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Authors: J. Joseph Wright
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gonna do anything, Stan. Christ’s sake, can’t you see that?” she cast a derisive glance at the minibar next to his desk, an assortment of the latest in his search for a remedy to the goddam writer’s block. “How long have you been trying this shit? It’s gotten you nowhere. Worse than nowhere, because you’ve spent a fortune. That and the fact you’ve made nothing, not a penny in years. I can’t believe I stayed with you. I should have listened to my mother and left a long time ago.”
Stan watched as she stomped upstairs in a haughty huff. Finally, he mustered the balls to come up with a response.
“You’re wrong, Vanessa!” he shouted. “I know there’s something that’ll help me get past this!” he lowered his voice, talking to himself. “There’s something out there. Something that’ll get me out of this damned slump.”
“Slump?” she stood in the hall, a Louis Vuitton suitcase strapped over her shoulder. She still had on her workout wear. “You call this a slump? Stan, they just turned off the power. The bank’s been sending letters for months. Don’t think I didn’t see them. I did. And I know you haven’t opened a single one, either. You’re in trouble, Stan. And I’m leaving.”
Rat deserting a sinking ship , he thought as she slammed the door. Painted, plastic, and pampered rat.
2.
Guzzle. Guzzle. Gulp.
He’d long ago forsaken any pretense of using a shot glass, commencing to copious swigs from the bottle. Gone were the days when he could afford the good stuff. Several thousands of dollars for single malt scotch was a thing of the past, so shitty Johnny Walker Red it was. Tasted like piss. Went down like fire. Did the trick.
Guzzle. Guzzle. Gulp.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
He curled up tight, trying to keep his brain from rattling against the walls of his skull. It sounded like a freight train passing in the night, though he knew there were no railways anywhere near that part of Malibu.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
“Stop it!” he yelled, and then winced as soon as he yelled it, a ringing, burning sensation gushing through his cerebrum. “Ouch,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, then yelled again. “Go away!”
“It’s the Sheriff’s Department!”
He perked up, his pulse a mile a minute. Did he have anything in the house? Coke? Pot? Where was that goddam crack pipe Vanessa’s stupid fucking niece brought over last weekend?
“Just a minute!”
“Stanley Cox?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry to inform you, Mister Cox, but we have an eviction notice, here.”
He stumbled to the front double doors, custom-crafted mahogany with wrought iron grills and frosted crystal. He was greeted by four deputies with a big stinking piece of paper, all kinds of stuff written in legalese basically telling him the place was owned by the bank now. He had to get the hell out.
“Okay,” he told a deputy, late twenties, well-groomed but not overly military like Stan had noticed most cops had become. “I just need some time to make arrangements for my belongings. How’s next week? Thursday good?”
“Sir, I don’t think you understand. You have to go. Now.”
Stunned beyond words, throat as dry as hell, head throbbing, he staggered to the last thing he owned besides a couch and loveseat combo—his 2005 Chevrolet Corvette z06. Smoke gray, leather, faster than a Ferrari. He loved that car.
The deputies went room-to-room, closing and fastening windows. They then asked Stan for all the keys to the residence and locked the place tight, even going so far as to run tape across the front and back doors of Stan’s castle. Five thousand square feet, 360 degree ocean and mountain views, pool with spa and tons of privacy—a premium in Malibu. Now it was gone. He emptied his lungs and folded against the car. At least he still had the car.
Before the cops left, the one who’d
Stan watched as she stomped upstairs in a haughty huff. Finally, he mustered the balls to come up with a response.
“You’re wrong, Vanessa!” he shouted. “I know there’s something that’ll help me get past this!” he lowered his voice, talking to himself. “There’s something out there. Something that’ll get me out of this damned slump.”
“Slump?” she stood in the hall, a Louis Vuitton suitcase strapped over her shoulder. She still had on her workout wear. “You call this a slump? Stan, they just turned off the power. The bank’s been sending letters for months. Don’t think I didn’t see them. I did. And I know you haven’t opened a single one, either. You’re in trouble, Stan. And I’m leaving.”
Rat deserting a sinking ship , he thought as she slammed the door. Painted, plastic, and pampered rat.
2.
Guzzle. Guzzle. Gulp.
He’d long ago forsaken any pretense of using a shot glass, commencing to copious swigs from the bottle. Gone were the days when he could afford the good stuff. Several thousands of dollars for single malt scotch was a thing of the past, so shitty Johnny Walker Red it was. Tasted like piss. Went down like fire. Did the trick.
Guzzle. Guzzle. Gulp.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
He curled up tight, trying to keep his brain from rattling against the walls of his skull. It sounded like a freight train passing in the night, though he knew there were no railways anywhere near that part of Malibu.
BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM!
“Stop it!” he yelled, and then winced as soon as he yelled it, a ringing, burning sensation gushing through his cerebrum. “Ouch,” he lowered his voice to a whisper, then yelled again. “Go away!”
“It’s the Sheriff’s Department!”
He perked up, his pulse a mile a minute. Did he have anything in the house? Coke? Pot? Where was that goddam crack pipe Vanessa’s stupid fucking niece brought over last weekend?
“Just a minute!”
“Stanley Cox?”
“Yeah.”
“Sorry to inform you, Mister Cox, but we have an eviction notice, here.”
He stumbled to the front double doors, custom-crafted mahogany with wrought iron grills and frosted crystal. He was greeted by four deputies with a big stinking piece of paper, all kinds of stuff written in legalese basically telling him the place was owned by the bank now. He had to get the hell out.
“Okay,” he told a deputy, late twenties, well-groomed but not overly military like Stan had noticed most cops had become. “I just need some time to make arrangements for my belongings. How’s next week? Thursday good?”
“Sir, I don’t think you understand. You have to go. Now.”
Stunned beyond words, throat as dry as hell, head throbbing, he staggered to the last thing he owned besides a couch and loveseat combo—his 2005 Chevrolet Corvette z06. Smoke gray, leather, faster than a Ferrari. He loved that car.
The deputies went room-to-room, closing and fastening windows. They then asked Stan for all the keys to the residence and locked the place tight, even going so far as to run tape across the front and back doors of Stan’s castle. Five thousand square feet, 360 degree ocean and mountain views, pool with spa and tons of privacy—a premium in Malibu. Now it was gone. He emptied his lungs and folded against the car. At least he still had the car.
Before the cops left, the one who’d
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