smoke. read. tea. music. tea. smoke. read. smoke. read. smoke. read. smoke. read. smoke. read. tea. music. smoke. read. read. read. read. smoke. r e a d ...........
"The Friendly’s Rapist- from Perinium Number 7
March 3rd, 2010
Getting in the car and going somewhere was always a thing for my mother and I. Sometimes we were running, while other times we were not unlike any other American family off to see Wally World or karate tournaments. Headphones, a mix-tape, sometimes even a new tape and a bag of comics, with a head full of the possibilities a new town could bring. New kids, better girls, better record stores, and new words to learn on more advanced bathroom walls. Once Randy entered the picture, this changed. It was no longer my mother and I against my father, the world, her parents. Now it was Three’s Company.
Randy was, as usual, acting like my lame older brother and his dreams of morphing into the next Neil Pert, Salvador Dali, Steve Vai, HR Giger, or Captain Kirk were not going as planned. A degree in airbrushing, a newfound mustache, and twirling drumsticks in the mirror only will get you so far.
It was winter and we were visiting his family. Naturally I was enraged. We had driven four hours away to somewhere I didn’t want to be. I was stuck with a Rush cassette I did not want to hear and a car full of people I didn’t want to be with. I hadn’t visited one record store and had yet to see one cute girl anywhere. There would be no record stores on this trip, because this trip we were on a tour of Christmas stores with my Mom’s boyfriend’s mom. I was ready to impale myself with a fiberoptic tree. My stomach was growling, my blood sugar levels were goose-stepping and I needed mother’s boyfriend to pay dearly for making me suffer through multiple interpretations of Jingle Bell Rock in department stores across Florida. I stared him directly in eyes, locked for a good few seconds while shaking with an uncontrollable surge of hatred. Then I placed a curse on him.
Back in the car, I was surrounded by overflowing Christmas bags and bad hair. I turned my Walkman on 10 and kept the Satanic Bible glued to my face. I was defeated and it was beginning to show. His mother could also sense it. She was uncomfortable with my reading material and ‘fuck everything’ statement. Worst road trip of all time. She tried to be nice and suggested that I choose the dining environment. I remembered passing a Friendly’s earlier and the recently-hexed soul making mention of how much he hated it. Luckily I took mental notes of everything he didn’t like and Friendly’s it was.
He glared at me from across the table in his custom-made airbrushed shirt that was cleverly designed to look like the shirt was ripped and his skin was made of brick. Twirling his drumsticks and hitting them on his acid wash pants, reminding everyone what he wanted Santa to bring him like the rotten man-child he was. I questioned my curse. Was he already just that damned? Maybe I wasn’t the aspiring magician I thought I was.
Somewhere in between the remnants of bun crumbs and brownish-pink burger grease being removed and the arrival of hot fudge sundaes, our table was surrounded by the police. There was a rapist on the loose who had been targeting that exact Friendly’s and my mother’s boyfriend was a dead ringer of the suspect. The resemblance was uncanny. The artist’s rendering was spot on. TheFriendly’s rapist was cuffed, taken away and booked and I was the only one who touched the ice cream.
After sitting in the police station for hours, he was cleared of all pending charges. There was a lot for everyone to ponder on the way home. No tapes were played, no one spoke. I got a slurpee and the new Thrasher. Best road trip ever."
- max g morton.
i hate sleep deprivation.
