Cross My Heart & Hope To Die

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I lie. Not just sometimes. All the time. About everything. Everything I can. I even lie about things about which you might think I cannot lie about. I lie about my gender, natural hair color, in what country I was born: Argentina. See? That was a lie. I was born in Denmark. Another lie. See how easy that is? Is it illegal? Maybe sometimes. It depends upon what I’m lying about and to whom. Legality–-rather the carrying out of the law upon the liar, is usually undermined by the reality of what is provable in a court of law or, as circumstances would have it, by the ostensible turn of events which ended in Buster Gordon’s back yard--events caused indisputably by his buck-toothed, mouth-breathing, congealing-puss-sore having wife. Now, that’s one ugly woman. I’d fuck her though. Just sayin’.

Anyway, I’d been in the house shuffling around–-in their house, looking for what I could borrow or steal. I was hungry, or I thought I was. At any rate, the sneaky bitch caught me rummaging around in their refrigerator. Crazy, right? What was I gonna do? Heap a mound of Campbell’s creamy mushroom tuna casserole into a styrofoam bowl and heat it in their over-the-stove microwave? Why, yes. Yes, I was. ‘Bout to do precisely that when the amazon wench came up through the floor from the cellar and found me barefoot in her kitchen. I have a habit of removing my shoes when I enter anybody’s house. Old habits die hard. I was raised in Japan. Another lie.

I didn’t flinch. Hell, I was hungry. Just stayed cool and collected. Told her Buster said for me to come by and get a bite. She softened some but stayed where she were, her upper half above the kitchen floor ‘cause she was standing on the cellar stairs, the door held up by her left hand. She had a frozen side of meat tucked under her right armpit. Sweat had made an imprint on the packaging so it was all frosty–-save in that one spot where the tears from her armpit had begun to roll down the shrink wrap. I bet her tits were sweating too beneath that flower halter dress. I think that venison was crying. I was glad the tuna she used to make this casserole I had heated and was now eating cautiously had come from a can and had never been frozen. I looked at the wet spot on the floor where the meat frost was melting into a salty pool of Mrs. Gordon’s perfume. Holding her gaze, I took another bite of casserole. Alma Gordon’s eyes narrowed.

I gripped the bowl tight as I ran. Banged through the screen door and tripped down the stairs. Didn’t tip my casserole though. Buster and his shotgun come ‘round the corner just as I got to my feet.

“Your wifey sure can cook,” I said. 


Another lie.




That casserole was nasty.

Created: Aug 18, 2012

Tags: fiction, story

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