held an unlit cigarette in his mouth when he got behind the wheel.
Robby passed the pack to me and started the engine. We lit both our cigarettes on the same orange coiled moon burning at the end of the carâs lighter. Our faces were so close our cheeks touched. I looked Robby straight in the eye as we leaned in to get the cigarettes going. It was awkward. I felt sad for Robby.
I turned around and reached back between the seats. I held Shannâs hand.
Behind her, I saw a glowing blue ball floating down the steps in back of the vacant podiatristâs office. Grant and the Hoover Boys were coming out from the mall.
I glanced at Robby.
I was certain he saw the same thing in the rearview mirror. We both knew better than to say anything and have Shann turn around. She would only start asking questions. Maybe sheâd want to confront those punks.
In a lot of ways, Shann was tougher than Robby and me.
Maybe the boys were already drunk. I canât be certain of it. But something happened to cause Tyler to let go of the glass globe. I watched the circle of blue light drop like a falling moon.
Robby coughed.
Back in Grasshopper Jungle, blue light splattered everywhere.
âIâm ready to go home,â I said.
âUm. Yeah,â Robby agreed.
Robbyâs hands gripped the wheel, but his eyes were pinned to the rearview mirror.
Grant and his friends were the first victims of Contained MI Plague Strain 412E .
Nobody knew anything about it.
Travis Pope and his wife, Eileen, had been hired by the association management of the Ealing Mall to clean the common areas every week. They drove through the lot Saturday mornings before sunrise, rarely doing anything about the debris that accumulated in the back alley of a soon-to-be abandoned mall.
That Saturday, Travis and Eileen stopped in Grasshopper Jungle and picked up large chunks of broken glass from the alley. Travis Pope tossed the shards into the dumpster somebody had pushed against the rear wall of The Pancake House . Travis cursed the winos and delinquent kids in the town for getting drunk and fucking in public.
Travis and Eileen Pope were the fifth and sixth victims of Contained MI Plague Strain 412E .
Nobody knew anything about it.
And later that morning, an old man Robby Brees and I called Hungry Jack, who was missing his front teeth and had served in the United States Army in Vietnam, climbed into the dumpster we rolled across Grasshopper Jungle. The dumpster had pieces of Johnny McKeonâs sick broken universe inside it.
Hungry Jack became the seventh victim of Contained MI Plague Strain 412E .
All hell had broken loose. It splattered across the piss-soaked pavement of Grasshopper Jungle.
Nobody knew anything about it.
HISTORY IS FULL OF SHIT
EVERY DAY I wrote in my books.
I drew pictures, too.
That night, I drew a plastic flamingo with a spike coming out of its ass, a grimacing lemur, bottles of wine, and a picture of me with my shorts pulled down around my knees. In my drawing, I was in the backseat of Robbyâs Ford Explorer, lying on Shann Collins and some socks and a pair of my best friendâs boxers that were printed with red fire trucks and spotted Dalmatian dogs.
I drew a two-headed baby boy trapped inside a pickle jar.
That night, I sat at my desk until the sky outside began to get light.
I took off my shoes and socks, and my Orwells T-shirt, too. I always write more accurate accounts of history when wearing as little as possible.
Itâs difficult to avoid the truth when youâre undressed.
My armpits reeked. I had serious B.O.
That was also true.
Ingrid, my golden retriever, was in my bedroom. She liked to lie down beneath my desk so I could keep my bare feet in her fur. Ingrid, although she could shit better than any dog I knewâa real dynamoânever barked. When she was a puppy, she had a tumor on her neck. It made it so she couldnât bark, which helped me sneak into the house past curfew
Robby passed the pack to me and started the engine. We lit both our cigarettes on the same orange coiled moon burning at the end of the carâs lighter. Our faces were so close our cheeks touched. I looked Robby straight in the eye as we leaned in to get the cigarettes going. It was awkward. I felt sad for Robby.
I turned around and reached back between the seats. I held Shannâs hand.
Behind her, I saw a glowing blue ball floating down the steps in back of the vacant podiatristâs office. Grant and the Hoover Boys were coming out from the mall.
I glanced at Robby.
I was certain he saw the same thing in the rearview mirror. We both knew better than to say anything and have Shann turn around. She would only start asking questions. Maybe sheâd want to confront those punks.
In a lot of ways, Shann was tougher than Robby and me.
Maybe the boys were already drunk. I canât be certain of it. But something happened to cause Tyler to let go of the glass globe. I watched the circle of blue light drop like a falling moon.
Robby coughed.
Back in Grasshopper Jungle, blue light splattered everywhere.
âIâm ready to go home,â I said.
âUm. Yeah,â Robby agreed.
Robbyâs hands gripped the wheel, but his eyes were pinned to the rearview mirror.
Grant and his friends were the first victims of Contained MI Plague Strain 412E .
Nobody knew anything about it.
Travis Pope and his wife, Eileen, had been hired by the association management of the Ealing Mall to clean the common areas every week. They drove through the lot Saturday mornings before sunrise, rarely doing anything about the debris that accumulated in the back alley of a soon-to-be abandoned mall.
That Saturday, Travis and Eileen stopped in Grasshopper Jungle and picked up large chunks of broken glass from the alley. Travis Pope tossed the shards into the dumpster somebody had pushed against the rear wall of The Pancake House . Travis cursed the winos and delinquent kids in the town for getting drunk and fucking in public.
Travis and Eileen Pope were the fifth and sixth victims of Contained MI Plague Strain 412E .
Nobody knew anything about it.
And later that morning, an old man Robby Brees and I called Hungry Jack, who was missing his front teeth and had served in the United States Army in Vietnam, climbed into the dumpster we rolled across Grasshopper Jungle. The dumpster had pieces of Johnny McKeonâs sick broken universe inside it.
Hungry Jack became the seventh victim of Contained MI Plague Strain 412E .
All hell had broken loose. It splattered across the piss-soaked pavement of Grasshopper Jungle.
Nobody knew anything about it.
HISTORY IS FULL OF SHIT
EVERY DAY I wrote in my books.
I drew pictures, too.
That night, I drew a plastic flamingo with a spike coming out of its ass, a grimacing lemur, bottles of wine, and a picture of me with my shorts pulled down around my knees. In my drawing, I was in the backseat of Robbyâs Ford Explorer, lying on Shann Collins and some socks and a pair of my best friendâs boxers that were printed with red fire trucks and spotted Dalmatian dogs.
I drew a two-headed baby boy trapped inside a pickle jar.
That night, I sat at my desk until the sky outside began to get light.
I took off my shoes and socks, and my Orwells T-shirt, too. I always write more accurate accounts of history when wearing as little as possible.
Itâs difficult to avoid the truth when youâre undressed.
My armpits reeked. I had serious B.O.
That was also true.
Ingrid, my golden retriever, was in my bedroom. She liked to lie down beneath my desk so I could keep my bare feet in her fur. Ingrid, although she could shit better than any dog I knewâa real dynamoânever barked. When she was a puppy, she had a tumor on her neck. It made it so she couldnât bark, which helped me sneak into the house past curfew
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