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The Left-Handed Smoker

Vol. IV: ... yielding (2) nature ...

 Frankie Metro
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 Frankie Metro
The Left-Handed Smoker
by Frankie Metro  FollowFollow
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Frankie Metro lives in the bowels of the Route 66 Basement Studio, located in the farthest reaches of the Chihuahua desert. His first chapbook:...read more The Anarchist's Blac Book of Poetry is now available via Crisis Chronicles Press: http://press.crisischronicles.com/2012/05/30/anarchistsblacbookfrankiemetro.aspx
The Left-Handed Smoker
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EVERY TIME Pablo picked a card, he drew the Citizen, the ten of spades, and no matter how innocent and quiet his presence, he was always "suspected" of being a Mafioso, or subjected to an untimely and maliciously violent death at the hands of organized crime-running rampant in the mythical streets of Revengaville.
This is speaking in generalities of course, because every now and again, seven out of twenty hands to be more precise, Pablo did draw one of the Jacks (always the Jack of Hearts and never the Jack of Clubs). But no matter his affiliation, he always fell to the first round of eliminations, and this is not speaking in generalities, but brutal and literal truth.

He was ridiculed incessantly during the remainder of the party. Marissa's family, particularly Elena and Hector, tore at him without regard to their daughter/sibling's thoughts on the matter. What remained of the host was left for scraps-bones that no one could see necessarily, but everyone chewed on all the same. Marissa laughed along with the jokes at his expense, and not once did she pick at the piece of pork lodged between her front molars. It stayed there all night...

She could hear the rain in her sleep.
But it wasn't raining that night, as it had not rained on the West Mesa for several days.

Just shortly after its conclusion, Pablo revisited the events of the party in his sleep, drunkenly and sporadically twisting and turning while the numerous insults churned deeper into his second R.E.M. stage. In the nightmare, some of these jibes were conveyed in a cheeky manner, never really divulging their spiteful intent:
"So Pablo, how's the job going at... where is it you work at exactly?-Ah! Yes. That's right. A print shop... Are you getting a promotion anytime soon?"
Elena asked this while studying the firm grip he held on the aluminum bottle in his left hand, which was unusually swollen (the hand and not the bottle) during the exchange and throbbing with a cold density that matched the tall boy's tincture. He could see his knuckles and palms turn the shade of a deep violet under the pressure, and Elena's sunken jowls flare to immeasurable proportions as she feigned a smile and went along her way.

"Your lawn looks like it could use a little more water hermano," proclaimed Hector, as they looked out over the dwindling patch of grass that covered all of seven feet in the lawn- a relative fallout zone ridden with fire ant hills and dry dog turds.
"I know a guy that can set you up with a bad ass sprinkler system, real, real, REAL cheap." (The third real actually appeared from Hector's mouth in fully capitalized fuschia bubbles.) "It wouldn't set you guys back very much when all was said and done. I'll give you his number before we leave tonight."
Pablo had not been too enthusiastic with the idea, but yielded to the proposition anyway, knowing fully well he would do no such thing which reinforced his decisive handling of the matter.
"Oh yeah? Sure. I'll give him a ring. Just remind me before you leave."
"I will," assured Hector. "Did you want me to ask about payment plans for you? I'm in pretty good with the guy and may be able to work out a better deal than your standard rate. Hold on - I got him on speed dial actually."
Pablo saw a cloud of debris, beer cans, syringes, gauze tape, silver badges, tommy guns, two dollar bills, and discarded milk cartons settle on the patch of grass, as it vanished instantly with the last piece of paraphernalia. He nodded silently as Hector stuck his finger in his vacant ear, so as to hear the phone call over the wind.

Well before the chimera dissipated, Pablo saw Marissa and himself, crammed into the guest bathroom (the one without toilet paper) in the middle of a heated yet mildly restrained argument, wherein she chastised him for the mockery he had made of himself all night.
"How many beers have you had?" she asked, her back to the mirror and the sink.
"I think this is my...12th? 13th? I don't know, Who's counting?"
"I am motherfucker!" Marissa forcefully whispered, looking at the bottom of the closed door to see if anyone was waiting outside who could've heard the outburst. "And so is my mom, not that you care."
Pablo took a seat on the toilet and wiped the building sweat from his forehead with his slick, purple palm. It was extremely hot, and this only added to the building tension.
"Whatever Marissa. Who gives a fuck what that old vaca thinks anyway?"
Marissa turned to the mirror and put her hands under the cold water coming from the faucet. Pablo had not seen her turn it on, but heard it running into the sink. When she turned around, her hand still soaking wet and no t.p. or hand towels to wipe the moisture away, she slapped him unabashedly across the face, her palm making a thunderclap against his unsuspecting mouth.
"Listen here motherfucker! You don't EVER talk about my mother like that! You understand me?" (The fuschia bubbles returned, and changed to hot poker red, like a cinnamon jelly abscess circumnavigating her head for a re-entry point.)
"She's done a hell of a lot for us dipshit! How do you think I got my job? Her, dumbass!"
She yanked open the bathroom door to leave while Pablo wiped his face once more.
"You might want to take it easy from here on out Mr. Culebra, or else you're going to end up being just an old, fat drunk... alone... wearing Depends diapers because you piss yourself all the time."

The one aspect of Mr. Culebra's nightmare that caused him the most befuddlement, was his left pinky finger. As it unfolded, his aforementioned hand had augmented itself with what Pablo thought was blood from lack of proper circulation, and near the finale of the ordeal, he screamed in agony as Marissa, Hector, Cesar, Hector's wife, and especially Elena, talked over his cries as if he were screaming from a place outside of himself (the actual sound thousands of miles away and out of sight). He held up his hand and found that the pinky finger was missing its distal phalanx, like he had been born with symbrachydactyly or another congenial disease that affected the appearance of his metacarpals. Pablo thought it looked like a small dick that had been crudely circumcised...
He always picked his nose with that finger, and on it, he wore a white gold ring, holding a turquoise quartz stone in the middle. Inscribed beneath were the words: Bad Mutha Fucka,
spelled as it had been on the wallet of Jules from Pulp Fiction (portrayed by Samuel L. Jackson).
Pablo was stirred from the dream, albeit momentarily, by the disfigured appendage, feeling absent-mindedly for it and the ring in the dark, before realizing the pinky was still intact and the ring was still attached.

Marissa, who had taken two Atavin as opposed to her usual one (seeing as how the night had been exceptionally difficult for her) experienced a much more pleasant scenario in her sleep. The rain beat softly against her bedroom window, the window of her mother's house, and it must have been Summer, because even though the rain was on the other side of the glass, in the dark she could tell that the water was warm. It was almost like it was raining inside her room; her very own private and waterlogged oasis. The floors became dank. The sheets were saturated...but her pajamas stayed warm- moist, but always warm.

When Pablo made it to his feet, his eyes were fluttering beneath their shades-rolled back and completely vacant. He trekked around the edge of the bed, completely unaware and murmuring obscenities regarding the dynamics of the previous nightmare. He was still very deep in the process of escape. The manifesting panic had bonded with his skeleton, and taken control of his basic motor functions... resulting in a blinded and somewhat drastic stunt of unaware mobility, whilst Marissa snored softly on the other side.
"Errrr...these ants...THESE g'damn ants... all WANNA piece... no sprinklers gonna... FUCKING OLD BITCH!... I'm complet-sober and..."
His bladder gave him the deep seeded impression of having an anvil tied to his lower back. His feet, the feet of a bloated marionette, moved closer to Marissa's side of the bed.
"Fucking bitch..." He said- first in a low murmur, and then becoming more audible and adamant about the fact. "Fu-Cking BEE-OTCH!"
He hovered over her, fiddling with the front of his Hanes boxers- only inches away from her hot breath which had turned completely rancid from the piece of pork. He picked up the conversation where the incubus had left off.
"I know WHO that...VACA...I hate that fuck- word...but IT FITS..."
Marissa slowly began to stir as the volume of his voice increased. But before she could pull herself away from the window and regain consciousness, Pablo's member dangled just above her chin as he began to urinate on her rotund facade (The little girl in her dream, suddenly wore soggy pajamas.) Then the stream made it into her hair, (The rain smelled acrid and stale.) and finally, her mouth. This is was what grabbed her full attention, ripping her from the vision.
The rain tasted salty and bitter, almost corrosive on her tongue, and she opened her eyes to find Pablo's prick (only an inch or so bigger than his favored pinky finger) dripping at the edge of the sheets.
"Again?" she whispered, fighting the urge to kick him in the testicles due to advisement on the matter from her mother:
"You should never wake a sleepwalker. It could scar them mentally. Just help him back to bed and clean up the mess in the morning... If it continues, maybe he should see a sleep therapist." Elena would say.
Marissa wiped her face on the silk bathrobe hanging over the bed post and sat up. She lead Pablo gently by the arm so as not to wake him, and tucked him back in, wet briefs and all.
Marissa, still feeling the effects of the extra Atavin, felt her way back to the other side, and fell right in without a word otherwise. She didn't mention the puddle of Pablo's urine that had left a yellow, soggy center between herself and her husband. They both simply drifted back to their respective corners of Nod until the sheets could be changed and the whole ordeal eventually forgotten.
Rosa crawled from beneath the bed rails and leaped atop the foot, laying down in the middle of the two, and lapping up the piss quitely while the moon came in from the shades-only partly drawn. No one else had dreams for the rest of the night, and when the morning finally came, it was impossible to deny that they were completely soaked... from head to toe. to be continued...

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