Desire looks up my number in the white pages

Officer David ‘Pizzaman’ Pasadena chuckled wetly on the twisted hood of his patrol car and died. Watery black blood flooded out from his exit wounds. It was dawn. He was the last cop in Texas. Texas now belonged to the Bluecrests.
They fought the law and the law lost.
The zone expanded. Nothing stopped them. This part switched from Ours to Theirs easily. Perhaps quickly is a better word. There was nothing easy about the casualties.

David dropped different colours of food colouring into the water when he and his brother were kids. Into the aquarium after the fish died. He had fed the fish a piece of his birthday cake the day before and the fish had died. The drops of food colouring bloomed like upside down mushroom clouds. David could remember the Flash Gordon skies they got for a few minutes before the water ended up just turning brown. He remembered the shared sense of wonder with his brother. He remembered staring wide eyed at the new world in the aquarium.
His brother was shot to death in a corner store hold up a year later.
That’s why David decided to become a cop.

David’s eyes were filled with blood.
His body lay cooking on the hot metal, broken and awkward. His face was speckled with little glints of embedded windshield diamonds. His pores squeezed out a black sweat of oily death. His corpse lay in a pool of thin black blood that was evaporating, sizzling on the hot metal. His dead eight-ball eyes were looking up at a Flash Gordon sky.
They’d won here. It was only a matter of whether or not they’d stop here.


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You know how to whistle, don't you?

Darth Vader likes to Rock and Roll. I’m leaving on a jet plane to Brooklyn to help out my two brothers take another family down. I’m Mr. Perfect and the ice in my glass doesn’t even touch the sides. It’s too hot in Miami and I’m headed north. I’m not even sure about Nebraska anymore. What am I going to do, tell the pilot to detour? I’m already weighing up the options when we touch down in the middle of the night on a winter runway. It’s a small airport and we’re one of the final flights. The place is deserted. I shrug deeper in my coat as I step off the plane. It’s lovely here. I mean it’s really, really cold.
Ice fishing. I’m not even sure where the hunger started anymore. The fingernail on my pinky is longer than the other ones. My eyes are slightly different shades of brown. I can count to a hundred in twenty seven languages. I’m a little obsessive. I wish I was a master of disguise but there are a few things about me that make that impossible. I’ve only got one arm, for instance. And I’m very tall. And I hate costume parties.
I type the destination into my watch and see the lines light up and spool down. It’s not going to be easy but I know that it’ll be worth it. I’m not even talking financially. For once. Left turns. Sinter Cell.
I wonder if William Shatner ever felt this proud to be alive. Probably every single day. I feel like I’m made of glass as I bend over to pick up my luggage. I feel like I’m a walking X Ray. I walk towards the exit.
I blink and I’m in a cab headed through the snow to the motel. It’s dark on the highway and the headlights are making the snowflakes in front of the car light up and stretch like Chewie just hit the hyperspace button.
I blink again and I’ve been in my cheap motel for an hour. Red seems to be something of a motif here in this room.
Cubes of ice swim and bob silently in my glass as I sit on the edge of the motel bed in my dress shirt, socks, underwear and dress shirt. The late night options on the television remind me too much of my ex wife. Well, channel six does. Channel eight reminds me of the wife before her.
I forgot to bring a book.
I lean back and read the ceiling for clues before I fall asleep and dream of driving.


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