Pistol Hunting for Jackrabbit Just East of the Mississippi
How I hate those Heavy Breathers! Noise is the pride of the insolent and uncivilized. Heavy Breathers with boiling rushing blood flowing from head to head, consuming and dispelling and erupting out gaseous mass; every breath is a loud and intentional motion, akin to the civilized man’s chronic wheeze. They breathe, and they burp, and they swallow, and they cough, and they blow out, and they chortle. They are fumes and they are noxious. I cannot take the noise. The biting and the chewing and the slurping and the guzzling and the riotous loud belches that roll off his chest and into my drink. I pour the rest of my drink out in the sink. I didn’t like gin and tonic anyway. I was only pretending. The Heavy Breathers are ashing their cigarettes in their half empty pint glasses of milk and snorting and picking snot from their nostrils. I excuse myself and leave the room. I’ve never made less noise in my life.
The scenic tide laps up against the toes of Our Lord. He lick his toenails clean of vermin and scuds. We scrub away the fleas from every strand of hair. We watch while he writes his name out in the snow with a warm and constant stream of urine. Listen to it hiss as the snow gives way to its transgressor. My, my, what a mighty sound is piss. It splashes across the soilt face of the Virgin, streams down her chest, and rumbles across her toes and collects in a ceramic bowl for the bluebirds to bathe in come mid-morning, when the curtains are drawn to their fullest, when the shades are thrown open, when the pies are put steaming on the sill, when the clothes are hung by rope stretched tenement to tenement, when we all work our hardest and tap our tap-dancing feet in utter nonchalance, laughing about it and having a ball, and not even being self-aware, but instead revelling in an imagined sense of ignorance; of course, a feigned ignorance, but a blissful ignorance nonetheless. You owe it to yourself, I would say; I have had it coming quite some time. There is so much to talk about – Sometimes, at least. When we’re in the mood for talking.
My gums are beginning to hurt. I could use a haircut. I think I’m iron deficient. But these days the money grows on trees, or at least that’s what they’d have me believe; so I go on believing, and when life begins to show signs of wear I turn one eye proudly blindly to the signs and take the ol’ greenbacks for a ride. My gums still hurt, however. I would buy me diamond gums if I had the chance. I need something lucky to guide me through this relative darkness. Maybe a lucky rabbits foot, from only the strongest rabbit, the strongest in all the pack, known for his dignity and respect for the subliminal. Perhaps I will ride out into the Mojave desert and hunt a wild Jackrabbit, the greatest of them all, with those beautiful bastard hind legs, and those dainty little forepaws, and those gorgeous ears; the luckiest of them all! I’ll walk out of the casino in gold chains and the finest Russian furs.