RSS Feed (xml)
Tonga Islands
August 19th, 2003
He was being followed. As sure as he knew his name was Carl Weevilberry, he knew he was being followed. The sweat running down his back told him it was too damn hot to be driving a van with no air conditioning. All that coo'ing coming from the back was like someone stuffed a raccoon in a sack and then put it over his head. Carl suppressed a shudder. After three years of doing the same job you would think he’d get used to it. Nope. He would never get used to those stinking, shitting birds. Couldn't even figure out why he bothered anymore. His hands were sweaty, his bowels clenching -- I shouldn't have stopped for that meat stick -- and those damned doves were driving him crazy. The dove smuggling business was not as glamorous as it sounded. Enough reflecting on bad life choices. Right now, he had to lose his tail, but with his "precious" cargo in the back he couldn't take any unnecessary risks. Looks like he’d be calling in a favor. Two years in the Tonga Islands had given him plenty of time to make a few friends. Lately, though, friends seemed to be in low supply, but there was still one man he could count on. Rico, his favorite rug dealer, owed him a favor. Time to see if he was willing to cough it up.
ring, ring
"Pick up the phone Rico."
ring, ring
"Yeah, this is Rico."
"Rico, it's Carl. I need a favor and I'm cashin' in"
"God damn Carl, you know I don't like it when you call me from the job. Those doves bring back... bad memories.” Carl didn’t ask what those memories were nor did he want to know. Some things a man had to deal with alone.
"Sorry Rico, it can't be helped. I'm being followed and I need you to lose them for me."
"Damnit Carl! That bloody smuggling job of yours is going to get you killed one of these days! You know I wouldn't survive anything happening to you."
"Don't worry about me, man. This feather in my hat isn’t just for bangin' chicks." There was no feather and no hat but Rico loved that expression. Right now, Carl needed Rico on his side.
"Yeah yeah, I know. I'll think of something. Just tell me where you are and I'll make it happen."
Fifteen minutes later Carl saw a familiar Red SUV barreling down the road in the opposite direction. Rico. Friends like that were hard to find. It’s a good thing Carl didn’t have to look any further than a phone call. Suddenly Rico’s vehicle picked up speed. He must have recognized Carl’s van because he veered dangerously close to the median. At that speed, Rico’s SUV was past him in seconds, leaving Carl to follow his progress in the rear view mirror. Tires screeched, metal crunched and a huge fireball plumed skyward. Carl could feel the blast of heat pour in the open window. Rico just took out his tail. That glorious bastard. Carl hoped Rico had made his peace with God, because the devil sure as shit didn’t need any more rug dealers. As Carl saluted the flaming wreckage that used to be his friend, he stepped on the accelerator to make good use of Rico’s sacrifice.
Just another day in the life of “bad luck” Carl. Everyone would be better off if they never knew him. All he needed to do now was deliver these doves, get paid and drink himself into the nearest pair of legs he could find.
August 19th, 2003
He was being followed. As sure as he knew his name was Carl Weevilberry, he knew he was being followed. The sweat running down his back told him it was too damn hot to be driving a van with no air conditioning. All that coo'ing coming from the back was like someone stuffed a raccoon in a sack and then put it over his head. Carl suppressed a shudder. After three years of doing the same job you would think he’d get used to it. Nope. He would never get used to those stinking, shitting birds. Couldn't even figure out why he bothered anymore. His hands were sweaty, his bowels clenching -- I shouldn't have stopped for that meat stick -- and those damned doves were driving him crazy. The dove smuggling business was not as glamorous as it sounded. Enough reflecting on bad life choices. Right now, he had to lose his tail, but with his "precious" cargo in the back he couldn't take any unnecessary risks. Looks like he’d be calling in a favor. Two years in the Tonga Islands had given him plenty of time to make a few friends. Lately, though, friends seemed to be in low supply, but there was still one man he could count on. Rico, his favorite rug dealer, owed him a favor. Time to see if he was willing to cough it up.
ring, ring
"Pick up the phone Rico."
ring, ring
"Yeah, this is Rico."
"Rico, it's Carl. I need a favor and I'm cashin' in"
"God damn Carl, you know I don't like it when you call me from the job. Those doves bring back... bad memories.” Carl didn’t ask what those memories were nor did he want to know. Some things a man had to deal with alone.
"Sorry Rico, it can't be helped. I'm being followed and I need you to lose them for me."
"Damnit Carl! That bloody smuggling job of yours is going to get you killed one of these days! You know I wouldn't survive anything happening to you."
"Don't worry about me, man. This feather in my hat isn’t just for bangin' chicks." There was no feather and no hat but Rico loved that expression. Right now, Carl needed Rico on his side.
"Yeah yeah, I know. I'll think of something. Just tell me where you are and I'll make it happen."
Fifteen minutes later Carl saw a familiar Red SUV barreling down the road in the opposite direction. Rico. Friends like that were hard to find. It’s a good thing Carl didn’t have to look any further than a phone call. Suddenly Rico’s vehicle picked up speed. He must have recognized Carl’s van because he veered dangerously close to the median. At that speed, Rico’s SUV was past him in seconds, leaving Carl to follow his progress in the rear view mirror. Tires screeched, metal crunched and a huge fireball plumed skyward. Carl could feel the blast of heat pour in the open window. Rico just took out his tail. That glorious bastard. Carl hoped Rico had made his peace with God, because the devil sure as shit didn’t need any more rug dealers. As Carl saluted the flaming wreckage that used to be his friend, he stepped on the accelerator to make good use of Rico’s sacrifice.
Just another day in the life of “bad luck” Carl. Everyone would be better off if they never knew him. All he needed to do now was deliver these doves, get paid and drink himself into the nearest pair of legs he could find.
Yeah, that sounded like a damn fine idea.
No comments:
Post a Comment