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white wine in my mouth while we kissed.
     
    How good she’d said the sunlight felt on her bare breasts and pink nipples and how good I knew it felt on my exposed balls and penis.
     
    I took another jolt of vodka, a bigger one, and then chased it with a beer.
     
    I could hear her voice in my ear I swear.
     
    Whispering all the things she wanted me to do to her, all the things she hoped for after that too.
     
    I grabbed the vodka bottle and went to bed. The fucking sun blazing through my shitty cotton curtains. It didn’t matter much. Just the one more jolt smacked me out like a light bulb.
     
    I awoke to the sound of my mobile phone blaring like a siren. I grabbed for it and threw it firmly into the closest wall. It was night by then and getting out of bed seemed the equivalent to facing the blank barrier I imagined one found screaming in silence at the end of the universe. After an hour or so I got up confused and aggravated and put my phone back together. I took a long, long shower and never got dressed when I was done. I drank some more beer and read some Nietzsche and when that burnt out I threw on some Cagney and followed it with Bogie. I scratched my balls for a fair amount of time and watched my yard turn grey blue with the sun’s light creeping up over the hills in the east. The black shadows swinging slowly with its unavoidable rising solar angle.
     
    Anytime I felt the creak in my bones or head of a hangover trying to play its hand I drank more and drank fast. Mornings seemed fine for beer and the afternoons and evenings just splendid for vodka. I pissed a lot. When I got hungry and needed more than corn chips I went down the street for burgers dressed like a bum and cowering at the freshness of the air. When I got sick of old time gangsters I threw on some Corbucci westerns and even a couple of old Romero and Fulci zombie flicks to pass the dread and muck of time. I watched Romero’s ‘Martin’ back to back. Love that fucking movie. I didn’t sleep for two days straight then. No matter how much I drank. The phone rang but I never answered it. The whole thing was ridiculous but then again what about life isn’t.
     
    Think about how many times in your life you’ve wiped your ass…it’s pathetic, it’s repulsive, it’s just plain stupid.
     
    The gig was up when I ran out of liquor. I drank the last two bottles of the beer naked on my back step smoking a cigar at about eight am of the third morning. The sun was already up and was making nice with me for once. I had some Schubert playing smooth on my record player and it eased all consequential out the door and was settling over me like a much needed anesthetic. I drained the last mouthful of beer and then upped myself and went immediately to the shower. When out I shaved and drank three cups of coffee with milk and sugar. I dressed like a human and got in the car and started the twenty-five minutes driving toward my office. I picked up some grub on the way, egg and sausage sandwich, two hash browns and one more coffee to smooth out any rough edges. To be honest I was a fucking mess. Fried as the eggs in my breakfast.
     
    But something had clicked and I went with it as much as I had the other click which had told me to hole up and die alone. In hindsight it would be exactly where the goons collecting the money I owed would be looking for me, but I think the off chance that I might expire that morning actually cinched the subconscious deal. That and I had paid rent on the place for two and half days a week and I’d be fucked if I wasn’t gonna get my money’s worth. Oh and yeah, the fact that there was a full bottle of bourbon in the bottom drawer of my desk. There are no coincidences where dealing with percentages.
     

CHAPTER 4
     
    You’re probably wondering what a drunken fatalistic asshole like myself requires an office for. You could argue that I don’t. Calling it an office is a stretch really. Sure there’s a desk and a filing cabinet