Untitled

As seen in SNIFFY LININGS JOURNAL #1

Eight possibilities for confrontation: the first four discounted out of hand, dismissed as wildly unlikely pipe dreams (shipping to Antarctica, Sally Jessy Raphael, increased police protection, death by fucking). The latter four, though:

1) Psychic battle. (This method had met with mixed success in the past.)

2) Throw her physically from the car.

3) Notify the press.

4) Do nothing.

It was just a car ride that's all. She wanted a ride somewhere.

Eventually things came to a head. There was driving and they didn't speak to each other, locked in a silent fuming, For once she didn't have anything to say or megalomaniac plans to describe in maddening detail; she knew something was up, and one of them had to act fast and finally. He put some racist and divisive talk radio on (the only kind of media he could tolerate) and they both listened, stalled in traffic in the steaming green funk slice of the Park blocks, near the court buildings and brick-walled toilets. He could barely describe it later in terms that made sense. It was like a hand came down and peeled back his eyelids, held them forced open, played Beethoven at him, ruined everything. There was nobody around.

"Out."

"Fuck you!"

She was likely to bite him again. Sometimes a gun is a useful prop and can be waved in the face of a previously irrational danger; this did not work on her, instead propelling her into more and more violent rages. He wasn't used to being afraid of anything, especially not a gauze-wrapped package of pussy and ambition, but he already bore the scars, marked out whitely in his flesh bearing the signature of her gleaming white choppers.

He knew the tricks though; he took his gas foot and kicked the bum flaky door handle, bursting the cardoor open, spraying a confetti of gum wrappers and cigarette butts into the gutter. Naturally she was a daredevil who cared very little for her own personal safety (hence her association with him) and wore no seatbelt; another well-aimed application of boot expelled her against the concrete lip. Looked like it hurt. Wouldn't make up for the biting though. Already she was screaming with the intensity of a possessed sixth-grader with Tourette's and a memorized copy of Naked Lunch. Something about regret. Had set in a long time ago.