They showed up unwarranted and unwelcome, this generation’s Bonnie and Clyde. They knew my rules but chose to rap on my door anyway. My bathrobe was open and I didn’t give a good goddamn; if you show up before noon this is what you have to deal with. I call this fair play. Most people call bullshit.
Clyde prided himself a Poet Thief and lived off the Government Cheese, Bonnie was a typical ‘sex only’ thing you’d find on any Hollywood Blvd. U.S.S.A. counter top porno: braless and brainless; sucking on a Raspberry blow pop like a VPP (Vegas Paid Professional) on a mob payroll. They lived down the hall in compartment 9; sometimes I could hear them in the dark making The Noise, which made some nights easier to cope with than most. They both smelled like NeoCigs™, night sweat, and Cadbury Chocolate.
My placed reeked of pipe resin and cinnamon, no one needed to tell me that much and I didn’t give a good goddamn.
Bonnie flopped on the bean bag while Clyde sat hard on my couch pushing up dust and cat fur. He fiddled with his pants pockets then asked for a cigarette. I took the Hazy-Boy™, The Man’s chair.
“I quit that nonsense man, weeks ago, I tell you every time.” I said.
“Sorry brotha, I’m always forgetin’.” He went back to his pockets.
Plaid didn’t suit his sense of style, pink socks were on the outs and people didn’t care for that kind of flaccid haircut anymore, he was lost in a tacky fashion explosion worse than store bought anthrax and didn’t seem to notice the stink.
“We need that money man, can’t wait no more.” Bonnie blurted out. “Everything’s cool now, we can split everything up.”
I reacted quick like a convict and started killin; when necessary I can move like a samurai on medicinal Ultra-Crack™. Clyde fell under the coffee table puking black lung from his neck; his right hand fiddling in his pocket for the last time before going limp; Bonnie lost her head before she loosed her kinetic bush on me, she would have gotten me good but a quick one left her head in the bag and the blow pop caught in her cleavage, her juggler popped on impact. Too old, too slow, not up with the times.
I closed my bathrobe, and sat down.
…..
Candy Ann came through the window with duct tape in hand then complained about the weight of the trash bags when we hit the stairs.
“Why are they all so goddamn heavy?” She hissed through nicotine teeth.
“Dead things get heavy, nothing we can do, just lift dammit!”
We loaded the bags into the dumpster and later got a bottle of Red. Candy Ann brought cigarettes from Canada and we smoked and laughed. She rolled in the money on the floor, squealing orgasmic. “Turn on the TV! I wanna feel sexy.”
“No way,” I said. “That thing freaks me at night, nothing but ass and insults, I’m not having it, I’d throw it out but then I gotta pay a goddamn TV disposal tax to those Turner babies.”
“You’re a romantic.”
“Damn right I am, pour me another and turn up the Noise-Space on the WebNet.”
“What the hell are we listening to, sounds like neo-politicians being strangled.”
“It’s called Jazz, my young apprentice. You’re too young to remember it. People played it live before cool became illegal, now all you have to be is trendy. You kids don’t know anything about cool.”
“Sounds silly to me, let’s put the money in the bathtub and fuck on it.”
Later we went to a gallery opening in the Uppity Lowlands district. We needed tickets to get through the gate, but the stun gun worked nicely. The geriatric community held court here with a swarm of oxygen tanks, the smell of expired Icy-Hot, and poses of bad posture and blue hair done in fashions from twenty years ago.
I kept my gun checked and ready; a few of the bastards were drooling a bit too much for my taste over Candy Ann, and you can’t trust them as far as they can crawl when there’s free hor’dourves around to get their blood moving again..
Candy Ann frowned at everything as she’s supposed to, spitting on the more colorful pieces.
“Stapled monkey nuts is not high art anymore.” She spat.
“But people will still give blood and cash for it, baby. $2,200 for wrinkled testicular sac on canvas is considered a deal these days, no matter the species, or sex.”
When she ran out of saliva we drove back to the compartment. My neighbor from down the way was busy putting up plastic curtains and caution tape through out the hall. He had a thing about boundaries and said many times that he was going to shank me for my space, he’s a funny guy my neighbor.
That next morning, I heard the garbage men complaining about the weight of the trash bags. Candy Ann lit a Canadian and stretch out on the bed. “So mister almighty sensei, what are we going to do today?”
I stared out the window at the garbage men, contemplating her question. I could hear my neighbor singing opera in a high vibrato, and then he slowly drifted into his usual Sunday morning Ethel Merman routine. I grabbed my bathrobe and my stun gun and told her that I’d be back with breakfast.
