a real handful
I was alone in a bat cave. A one-room rental where I drank, wrote, worried and occasionally slept. I’d have gotten more shut-eye, but the flying monster demon sons-of-bitches refused to stay the hell away.
I was learning that swarm season meant a bevy of vampire birds in all the wrong places. That included the room where my bed sat, empty and full of guano. That’s bat shit. And I was headed there in a hurry.
Cheap whisky wouldn’t tame them. Not these creatures. Maybe they were gin drinkers. They didn’t say much and I didn’t press them for information. I just wanted them out.
Landlady Godiva wasn’t much help. She wasn’t the youngest minge on the beat, and I think her hearing suffered. Or was I the only one who heard them in the windows, walls and floor? Maybe.
One night, in bed I’d dreamt that one of them made it’s fuzzy little way through my ear canal and into my brain. It’s sonar pounded on my nerves and connectors and whatever else I had up there at the time. I woke up in sheets of bat spit and urine. The soiled sheets followed me to the floor, stinking of salt. Damn they were cold.
I was relieved to learn that I was draped in my own sweat soaked sheets, not a straight jacket of bat excrement. But the sonar was still there.
Still there.
With cupped hand, I smacked my right ear repeatedly, but to no avail. The sonar continued to pierce my pituitary.
Where’s that whisky?
My heart was beating out of control; twitterpating with the rhythm of the wings over my head.
Wings!
I didn’t have time to wonder where the little fucker came from – he wasn’t going to wait for an accurate assessment. He was out for blood. And I just wanted my whisky.
Did he drink it? Was it he? Did he settle for McMaster’s once he learned there was no Tanqueray on top of the fridge? He must have. He was my only culprit; there certainly wasn’t anyone else around.
Alright. Bat fucker, this means war.
My opponent circled my cranium and I groped my floor for a weapon like the blind bums grope for dimes at the mission downtown. It was pitch black. He had the advantage.
I scoured the hardwood, leaving lay articles useless to me at the time – dirty under ware, condom wrappers, a pair of gas and sip sunglasses, a bag of marbles.
A bag of marbles?
Bat face continued to taunt. He closed in on my face, screeching and hissing, as a rabid hell-monster should.
Was I intimidated? Absolutely. But I maintained. I managed to knock over my nightstand and down came my lamp, with a smash.
They don’t make ‘em like they used to.
I watched as remnants and pieces skipped across the floor, including the lampshade that bounced right in front of my beloved tennis racquet.
Hot Dog.
I grabbed the fucking thing and jumped to my feet, swinging and slicing ruthlessly through the air. I was a wide-eyed Wimbledon contender, John McEnroeing the shit out my winged opponent. But it only took one strike.
Bat, meet floor.
Sipping cold whisky, I stood over his dead little body.
Sleep tight little vampire, you son of a bitch.
*
i am paul tefft. and i'm a real handful.
No comments:
Post a Comment