On the Run
Three A.M. The night still and silent. Doorway stinks of the street. Breath comes in plumes of white smoke. It’s cold enough.
No activity in the apartment—my apartment. Looks clear. No lights. No movement. Empty as when I left it. Maybe.
Pain in my legs. Pins and needles. Waiting too long here in the cold. Here in the dark. Time to move.
Hands in my pockets. Shoulders down. Avoid the light. Put on my street face. Blend in with the neighborhood, blend in with the dark. Move quickly (but don’t hurry) across the street to my door. Fish the keys out of my pocket on the way up the steps.
Car engine coughs. Don’t panic (ohshitohshitohshit). Stay calm. Black limousine: no headlights, dark windows. Glides down the street like oil down a stripper’s ass crack. Didn’t want to be seen before, but wants to now. Hum of the back window descending. All dark inside but for the glow of a cigar.
Keys are a dead weight in my hands—useless. Like trying to unlock my door with a marshmallow. From the car comes the stare. The presence. And then…
The cigar. Just enough for me to see it. Tap tap. Ash like falling snow.
Eight beats of my heart. The car window closes. Headlights ignite and the car slides away, quiet as if it were floating. I’ve been given a warning.
Two taps. Two days.
I know better than to try and run. The Generalissimo seldom gives warnings, and never twice.
The new Angry Piper’s Book of the Week will be up soon. Watch for it at Hill-TV.
No activity in the apartment—my apartment. Looks clear. No lights. No movement. Empty as when I left it. Maybe.
Pain in my legs. Pins and needles. Waiting too long here in the cold. Here in the dark. Time to move.
Hands in my pockets. Shoulders down. Avoid the light. Put on my street face. Blend in with the neighborhood, blend in with the dark. Move quickly (but don’t hurry) across the street to my door. Fish the keys out of my pocket on the way up the steps.
Car engine coughs. Don’t panic (ohshitohshitohshit). Stay calm. Black limousine: no headlights, dark windows. Glides down the street like oil down a stripper’s ass crack. Didn’t want to be seen before, but wants to now. Hum of the back window descending. All dark inside but for the glow of a cigar.
Keys are a dead weight in my hands—useless. Like trying to unlock my door with a marshmallow. From the car comes the stare. The presence. And then…
The cigar. Just enough for me to see it. Tap tap. Ash like falling snow.
Eight beats of my heart. The car window closes. Headlights ignite and the car slides away, quiet as if it were floating. I’ve been given a warning.
Two taps. Two days.
I know better than to try and run. The Generalissimo seldom gives warnings, and never twice.
The new Angry Piper’s Book of the Week will be up soon. Watch for it at Hill-TV.
posted by The Angry Piper at 5:16 PM
5 Comments:
"like oil down a stripper's ass crack."
Who among you thinks I take myself seriously?
Ok that is truly scary because as soon as I read that line I felt the need to write it down!!! That maybe one I use at some point.
I have the perfect site for the Hill TV redesign!
I'm back from Vacation mofo... and no that I've come back from the Generalissimo's hideaway and negotiated full control of Hill TV there will be a redesign
Take that, Mr. Grizzly!
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