New prose from Don Cole.

Thanks, Don.

A rascal with a torrent

I am starting to get paranoid over here. It's just too easy. Sure, I am one of the many turtles, millions indeed. Many turtles die young though. There are 61 songs on the new Tom Waits cd. Any time now he will come through my door with the devil wearing a mole hair vest. He will spit in my eye and slap me while the devil goes into my brains with his fingers. Then will come the lawyers. They will drag me in front of ole Judge Hawthorn with his old mahogany knot pipe and the pearl topped hat pin he uses to stir it. The judgement said they will pack my ears with potters clay, throw a mill stone around my neck, and whip along the sewer with my pork pie hat set afire.

Picking up my brain trash

Sunday morning I slimed out of my cab a burnt mess. The town had took me into her soiled crack and wiped me through to gape at the false dawn, stinking. "She is dead. You loved her, I loved her but she hung herself. Twenty-fore and she hung herself. I guess she didn't want a life anymore. We burnt her clothes because that's what we do." A man said that to his wife about their daughter in my cab. I didn't make much Saturday but I got that. Pure icy gold.