Violence and Candy

In his periphery and through the embryo of swelling, he could just make out that rainbow effect that motor oil makes in water. Just on the surface. In all it's beautiful fragility. If he were to move a muscle, just a twitch or a sneeze or a daydream - a popcorn fart- that would be enough to ripple that rainbow into nonexistence. Not that he could move anyway. No, they were seeing to his immobility, as per usual.

The puddle smelled of spring rain. And dirt. And piss. Cat piss. It was a pretty miserable place to be, even with the Faberge motor oil rainbow. Even with the candy slowly composting in his cheek. The cinnamon kind that he liked so, very much. The one with the picture of the Cartoon Man with steam coming out of his ears.

He remembered his uncle giving him a box of those candies when he was 9 years old as they drove down 17 north - a one lane hells branch of a road to nowhere. And everywhere. Uncle Stu knew a bootlegger who lived almost at the end of 17 north. Nobody knew the folks at the very end. Nobody that had any sense went that far Down. Yea, good 'ol uncle Stu, french kissing a bottle of Mellow Kentucky handed over that Cartoon Man box and it was love.

But the slowly dissolving candy in his cheek was fading. That slow tingle, that slap and tickle burn was almost gone and then, well then he'd have to face this all by himself. This humiliation. This violence. This betrayal. Fuck! The kick to his ribcage and then another fast rabbit jackboot to his crotch shattered the Faberge beauty.

Now, this was really starting to suck the gay out of Liberace's anus. That's what uncle Stu used to say. Every time Dad and I would pick him up at county, after a night in the Tank, Dad would ask, with a big shit-eating grin, "Well, how was it?" And uncle Stu would say, "Brother, that right there sucked the gay out of Liberace's anus." "Don't I know it," Dad would retort. They would both laugh as Dad put the old Ford in gear- three on the Tree - and navigate to the liquor store. Seems like, as much as they talked with displeasure about it, neither one of those Old men could get enough of Liberace's anus.

It'd be over soon. They would undoubtedly get board, like they always do, then he could get up, pick up his books and his sketch pad, all of his broken pencils - did they really think that broken pencils would cease to produce?- and limp to 17 north.

17 north was where uncle Stu would be waiting for him - shaking his head and asking, "Why don't you just let me shoot those assholes?" Then he'd fellate that bottle of Mellow Kentucky. Good 'ol uncle Stu.

No. There would be time for punishment. There would be time for candy.

Violence and Candy.

This all started with a drawing. Just a drawing. Graphite lead on a page of Bienfang 50 lb.

It was all so harmless. Not unlike the sting of his favorite cinnamon candy. The one with the Cartoon Man on the box. Yea. That one.

-word.