Wake up. Eight thirty-five. What? Where am I? My house. Of course my house. Who’s here? My friend. Right. Sound. Asleep. Sound. Again. Wake up. What’s that? Like a hum. A rocket? A tank? Louder. Louder. Is that a jet? This is it. First contact. Sleep. Sound. Shower running. Nine-fifteen. Freeway. Free Starbucks. Add shot add sugar add the number to the bitch blonde barista’s droid and sit. Kill time. Kill lungs. Kill ratios. Hit percentages on my mind. Joanna can be more perfect. Kirby can still eat. There’s ten years worth of dust on the table where my 50th trophy should be. Unlockable levels and new suits. I need to know what’s next, where it ends and what gun gets us there. The right drop and three slides that clear the way for revolution.
I see the god damned Game Stop across the lot and decide to get a good hate in before noon.
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I was six years old once. I had a friend. I was invited to his house one day after going to a school that I’d like to forget. I don’t remember how I got there. I don’t remember how I left.
My friend’s last name was Gannon. That is true.
I remember the living room. Cold and silent. Brown chairs. The only light let in through sliding glass, a portal to the backyard I never played in. These are the afternoons that fairytales try to capture. That scare some kids and inspire others to create great work of their own once they’re older. That is bought by someone who did not write it so it can be remade, and some sap, much later, can slide it into their cherry stained shelf as a symbol of what once moved them. The memory was a real thing once. Before it could be bought, it had a value incalculable. It was alive in a way that no remake can lie.
He asked me a question. He asked me if I wanted to do something. This article sounds like child porn, and for anyone who might relate to it, you know that it actually is.
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I’ve heard the old thing about there being only two kinds of people. You’re either Elvis or the Beatles. I’m an Elvis man, it’s just the only thing black about my Elvis, are his two big-ass fuckin eyeballs. The Beatles might have co-op, but I’ve never been one for multi player that much anyway.
I once lived in a world, tooth and nail, where a game boy color on my hip in public wasn’t a reason that a girl shouldn’t fuck me. In fact, it was the only reason that she probably should. I determine if I go up and talk to her based on what the Mario DX fortune teller says. I hold my breath for real when I swim down to snatch a Jinjo and if i can’t hold it that long, I have to come back up. I use a power pad as a fuckin blanket. I answer the phone as Agent Dark.
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Snap, krackle, pop, my sleepless sages. Got some new moon for your open throats. Deadwife-one-five may be a little down on his luck, but is ready for freewrite and is knock, knock, knockin on your lambs blood covered door. Speaking of video games, I’ll bring up Rad Racer.
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