Broken Piano for President Read Online Free

fog.
    Dean, like the rest of the crowd, couldn’t stop watching. His heart jumped when Haynes pulled the microphone to his lips. The man was all stringy black hair and wide, serial killer eyes. Young Deshler listened to every twisted gurgle of words, hypnotized. Haynes spat fire and flung gooey red corn syrup all over the audience.
    That blood.
    After the show, Dean couldn’t stop thinking about the red ooze. He couldn’t stop thinking how a thousand people stood lobotomized, listening the way Dad never did. He couldn’t stop thinking about the power a stage demands.
    Later that night, when the flask was nothing but tin and fumes, Dean’s older brother explained, between hiccups, that the concert was about expression. It all had meaning. It’s all art.
    Dean has been chasing that vision of art ever since. Looking to smear blood and breathe fire until they listen. The rumble it makes in his guts is enough to put up with parking all those cars, dealing with unenthusiastic bandmates, and the booing. God, all those boos. All that booze. It’s enough to make a man optimistic after potentially stabbing a stranger.

    The woman inspects her sticky red hand and flashes it to Deshler in disbelief. Blood streaks down the wrist as her eyes squeeze tight. “You know the odds of someone murdering you are something like three hundred twenty five-to-one.”
    “I think you have the wrong idea.” Performance art fantasies blow into hazy smoke rings.
    Less than a block away, morning traffic thickens with honks and raging stereo sounds. A naturally confused look plants itself on Deshler’s face—mouth hanging down.
    One of her green eyes pops open—a marble in the light. “But your odds of suicide are more like a hundred twenty one-to-one.” Her lips and cheeks offer a vague outline of makeup. A face that took an hour to put on, flooded by a thin layer of mummified blood.
    “I’m sorry, what?”
    “Basically, we’re a way bigger danger to ourselves than others are.”
    “I…I don’t think I did.” He points to the bloody hair tangle and his belly shrinks. “ That. ” Dean cringes, waiting for her scream.
    That waiting kills.
    She giggles and sighs. “I think I’m still a little drunk, Dean.” Smiling wide, the girl shifts her weight forward and trips. She digs a bare knee into naked soil. “Owee,” she laughs, “gimme the keys, please.”
    “I don’t have any—” Deshler quickly checks pockets and stops, waiting for more words to come. “Keys.”
    “Shut up. Seriously, I don’t feel very good. I think I hit my head on something.” She stretches and yawns until cavity fillings shine amongst the blooming light. The woman steps close and gives Dean a faint, flirty look. Dean’s muscles loosen. Fears of prison now completely vanished.
    In the time it takes to stab a pretty girl in the head, this turns into one of the Cliff Drinker’s finer hangover mornings.

     
Dozens of Times Waking up in his own bed, alone.
    It happens much less than he’d like, but Deshler pushes out a boozy breath of relief when he sees the Listerine yellow walls of his apartment. He’s never done the math, but its likelihood is somewhere around thirty-five percent.
     
     
Eleven Months Ago His Roommate Henry’s Trunk .
    Neither he nor Henry knows how Deshler ended up in the locked trunk. However, Dean considers it a success, since after kicking the metal shell for twenty minutes to grab Henry’s attention, Deshler found thirty dollars in his pocket that wasn’t there before.
     
     
Countless Times Any booth, barstool or bathroom floor, as long as it’s attached to the bar he started drinking in.
     
     
    “I don’t want to be rude,” Deshler says, slipping the screwdriver into his jacket pocket. “But we’ve never met before, have we?” He instantly regrets not playing cool, coaxing more faint, flirty looks.
    “Jesus, you don’t think I ,” she stabs a finger into her chest. “Know who you are?” The woman squints and