Blood of My Blood, Flesh of My Stool

Plop. Then a slow annoyed hiss. It opened it’s eyes for a second and focused on Michael. The teeth were long white porcelain carpentry nails and it already rearing back preparing to lunge. Michaed slammed the lever. The sloppy stitching between the thumb and the finger on his right flushing hand reminded him to move quickly and efficiently. A mechanical pencil and composition notebook were retrieved from a cabinet under the vanity

“October 21st, 9:15pm the child seemed malevolent and angry. One flush.

9:15pm, 5 minutes drift towards midnight since October 10th. 20 minutes towards noon since August. There was no pattern, no logic. There was just a man shitting angry animals. But Micheal drew the lines connected the dots and saw the shapes. He had to. His documentation and the little charts he made was his bible. If was not normal, he was at the very least regular.

An old black smear sat between the shower and toilet. That was August 2nd and it was painful. Basically, it was a black hand with the mouth in the middle and purple little talons. That boy was fast and angry but there’s a hand sledge between the toilet wand and the plunger. That one had to be placed in the waste basket. Most of them flushed and just in case they weren’t dead the pipe lead to a septic tank. The septic tank was cleaned by well trusted confidantes. The nearest neighbor was an acre away and urban sprawl had Michael was eyeing new real estate. You don’t want someone to hear you scream. You don’t want to be legal precedent. You sure as hell don’t want to be scientific discovery.

Back at his bed he took off the jump boots he wore like slippers. 9:30 would give him 11 hours. 9 to 5. Eat, shit, sleep, repeat. Time enough to wake up, shower and make breakfast, pack lunch. His daughter had managed to cocoon herself on the other side. Nightmares again. Perhaps Kindergarten was taking its toll.

Bless January.

 

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Good Neighbors Say Bless You

It’s not a necessity. It’s throwing pepper over the shoulder. It’s a braid of garlic right next to the doorway. It is perhaps a defecation but mostly its an ass being water cooled for five minutes: a meditation per chance to poop. In the two minute mark of this revery, something opened the front door, hacked and snarled. Comedy suggests, this is when you hear plonk but no time for nirvana now. There’s an sks in the corner that has a flash hider just long enough to hold toilet paper.

She stands and closes the lid and puts the 1 ply on top while pulling her lounge pants up. From the linen closet she retrieves and loads 10 from a stripper clip of russian short. She closes the door and fixes her bayonet because why the fuck not. She cautiously walks up the two steps out the garage and into the kitchen. Long fluorescent tubes buzz overhead, lighting an island of chipped and chiseled marble and mismatched appliances. This was no stainless place. There was still blue dye staining the sink and the dishes.

She moved into the dining room. On the not shaker dining room table her HP with the 15 inch screen chugged away at… facebook, just facebook. Her rifle was not shouldered, this was casual mode. Very casual, with a knife. And a gun. A knife gun. Breathe in. Breathe out. Shoulder.

Both doors were wide open. There was a 2.5 meter biped with a thick black fur on the top slowly thinning at the belly and obviously shedding legs. There was peppering on the snout but very clean, very bleached huge canines. A pair of jorts equal to John Cena’s were daisy dukes upon his frame. You could see the phablet tucked in the right pocket. There was a rubber band full of letters sitting on the table. A hankie was in his left claw.

“God damn it Tim. Knock.”

He pointed to the plywood. He pointed to the glass. He curls his slightly less wolfy right hand into a fist. Stephanie stood the rifle against the bookshelf between Skyfall and Soulplane. She did this in order to have hands free for talking.

“Then use the doorbell Tim. Next time.”

She slouched into the sofa displacing a throw pillow, a newspaper and a bunch of junk mail. There was a naked bulb dangling from the ceiling, the ceiling fan was still. A white flat extension cord snaked under the bookshelf powering the tv.

“Text me?”

On the stool between the sofa and the television, her iphone was charging. It chirped with another notification.

“Get a better neighbor Tim, this one is an idiot.”

He made a patting motion. She nodded. His palmed made a slow motion dribble on her koolaid hair, fingers extended well past where a baseball cap would have ended. He shrugged and walked away. She tossed a bag of oregano at him. No really. He caught it deftly. There would be a mason jar of marinara later. Then an oil change in exchange. Quid pro quo, mas o menos.