Cross Road Blues

The intersection of Valentine Ave. and Malaise Blvd, where all the roads in the universe converge and meet at Hades’ playground, is an unmarked crossroad in the middle of no where. Yet under the mundane mask is a location where souls are a commodity and the futures are bright.

Buy or sell, my reasons were unclear but the absence of the horny assistant gave me neither option. Too many idol hands in the world have left me with no appointment book to sign. I found a log by the side of the road and entertained myself with hand rolled cigarettes, pens, and blue lined paper.

Birds chirped out a metronome. The absence of sound is golden, pure, and tarnished by a oncoming vehicle. A cloud of dust rises from Malaise Blvd and becomes warning or warring, smoke signals. Loud demonic riffs spill from the car’s speakers and pollute the air. The engine roars against speed and tires screech across black top lanes.

The sporadic behavior of the “55 Chevy Bell Air scares the wildlife. An ozone of flying creatures take to the sky and blot out the sun. For a moment high noon daylight mutates into midnight black.

The Chevy shows signs of acceleration but no one can be found on it’s heels. The tune is distinct but the lyrics are unintelligible. A moment longer and a red hexagon will be blown by a California roll. Nick of time is instantaneous, the break lights glow brimstone red and the American made metal skids to a full stop.

The car door bolts opens and full volume death metal attacks the silence with a vengeance. A body is ejected from the car to the pebble strew cross section and lands in a heap. An over packed suit case follows and explodes upon impact like a fashion grenade.

Different Kind of Anchor and I Missed the Mark with Dan Rather’s Inked Image on my Forearm

The reaction is instant and the human becomes a woman from the heap of dirt and clothing. She jumps back to her feet. Her mouth full of words and voice no match for the music. Her tattooed extremities lash out, she kicks and punches against the car’s metal shell. Profanities spill from her lips and I can see a tattooed anchor decorates her forearm flesh.

Her tattoo gives no indication of broadcast news. Different kind of anchor and I missed the mark with Dan Rather’s inked image on my forearm. I realize I didn’t get the point and pull my sleeves down. Reality is par for course as the “55 Bell Air runs full boar away from the cross road. Fate has left me alone with another screaming pissed off woman, from a long life of pissed off women.

I know her before introduction. Not her name or in any societal sense, but her. I have seen the mask her face shapes into, the posture of her stance, and the tiny ticks that blend into her persona. I don’t know the location of her history, but events and hurdles of her life are a “Once upon a time” opening line. A story as old as time. She smells like danger and drips venom. She could be a past or future Ex and I would not be the least bit surprised at either outcome.

Pure and simple, that is fate and it’s rejection of Me, Earth’s greatest son. Fate, my own private Professor Snape, envious of birthright and crown. It places obstacles into my path with vivid green intent. I take out another hand rolled cigarette, light the tip, and curse the vengeful bastard. We have danced this song one too many times. This song is corporate radio, over played and over done.

“What the fuck are you looking at.” She looks around at her worldly possessions on the Earth’s toil. Driver, and all wildlife gone, her venom has not other place to vent than in my direction.“ You think this is a fucking joke, Asshole.”

I shake my head and offer her a toke of the hand rolled cigarette. We’ll find a hotel by sun fall, be asleep by sun rise and the hours in-between will be physical in nature. I see this outcome shown from a glowing crystal ball, which never learns from it’s history. Two weeks into the future will see us in another “55 Chevy Bell Air. The only questions, which road we shall choose and which seat we shall be in?