“Fuck me.” Vernon Night struggled to maneuver the new Path Maker XL into his impossibly small parking space. The architect who built this place should be shot, Vernon groused, as he twisted the leather-clad steering wheel. Vernon routinely made three cuts but this morning he was already on his fifth. It pissed him off he had to struggle, considering he was the goddamn President. The sign over his head said so: Vernon Night, President. Now it mocked him. As did his partner’s car, which sat on top of the yellow line designating each spot. Vernon fantasized about ramming Barry’s silver coupeback where it belonged. Instead he turned his vehicle’s engine off. Exhaled. Resentments were too complicated to deal with in a parking garage, especially at eight o’clock on a Monday morning. He opened the door, or tried to, but Barry’s car was still too close. The door went only inches.
“Fuck me!” Vernon ignited his vehicle and made another attempt negotiating the space. Unfortunately, it brought him in even tighter. He’d quit smoking three months ago and he ached for a cigarette now. Exasperated, he turned on the CD player: The Beatles’ Norwegian Wood, a calming tune if ever there was one. He practiced the deep breathing exercise his shrink had taught him. But that didn’t work either. It felt more like he was holding his breath. Then the CD skipped.
“Fuck meeee.”
Want to read more? Let me know. Want to publish? There’s a $5,000 bounty for anyone who procures a book deal. Either way, you gotta love the bookcover. The designer is Justin Cox, a sharpshooter from our agency who recently defected to Burnett. (He’ll be back.)
Leave a Reply