Read Online The Driver's Guide to Hitting Pedestrians by Andersen Prunty - Free Book Online
Authors: Andersen Prunty
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skull, the word: “Necrophiliac.”
“ You bet I do,” I say, tugging rapidly on the door handle.
“ Handles don’t work! Gotta hop in through the window!”
After several clumsy minutes, I make it into the car, bashing my head on the top of the door.
“ Bitch, ain’t it?” he says. “I’m glad you came along. I need me some tunes. Grab that disc up off the floor and slide it in there.”
I wonder how me being here has anything to do with him being able to listen to music until I notice that his hands are nailed to the steering wheel. He catches me staring.
“ Keeps ’em from slidin’ off,” he says. “I got that sweatin’ disease? Gets damn slick. My wife, great woman she is, nails me down every time I go for a drive. She usually puts some tunes in too but, well, I been drivin’ around for a long time.”
I press the EJECT button on the stereo and the remains of a disc spill out. It’s melted and runny. I hesitate before putting the next disc in. This one is plain white with strange markings on it. Maybe it’s gibberish or maybe it’s how people write things here.
“ I’ve never heard of them,” I say, more or less to make conversation.
“ Me neither,” he says. “Some whore left it in the car. I like to stop off in The Alley and pay for sex favors sometimes. That one, as I recall, gave me an exquisite blow job. Dropped that out of her bag.”
I slide the disc into the player.
“ Thank god for automatics,” he says, peeling out into the road, speeding through a series of residential suburbs, each one the same as the last.
The music is at top volume. It is very discordant. No vocals. He rocks his head and shouts made-up words as though it’s some arena rock anthem. He burns to a stop in front of a small white ranch house. I guess this is home. I start to get out and he tells me to take the disc with me. “I don’t know what the fuck that is. It ain’t music in my book. Sounds like listening to a TV test pattern through a box fan.”
“ Thanks,” I say, ejecting the disc and putting it back in its paper envelope.
I walk up the cement path to my house. He speeds two doors down, whips the car into the driveway and then just sits there. I reach my door and look over at him, sitting there in his quiet car.
“ Hey!” I shout. “Do you need some help getting out of the car?!” It must be difficult with his hands nailed like that.
But he seems to be enraged. He shouts violently from his car. “Get the fuck in your goddamn house and don’t you ever say another fuckin’ word to me! If I catch you so much as lookin’ at my house or my car I’ll come out and fuckin’ slit your throat! Got that! SLIT YOUR FUCKIN’ GODDAMN THROAT!”
Reaching my hand out to turn the doorknob to my house, the door swings open and a clothed inflatable doll stands in the doorway.
“ We’re through,” she says, pushing her way past me. A giant bag is slung over her shoulder. It’s nearly as large as the house. I have no idea how it fits through the door. Even though I have no recollection of ever being here, I know all of our possessions are in that bag. “There’s a note for you on the floor,” she snarls through her O-shaped mouth. Then she lifts up her foot, flicks open an air stopper protruding from her heel, and goes shooting into the blue sky, carrying the bag with her.
The note on the floor says:
THE FLATS
FIBE A.M.
Five in the morning, maybe? I don’t really know. Knowing this is where I’m going to my death, I go into a rage, running around the bare room, kicking holes in the unadorned walls. I go into the kitchen and rip the cabinets from the walls, tip over the refrigerator, yank out all the drawers, piss on it all. Exhausted, I spiral into the living room and collapse but the silence is deafening. I remember the disc Necrophiliac gave to me and, for no apparent reason, take it from my pocket and lick the underside of it. I hear snippets of the music way back in my brain. I
“ You bet I do,” I say, tugging rapidly on the door handle.
“ Handles don’t work! Gotta hop in through the window!”
After several clumsy minutes, I make it into the car, bashing my head on the top of the door.
“ Bitch, ain’t it?” he says. “I’m glad you came along. I need me some tunes. Grab that disc up off the floor and slide it in there.”
I wonder how me being here has anything to do with him being able to listen to music until I notice that his hands are nailed to the steering wheel. He catches me staring.
“ Keeps ’em from slidin’ off,” he says. “I got that sweatin’ disease? Gets damn slick. My wife, great woman she is, nails me down every time I go for a drive. She usually puts some tunes in too but, well, I been drivin’ around for a long time.”
I press the EJECT button on the stereo and the remains of a disc spill out. It’s melted and runny. I hesitate before putting the next disc in. This one is plain white with strange markings on it. Maybe it’s gibberish or maybe it’s how people write things here.
“ I’ve never heard of them,” I say, more or less to make conversation.
“ Me neither,” he says. “Some whore left it in the car. I like to stop off in The Alley and pay for sex favors sometimes. That one, as I recall, gave me an exquisite blow job. Dropped that out of her bag.”
I slide the disc into the player.
“ Thank god for automatics,” he says, peeling out into the road, speeding through a series of residential suburbs, each one the same as the last.
The music is at top volume. It is very discordant. No vocals. He rocks his head and shouts made-up words as though it’s some arena rock anthem. He burns to a stop in front of a small white ranch house. I guess this is home. I start to get out and he tells me to take the disc with me. “I don’t know what the fuck that is. It ain’t music in my book. Sounds like listening to a TV test pattern through a box fan.”
“ Thanks,” I say, ejecting the disc and putting it back in its paper envelope.
I walk up the cement path to my house. He speeds two doors down, whips the car into the driveway and then just sits there. I reach my door and look over at him, sitting there in his quiet car.
“ Hey!” I shout. “Do you need some help getting out of the car?!” It must be difficult with his hands nailed like that.
But he seems to be enraged. He shouts violently from his car. “Get the fuck in your goddamn house and don’t you ever say another fuckin’ word to me! If I catch you so much as lookin’ at my house or my car I’ll come out and fuckin’ slit your throat! Got that! SLIT YOUR FUCKIN’ GODDAMN THROAT!”
Reaching my hand out to turn the doorknob to my house, the door swings open and a clothed inflatable doll stands in the doorway.
“ We’re through,” she says, pushing her way past me. A giant bag is slung over her shoulder. It’s nearly as large as the house. I have no idea how it fits through the door. Even though I have no recollection of ever being here, I know all of our possessions are in that bag. “There’s a note for you on the floor,” she snarls through her O-shaped mouth. Then she lifts up her foot, flicks open an air stopper protruding from her heel, and goes shooting into the blue sky, carrying the bag with her.
The note on the floor says:
THE FLATS
FIBE A.M.
Five in the morning, maybe? I don’t really know. Knowing this is where I’m going to my death, I go into a rage, running around the bare room, kicking holes in the unadorned walls. I go into the kitchen and rip the cabinets from the walls, tip over the refrigerator, yank out all the drawers, piss on it all. Exhausted, I spiral into the living room and collapse but the silence is deafening. I remember the disc Necrophiliac gave to me and, for no apparent reason, take it from my pocket and lick the underside of it. I hear snippets of the music way back in my brain. I
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