By: Cody DiCavalcante
This is just a little bit of the story. I’m going to develop it more but I thought I’d give you all a taste of what I’m writing. Just a sidenote, I usually don’t write like this haha
I was late to dinner, by about 30 days. I didn’t have my pack of cigarettes or my sense of direction for that matter. I had an inner ear itch, a broken tail bone and more unchecked anger than you could understand, but I didn’t let it show. I never did. They say if you keep it in, the more likely it will come out in a disgustingly vile and shitty way, well bring it on. If my emotional withdrawals were to come out, I’d love them to look just the way they should, dark and gritty. I hadn’t shaved in a month. Hadn’t had the chance. I was off in what should have become a brand new graveyard. It had about 3 days of my natural born life soaking into its soil. I was buried alive, freed, punched in the face by multiple fists, and then buried alive again, a new way of getting someone to talk, more effective than a trip down into the depths of a toilet. It has to be pretty hard to hear your victim try to speak when they keep shoving you 6 feet underground, they must have ears of falcons. They were crafty. They knew just how to make themselves transform into something ugly. They’d beat my face unmercifully and make the blood run like one of those infinity pools, they take on a different form. They sounded like profane ravens and looked like splotchy harpy’s sent down from all the most corrupted parts of the US of A. A pillow hadn’t been felt for a while. I slept in the grass, leaves, sometimes even on graves. Death nursed me those 4 long weeks. It was out to get me but at the same time it kept me alive. Strange life becomes stranger. Laying a hairy face on a mat of soggy leaves can be uncomfortable. By morning the smell of sweat mixed with the fingers of trees can seem quite intoxicating, or it might have been the never ending delirium. How my life got this way you might ask. It’s simple and that’s why it sucks. I was caught too easily.
I was running the cider mill in Cattle Turn, Nebraska. That was just my day job though, that only produced a drop of the sweat that compiled over each day, one drop for my good work, one-thousand for my bad. At night, I took on the appearance of every Hollywood villain you’ve ever seen, only I didn’t frown quite so much, I smiled a lot actually. All my customers called me George “Smiley” Jefferson. Just because I’m a villain doesn’t mean I hate my life. No, I loved my life. Although the cider mill job did make me frown a little bit. An apple becomes downright nauseating after an 8 hour shift. On my other job I sold firearms illegally, not to mention every kind of explosive that you could ever dream about and wake up hoping it’s not in World War III. Oh yes, my life was circled around some pretty amazing specimens of man-made wrath. This had ticked off some off-the-grid arms dealers around the nation. They could smell the sweet aroma of glory I was buying and selling. They could hear the sonata to a 21-gun salute. One such dealer came with a rage and probably a high blood/alcohol level to find me. I have a feeling he didn’t regret it the next morning. It meant money and that’s all anyone in this business was in it for, but there were a few exceptions.
I was walking to my front door, my gun making company with my testes. My belt was too tight so the 10 pounds of metal I had between my slacks and underwear, was doing surgery on my intestines. What a rollercoaster ride of a month and I only threw up once.
I could hear my wife on the other side of the wall. Frank Sinatra was blaring throughout the house. He sounds like he’s talking through a shoe from outside the doorway. This was my life. I was in the hands of thugs, being tossed around like the pigskin and my wife was dancing around in her favorite pair of heels. The gun was creating a migraine in my pants. I scrunched my face in agony. I pulled the thick piece of metal out of my pants and looked at it, then tossed it in the bushes. I didn’t want any more of it.