Atomic Lobster Read Online Free Page B

“I’m into hope.”
    “Like when you give yourself date-rape drugs?”
    “I could get lucky.” He held a lighter over the bowl. “I might have already, but that’s the thing: Who knows?”
    “Coleman, never mock hope. You might jinx it, and the Hope Guy will knock somewhere else.”
    Coleman flicked his lighter. “I hope some super-hot chick with low morals shows up for no reason and climbs into my bed.”
    Knock-knock-knock.
    “Coming!…”
    Serge opened the door. A potbellied redneck in a mesh-back camo cap swayed drunkenly under the naked-bulb porch light. Serge raised his eyebrows. “Are you the Hope Guy?”
    “What?”
    “To change my life. I’m ready to be taken away. Thought you’d look different, maybe have a name tag or a cape with lightning bolts.”
    The redneck squinted. “Who are you?”
    “Serge. Next question.”
    The man looked past him into the room. “Is Sunshine here?”
    “She moved out.”
    “I’m one of her regulars.”
    “She’s gone.”
    From inside the room: “Is it that guy?”
    “No. Someone looking for the hooker who used to live here. He’s hopeless.”
    “See if he has my faucet screen.”
    The man continued wobbling on the porch, unfocused eyes begging Serge for something to cling to.
    Serge shrugged. “Sorry. New management. This is now a think tank.”
    The man bit his lip, turned and weaved off across the dark dirt yard. The door closed. An exhaled cloud drifted along the ceiling. “Serge?”
    “What?”
    “Why are we living in this dump?”
    “It’s not a dump.”
    “A coke whore used to live here.”
    “Something else that separates me from society: Super-Positive Perspective! Where normal people would whine about subpar accommodations, I choose to view it as upscale camping.”
    “Why are we in Sarasota?”
    “Just temporary. Heat’s on up north.”
    Coleman looked around their tight confines, the last of three units chopped up from a sixty-year-old clapboard house. Micro-fridge, hot plate, bunk bed, bookshelf, lawn chairs, five-inch black-and-white TV on a citrus crate. The single window faced a high-crime alley, but it was broken and boarded shut. “I’ve never seen such a tiny apartment.”
    Serge grabbed another magazine. “It’s an efficiency.”
    “It’s tiny.”
    “You know what rent is in Sarasota?”
    “I thought you said this city was classy.”
    “It is—”
    A rustling sound from the other side of the closed bathroom door. Serge reached under the sink for a plunger and fire extinguisher.
    Coleman looked up from his bong. “What’s that noise?”
    “The rat’s back.”
    “Rat?”
    Serge spread his arms. “Huge motherfucker. Must have left the toilet seat up again. Drinks out of it like a Saint Bernard.”
    “If it’s so big, how does he get in?”
    “Wood’s started to rot.” Serge put on safety goggles. “You know in the corner where the floor is, like, gone? And you can see out into the yard?”
    “What’s the fire extinguisher for?”
    “To blind him and make it a fair fight.” Serge grabbed the doorknob, counted under his breath and burst into the bathroom. “Unleash the dogs of war!…”
    The door slammed shut. Terrible crashing sounds. Coleman reached into his Baggie and picked apart a bud. Thuds against the walls. Something shattered. Banging sounds. Serge screamed. More pounding. Profanity. A crash.
    Then it was eerily quiet. The door opened; Serge came out panting.
    “What happened?” asked Coleman.
    “I didn’t want to do it, but he hated me for my freedom.” Serge raised his right hand, dangling the trophy by its tail.
    “Jesus!” said Coleman. “It’s as big as my head!”
    Serge walked toward the front door with the rodent. “What were we talking about?”
    “How classy Sarasota is. Where are you going?”
    “Dispose of the body.”
    “Wait for me….” Coleman trotted out into the yard.
    Serge slung the rat, and it landed on a big trash pile of dried leaves and other yard waste. He