Chapter Three: One Orgasm and One Doppelganger Please

   Billy was a cold and tart mess when he tripped through the doors of the bus terminal. His hooker eyes were no longer smoldering with the desire he manufactured for his Johns, but burning with the gallons of pink lemonade he had just experienced. Not to mention the smell of dried blood in his raw nose from that wicked sock Jack Melson had dealt him.

   But neither sight nor smell was the most bombarded of his senses. The bus terminal was so unreasonably loud he had to sit down against a wall adjacent to the door he had just revolved through and hold his throbbing head.

I wonder if she ever did love me.

Maybe love is just settling for people you really like.

Flava-flav is like the black version of Bret Michaels.

I guess intelligent design is more viable than creationism. Look at fish.

I’d love to serve him a cancer sandwich.

Why don’t they make meat shoes? Dogs love me.

Billy screamed a frustrated whorey scream! But that only made the italics louder and directed more precisely at him.

What is wrong with that hooker child?

They don’t make them like they used to.

Maybe his mom died. Or he lost another lottery too.

I wish people would just control their hooker children.

Maybe I should share my crack with the boy.

I really should get a dog.

Billy turned to revolve right back out of this invasive cacophony but a glint of gold flashed in his periphery. Could that have been the bong? Jack Melson had worn a brown mid-thigh length corduroy jacket rather well and Billy had just spotted it. It was the bong, it was the bastard. Billy pushed through the crowd to get closer and confront him. He didn’t have a distinct plan, but what he had thought of thus far involved his fists, Jack’s kidneys and at least twenty minutes. Maybe then he could get the bong back to Sartre, and figure out what in pluperfect hell was going on.

   Jack had 23 minutes left until his portal closed. He was doing alright on time, even considering that the little whore had just spotted him. He jumped on bus twenty-three, paid his fare and dropped his ass and booty on to two blue plastic seats. He took a deep breath.

   Billy was heaving. Having smoked both wacky and sane tobackey since he was six and three quarters,even the fifty foot jaunt to bus twenty three was a phlegmy tragedy. He cacked up a lung full ten feet away. Because Sartre had nabbed him during business hours, Billy knew he had no cash and would have to offer the bus driver a favor to let him ride. Oral sex for what he wanted was as commonplace for Billy as yawning to you or I.

   The bus driver looked at Billy. Billy raised his eyebrows and puckered his lips. The sweaty blob with the aviator bifocals licked his lips, caught some hair from his moustache coughed. Billy held up three fingers. “The Countdown” was what he was famous for. In a great deal of circles he was known as “Countdown Billy”. Two fingers. The bus driver stifled a piteous erection and gripped the steering wheel hard.  One finger. The driver gasped deep gasp and rocked a tumultuous load against the brooding face of Raphael on his Ninja Turtle briefs. That little precious boy has done it to me again. He motioned Billy onto the bus. Billy smiled, winked and boarded.

He hid his face and sat down. The bus tooted twice and began to pull backwards. Billy, with a delicious coupling of subtly and keenness surveyed the passengers. There were just three people. On the bus. The sticky satisfied bus driver, a bald black man in a tight white suit and a floral shirt, and Billy who couldn’t believe it. His delicious coupling tipped and he frantically scanned seven hundred and twenty degrees. Jack was no where. He had given Billy the slip. Billy felt alone, a million miles away, and nothing at all.

“Hallo?”

The voice was tinny and distorted but Billy found it familiar. He didn’t stir.

“Testing…testing….Every existing thing is born without reason, prolongs itself out of weakness, and dies by chance…hallo? Billy? Can you hear me? Billy Emerson you spiteful little child of the night I’m trying to talk to you!

The man in the floral print pricked up his ears. Billy Emerson? The man thought.

“What!? Do you want!?” Billy bellowed.

“Oh…well how’s it going? Things got a little out of hand with my habits back there and I’d like to apologize. I think I acted brashly and said some things I didn’t mean. Just wanted to know how it was going though, have you found the culprit?”

“If you turned off my little moogle business, how the fuck are you doing this to me right now?”

“I didn’t turn it off, I just deactivated the exploding poof.”

“Oh, well thanks.”

“Did you find it yet? The uh…bong?”

“No, not yet I’m working on it.”

“Alright then. Good luck, remember: All human actions are equivalent and all are on principle doomed to failure.”

“Is that meant to be inspirational?”

“Sort of. Good bye!”

I should really say something. I should start up a little conversation. Italicized the floral print man.

Billy moaned and banged his head on the bus glass.

“’Scuse me,” said the man.

“I’m tired, sir, don’t talk to me.”

“I was just gonna say, did I hear that you’re name’s Billy Emerson?”

“Yes. It is. I’m the Countdown Billy, nice to meet you, now please. I’m tired.”

“Yeah, nice to meet you. I’m Billy Emerson.” And he offered his hand out for a shake.

“Fuck off,” said whore-Billy.

“No it’s true, I’m Billy “The Kid” Emerson. ‘The original Dancin’ Whippersnapper,’” said floral-Billy.

“The fuck are you–”

Floral-Billy jumped up and began to sing. He spun and snapped and clapped in time with “Red Hot”. A savage rockabilly anthem that won him much acclaim in the bygone Chicago of 1955.

Whore-Billy was not amused and tried his best to ignore the dancing, chanting, swinging and grooving. He was not one for rockabilly anthems be they civilized or otherwise. He liked electro pop. He liked Tomcraft.

Meanwhile, the chuckle Jack chuckled was that of a victorious man. The bounce with which he crossed the street outside the bus terminal was the bounce of a victorious man. Centuries ago, in private, Caesar had bounced and chuckled similarly.

Seventeen minutes.  He had just enough time to get back to the group. They would freak so far out about this catch he’d get his name put on the wall. He’d request the spot right next to Chester Bavish. He’d be respected and adored. He chuckled so hard.

 

~ by enoughcocaine on May 27, 2008.