. Our sole battles are fought for middle-management positions, profit-sharing bragging rights, and the closest parking spot at TGI Fridays. We piss-on-our-tree’s by yelling at the asshole who cuts us off in traffic and return home like a conquering barbarian reaping his spoils of victory over Shake-and-Bake chicken and instant mashed potatoes.

“Fuck you, dickhead!” Denny said while violently pushing Joey as the beer erupted from off his head like a geyser unable to contain the pressure caused from hot air.

Joey’s face soured and turned into a serious grin of competition and anger. I grabbed his arm in an attempt to prevent unnecessary punches as a teammate did the same to Denny.

“Can’t you guys just get along for the sake of the team? You’re both acting like children!” Brendan, our shortstop and star player, said as he intervened between the two pushing them away from each other.

Brendan was the sheer definition of moderation perhaps being the reason why he was monetarily more successful then any of the cowboys. For the same reasons he never drank before a game and rarely attended happy hours after work. Brendon held a rigorous 5-day a week work out schedule that was rarely missed and his list of vices read like the “hits” portion of my box score during the playoffs last year—zero. Brendan is tall and thin like a lanky relief pitcher wasting little motion in his delivery offering efficient, beautiful pitches that are as effective as they are pleasing to watch. In contrast to the rest of the ‘boys, his face was always clean-shaven without the hint of stubble like the field at a major league ballpark on opening day. He speaks with an effeminate accent which is the only bulls-eye the ‘boys could use to fire their inadequacies at such a man they wish they could be.

“Hey, Nancy! Why don’t you mind your own business?” Joey said with a playful comradery.
“Let’s chill with the name calling, alright!” I said.
“No, don’t worry!” Brendan replied in a tone stating his dislike for the name but understanding of the playful ribbing. “Apparently that’s my new ‘team name’,” as he turned around for us to read NANCY across his back shoulders.
“Let’s finish the game so Brendan can catch his chartered jet!” Joey responded laughing as we felt the tension ease.
“Dude, that’s bullshit! Why do you get a name like “The Duke?” I said to Joey.
“That’s my name, man!”
“No one’s ever called you The Duke!”
“Well they should, man ‘cause that’s my new name!”
“Maybe your name should be…I mean, instead of Duke…like, dickhead!” Denny fumbled with his insult as he grabbed his $350 softball bat and headed to leadoff the game, chuckling. “…dickhead!”

The pitcher tossed a slow, arching pitch towards the plate. Denny lifted his trunk of a left leg and turned on the ball like it was a disloyal friend that had to be set in place. The ball sailed over the left field fence, bouncing in the parking lot next to the row of oversized pick-up trucks. Denny strolled passed home plate while launching his bat, he threw his hands in the air and screamed, “Oh yeah!”

We buy expensive, unnecessary items that are purchased to attract women like off-road tires were made of pheromone-laced rubber. In reality, designer golf cleats, projection-screen TVs, anything made of camouflage, and V-8 engines attract only other men like the ambiguous look we give women after seeing their French Manicure. These items are purchased to compensate for our lack of communication and we carry them like a caveman’s new club.

“Fear me!” Denny yelled as he pounded his chest rounding third.

On the exterior we display a machismo aurora that is rarely penetrated by the sharp words of our friends. But the words from a superior about lack of performance or from that of a lover stomping on an inadqueceny can leave us in a vulnerable position in which we fear the most. Like a base runner caught in a pickle between the third baseman and the catcher-- we can face the inevitability of our problems or we can continue to make sharp-turns, sprinting between problems, wareing ourselves out for later innings until being tagged-out trying to reach home.
“Give me back my glove—it’s mine!” Denny said while two rowdy Cowboys tossed the glove over his head playing keep-away in the dugout.

****

I was three-beers-into-the-7th inning as I crushed the third can and discarded it next the pitcher’s mound as I called in for relief. Our competitors had launched a 10-run rally in the final inning and I was ready for the comfort of the concrete bench or perhaps the solidarity of a barstool. I glanced at Joey who refused to cover any of the infield as he leaned his left foot against first in an effort to support his own weight and a lone cigarette whose dangled ash was long and ready to fall with any sudden movements. Smoke seemed to explore his mouth then trickle-out as he showed no signs of inhaling or exhaling. He resembled a tall tree swaying in the wind whose roots would not let him budge, yet you questioned how long before the old log would finally fall.

“Did you just get back from the coffee shop? Where’s your beret?” yelled a voice towards me from the opposing team’s bench.
Denny grabbed a beer from a cooler he placed near the on-deck circle and tossed it in my direction, “Here’s your relief!”
“Keep tossin’ up them puff-pastries! I’m gonna send it over the fence!” the new batter said as he stepped into the batter’s box.
“Suck my ass!” I responded.

The batter crowded the plate like a lumberjack after last call for pancakes waving his aluminum tool like a mighty slab of oak. If I didn’t have to lob the ball towards the plate I would throw a fastball between his eyes. I tossed the ball in the air at an angle any mathematician would agree equaled the circumference of the top of an oval. The batter cracked the ball above Brendan’s head into left-center field causing our “Rocky Mountain High” center fielder to stumble towards the ball like an aloof parent chasing a child into traffic. The batter rounded first passing a dazed Joey as two runners came around and scored. In frustration, I cracked my relief beer and chugged accordingly. The center fielder overthrew his cut-off man and sent an arrantly flying chunk of spooled leather hurtling in the air like a wounded pigeon. As the batter rounded third, I turned around to examine what was causing such a delay to be struck in the right eye with the softball. I fell directly on my back and rolled around to my stomach clinching my eye in pain. The cowpokes surrounded me like I was an injured calf lying helplessly on the ground delaying a cattle drive. As I clinched my face, I laid on my stomach in pain surrounded by empty beer cans. Strangely my first thoughts were this would not be the only time I will be in this vulnerable position.

“You okay, man?” Brendan’s voice questioned.

The only words I could communicate to the outside world for two minutes was what was written on the back of my jersey.

“BOISENBERRY SCONE”
“00”
*******

“I really don’t need to be here! It’s been a long night—let’s just go home!” I said as Joey and I waited in line.
“No, this is what you need! You’ll feel much better in a few minutes…believe me,” Joey assured me in his staggered, drunk tone.
“Let me call Amy and tell her what’s going on.”
“What are you crazy? Put that damn phone away!”
“Awwe, what happened to your eye, hon?” the front desk lady asked like a worried mother.
“Uhh, just a little softball accident,” I responded while looking directly at her chest in a alcohol haze as my eye pulsated like the button on her shirt assigned the responsibility to conceal her large breasts.
“We’ll make you feel better, I promise!” she responded like she already had a remedy in mind. “Let me see some identification please.”
As I handed over my driver’s license she said to Joey, “you too, baby. And $10 each, please.”

We opened the door to be greeted by the loud, pulsating bass of some cheesy, nu metal song that was standard fare for most strip clubs. The room was crowded with drunk, horny men who wanted to catch a glimpse of something they could never have. We found a table next to a side stage and sat quietly taking-in the surroundings.

“What can I get y’all to drink, fellas?” the slightly ragged cocktail waitress that couldn’t make-the-cut for a dancer asked us politely. “Whoa, what happened to your face, sweetie?”
“I took a ball off my face at our softball game.”
“It’s not the first time he’s taken balls to the face—but usually they bounce of his chin!” Joey said followed by a robust laugh.
“We’ll take a couple of beers,” I responded bouncing the joke-off like the ball that dented my eye.
“How ‘bout some ice for that?” she asked.
“Yeah, that’ll be great!”
“Be right back—y’all don’t get in too much trouble while I’m gone!” she said walking off.

Strip clubs are places that breed sexual frustration. We pay $20 for a dance from women who pretend too like us. It’s a fantasy world fueled by expensive booze and women who think they have nothing to offer the world besides their bodies. To fulfill their roles in fantasyland they alter their bodies with plastic and treat themselves with chemicals to make it through their show.

“Can I give y’all guys some company tonight?” a tall blonde with the green eyes of a lost cat asked as she flung in Joey’s lap.

Strippers are attracted to Joey; they sense a man willing to spend anything for a little bit of affection. Their intuition is sharp being that Joey tosses around money at these establishments like a professional gambler in Reno. The dancers sense money like a single, forty-year-old debutant at a golf course.
“Obby, ook!” is the way my name sounds with a mouth full of plastic.
“Here you go, guys! That’ll be $20--$16 for the beer and $4 for the ice,” the waitress stated nonchalantly.

“Lovely,” I responded with the same tone as I handed her the cash and placed the sandwich bag of ice on my eye.

As the night progressed, my eye and pants were swelling at a rapid pace. My buzz was back in full force and I was worried about the awkward explanation to Amy on why there was going to be a $200 charge too Ted’s Tractor Supply on my debit card. It was 1:30 a.m. and my money and indiscretions were disappearing like Joey every 45 minutes to the champagne room.

I knew answering the phone was a mistake, but my drunkenness overestimated Amy’s understanding and my ability to explain the current situation.

“Hey, baby! How are ya?” I responded enthusiastically as I answered my cell.
“Where are you at? I can barely hear you?” Amy said over the phone enunciating every syllable.
“I’m just out with the Cowboys at the bar,” I screamed into the phone.
“With who? You’re at a kicker bar? It sounds like you’re at a club!”
“No, no! I’m not kicking the car!” I fumbled. “Oh, hey! I bought a bunch of mulch at the tractor store today. Thinkin’ ‘bout building a tomato garden…I’ll explain later.”
“Build a what? Mulch?”
“Hey, Amy were takin’ good care of your boys down here!” the evil red head stripper on Joey’s lap yelled just loud enough for Amy to hear.
“You’re at a fuckin’ strip club! You’re with Joey, aren’t you? Tell that slut to keep her hands to her self!”
“No, honey! Her name’s Shontae, she’s a med student at…”
“Why don’t you just stay out tonight? I don’t even want to see you!”
“But honey, my eye—she’s a healer!” I said to blank noise on my cell phone.

I have no idea what to do in this situation. Should I call back and leave several messages apologizing? Maybe I’ll just rush home and consolidate the damage before things get much worse. Joey always seems to offer helpful advice in these delicate situations in his own down-home way. I’ll seek his sage-like advice.

“You make my pants happy!” he said to the stripper.
“So do you want me to dance for you or what?” a voice said above me in a cynical-let’s-go-already tone.
“Hell yeah, he wants you to danshh!” Joey said stumbling his drunken words as the demon redhead wrapped her knees around his neck; the same woman who I was sure was named after some toxic four-liquor shot made for ceremonial tortures during 21st birthdays.
“So yes or no?”

After the initial beer buzz wears off my speech and vocabulary decrease like the clothes on the demon-slut wrapped around Joey’s face. But I wanted to explain to her my opinion about buying lap dances for oneself; how unless someone pays for it with their money, like your father giving you the biggest pork chop at the dinner table, it’s almost like buying a prostitute.

“Yes.”
“My name’s Carolina,” she said rubbing my face on her stomach.
“’U’m, Obby,” is the way my name sounds with skin in your mouth.
“Where’s your wife at tonight? Her little sowing circle?” she asked me as her hair fell forward above her head partially touching the floor.

Carolina’s skin was the color of a storm cloud in an endless battle to conceal the bright light of the sun—it was translucent but at the same time you could detect a hint of color. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders like nightfall directly contrasting the complexion of her skin.

“Oh, I’m not married,” I said feeling a strange compulsion to lie as I talked to her inverted face between her legs.
“Well that’s a hell of a tan line you have on your ring finger!” she smirked as I jangled my wedding ring against the change in my pocket.
“Oh, well maybe, I’m…”
“So what the hell happened to your eye?” she said unhooking her bra and rubbing her natural B-cups on my wound like a prizefighter’s trainer would use a frozen steak after a title bout.
“Softball accident,” I said tucking away the strange smell of incense infused lotion on her for my spank-bank later tonight.
“I take it from the name on the back of your jersey that your friends have a sense of humor or you come from a long line of bakers?”
“I don’t even like scones,” once again telling useless and equally as untrue lies and worrying that she may have seen the small patch of hair on my back.
“So are you going to think about these when you’re jerking-off later tonight?” she asked licking her right nipple.

A sleeve of tattoos running to her shoulder concealed Carolinas left arm; a serpent slid down her arm constricting blood flow like a noose as it past symbols of dollar signs, naked women, and fancy cars as it gradually grew larger and fiercer.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” I asked.
“Kind off,” she replied brushing off the question.

The serpent’s body extended to the base of her hand as the snake’s engouraged mouth hissed sending it’s eager tongue to wrap around the start of her index finger like it was ready to devour.

“I’ve been married once,” she responded as she turned her back towards me and sat between my legs rubbing the once hidden thong string on my crotch. “Are you gonna think about this the next time your fucking your wife?”

At mid-forearm, the snake began to shed its skin into the tail of a once angelic dragon wrapping her upper chest and circling around her shoulder to the small of the left side of her back. The dragon looked up and screamed at the head of the serpent, coveting the ring-like halo it had stolen from the fallen angel.

Carolina’s body told more of a story then any part of our conversation that night. Her exterior was brash but her body gave off a sense of damaged vulnerability that was hidden unless you came too close. After a long dance she went off to quietly tell other lustful men stories. Stories that were trying to break the silence from her marked, naked body—stories that fell onto deaf ears.

“Are you guys leaving already?” Carolina asked us as we walked towards the door.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said glancing down at my watch blaring 3:36 a.m. “It’s been a hell of a long day!”
“Why don’t you guys come in the back—I’ll help you wake-up!”

Joey and I glanced at each other with looks of thoughts about forbidden fruits, lush gardens, and unforgiving wrath. Without speaking Joey and I stumbled sheepishly behind.

The backroom awakened us from the Vegas like coma the strip club lounge gave us. It was lit with cheap, grocery store lights one of which flickered on and off like an SOS signal. The sink next to a vanity table dripped in a rhythm reminiscent of a dungeon.

“This should wake you up,” she said as she emptied half of a small bag of cocaine on the vanity’s glass shelf.

Carolina scrapped the small rock into equal lines of four with the precision of a surgeon. She licked her finger to pick-up the remnants that failed to fall in line like an ice scrapper on a windshield blanketed in snow and proceeded to rub her forefinger against her gums. In a long fluid motion, she effortlessly snorted her line and handed the rolled-up dollar bill to Joey.

“When in Rome…” Joey said as he fell to his knees before Carolina.

A scraggy, blonde haired woman appeared in the corner next to the front door—shaking nervously and coughing as she held her mouth like she was keeping a dark secret while awaiting judgment. I could hear her teeth scraping against each other giving off a faint grinding sound like a quiet dentist drill digging out a cavity.

“Y’all don’t got no ice, do ya?” she asked us trembling.
I looked around the room for a soda machine or cooler thinking I could also use some for my eye when Carolina responded, “No, we don’t have any crank. Wanna’ little blow, Chloe?” she asked in a compassionate tone that I had never heard from her mouth.
“Thanks, maybe a little please,” she responded taking the rolled up dollar and snorting.
“Drake don’t want me dancin’ here no more,” Chloe said rubbing her puffy red nose. “Says I’m too old and it’s bad for his business.”
“Well Drakes an asshole! You need to get rid of him and go into business alone—he’s not helping you!” Carolina said.

Chloe wrapped her chapped, lipstick-stained lips around a long cigarette, which caused her sunken cheeks to fall further into her mouth. Her pupils resembled trembling flies caught in a bloody spider web.

“How else am I gonna make a livin’? This is all I’ve ever done!” she responded walking back to the corner.

Joey was halfway finished with his line when a lanky man burst into the door wearing golden rimmed, flashy sunglasses and a sideways mesh baseball cap.

“So, do you think I’m some sorta bitch? Huh? I drove all the way up here in my Ben-zo for you to not say a word?” the man said instantly grabbing Chloe’s mouth between his fingers. “Where the fuck is my money?”
“That’s Drake—he’s a real asshole!” Carolina stated making sure everyone in the room heard.

Drake’s head turned at the three of us on the other side of the room and continued his attention towards the blonde, a purple vein pulsated on his forehead through his Irish-white skin, “Can you not speak now? You been doin’ blow all night with these bitches?”

“No, no!” Chloe responded.
“Fuckin’ liar!” he said while violently slapping the woman with the back of his hand.
Joey stood up and walked away from Carolina as she yelled out, “Hey you fuckin’ faggot! Get the fuck off her!”
“And who is you niggas?” he said as I looked at Joey’s freckled face and he at my blue eyes. “Maybe you need to learn to speak when spoken too, bitch!”
“Fuck off you small-pricked homo!” Carolina blurted out.

Drake strolled up to Carolina smoothly and stared directly into her eyes like he was training a naughty dog. He crossed his left arm over his chest and swung his hand backwards towards Carolina’s face. Without much thought to consequences I reached up and caught Drake’s hand before reaching it’s destination. Still sitting in the chair I stared up at his clasped hand then at his face. Drake grabbed a piece from the back of his jeans.

“And who the fuck is you?” he asked in a trembling, semi-calm tone.
“Obby,” is the way my name sounds like with a gun in your mouth.

Joey made a slight motion like he wanted to help as I nodded him off feeling the gun collide with both sides of my back teeth. He ripped the gun out of my mouth as the metal sight chipped part of my front tooth.

“Sit the fuck down, fat man!” Drake yelled redirecting the gun at Joey.

Drake shoved the gun back into my mouth splitting the top of my lip. He took off his sunglasses revealing his discolored blue eye to his other deep blue one.

“And who the fuck do you think you are? Huh?” he yelled.
“Obody!”
“Who?” he asked shoving the gun further down my thoat.

I felt the salty taste of warm blood and saliva drip off the mouth of the gun as I gagged from the steel forced down my mouth. Drake’s front tooth blinged DRAKE in gold, diamond studded letters announcing he was different and special from everyone else.

“Obody!”
“That’s right! Fuckin’, ‘obody’!” he said as he withdrew his gun followed by a long string of red saliva that snapped and fell on my shirt as he put it back in his pants.