For the past two years, I’ve tried to come up with a clever and original introduction to each story, like The Twilight Zone on meth, welcome to the hellhouse; this is life in the Gutter.
I have no set-up for the next story. You people are sick.
I have no set-up for the next story. You people are sick.
A Love Letter to Squeakie Pelham by Salvadore Ritchie
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Huey Lewis and the News asked if I believed in love. I answered back
with an emphatic YES. Why else would I have shaved every bit of hair off my
body and slicked every bald inch with Tara Thunders Cinnamon Flavored Erotic Grease?
I did it for my betrothed. I did it for Squeakie Pelham. I did believe in love.
In fact, love was the reason I decided to fight.
I was thrashing around, slippery as an eel from an intruder in my
house trying to shoot me or kidnap me or something. Naked, bald, vulnerable, I
decided the best defense was a good offence. I had slid towards him on one heel
and slammed right into his chest, locked in mortal combat. Being a short,
skinny man, I used the only two assets I had—a Tara Thunders grease-drenched body
and a vintage gold-speckled motorcycle helmet. I put it on earlier while
sitting in the closet, snorting the last of my three eight balls. I felt safe
in there while waiting for my betrothed to return with more powder. Upon impact,
I wrapped one leg around his and locked his chest to mine. I went for the gun.
My goal was not to remove the gun from him because, like Squeakie, he had at
least a foot and fifty pounds on me. The goal was to grease it up enough with
Tara Thunders’ slather that I would have a clean shot at getting away before
any pops from his piece. I slammed my helmet against his chin because I was too
short to reach his nose. Stunned, he grunted and stepped back with the leg I
was locked on. With that precious second I simply rubbed his hand and the gun
down. Then I rubbed more cinnamon erotica into his eyes.
Now let’s pause here.
This has been a fast pace tale up to this moment, but I would like to stop
for just a second and tell you that there is a point where incredible amounts
of cocaine over a long, continuous period gives one a certain super human
ability to respond to volatile situations with decisive accuracy. This was one
of those situations. (P.S., It also gives one bursts of genius, like surprising
your betrothed by shaving every bit of body hair off and drenching yourself in Tara
Thunders cinnamon-flavored grease. No sober person could think of such
creativity, I assure you. That is erotica. That is romance. That is love.)
Stunned, slicked, distracted, my assailant was overwhelmed by the
cheetah-like nature of my ferocity. This was my opportunity. We were doing
close-quarter battle in the second story master bedroom loft that over looked
the sparsely populated prefab mansion that I had recently purchased. One of the
spoils of a 90 million dollar Power Ball lottery win six months earlier. The
loft had a rod iron balcony that offered panoramic views of the open gourmet kitchen
and main living room below.
I released myself from my assailant by a bold jerk back, fueled by a
cartel amount of cocaine inside me. With the soles of my feet still slick, I
dipped into a slide. Like an Olympian speed skater, I used Tara Thunders erotic
grease to hurl myself head first to the balcony. My glistening stomach slammed
into its faux Tuscan railing and over it I went, bottoms up. On the way down I
flipped twice, legs spread.
In that moment I thought about how profound life was. I thought about Squeakie.
I wish I could have climbed her mountain one last time. Maybe this was it. Time
does slow in these moments. It’s amazing how fast 90 million dollars disappears,
especially with good drugs, illegal cockfighting and mug shots. How fast it all
goes…
Down I slammed into four mattresses Squeakie and I ordered online days
before with the plastic wrap still on. The plastic clung as long as it could to
my greasy back as the dip finally gave way and catapulted me skyward. Like the
space shuttle, I reached a moment of terminal velocity and gravity pulled me
back to the only other piece of furniture in the room, a glass table shaped
like a painter’s pallet with gold legs.
Smash, I went right through it.
My assailant’s gun went off twice as he rolled down the stairs, still
greased from my intimate snuggle.
Despite an almost spiritual numbness from days and days of cocaine
intake, I was becoming keenly aware of the different shards that were imbedded
in my skin. None the less, I sprang up, knowing I had to warn my Squeakie of
the danger. My betrothed!
Head first I went into the ten-foot-tall glass doors that lead to the
pool. I guess the glass truly was reinforced because my vintage gold speckled
helmet bounced right off of it, sending me backwards and once again onto my
back.
Now I was grunting.
I flipped over onto my stomach to see where my assailant was.
Relief cascaded through my coke-addled body. He was crumpled up at the
bottom of the stairs, a lifeless lump. Perhaps one of those gunshots got him.
Perhaps the tumble broke something important.
I didn’t care. As long as he was dead. As long as I still believed in love.
