A camera crew tracked me and Pris from the elimination ceremony to a waiting minibus. Scalding indignity rose from my bones and baked the space between my skin and my clothes, making both layers unbearable.
Pris shed her banishment tracksuit and changed into her "cozies" on the way to the airport. She kicked smelly shearling boots over my lap. Gathered her hair in a thick twist and peered at tattered ends candled against her phone screen.
"Aw mate," she croaked, winnowing split strands with her fingertips. "I nevva heard such bowlshit. That lippy girl, the bluddy psychic? Sayin' she could fee-ol my pain 'cause she's a fackin' indigo? Wutha-facksat even mean?"
I cradled her legs away from my paintballed thigh. She pitched her hair back and settled into the corner of the minibus seat, bruised arms a barricade, brown eyes storming.
"Now Keenan's brilliant," Pris said. "Don't get me wrong, budeeza slippery cunt. Stitchin' us up and callin' it a teachable moment? Fack me and oh well I guess. Aw Vinny mate. Ya face. I thought yewer gonna throw up when Lefty told ya to 'do betta'."
Recalling my on-camera admonishment pushed me to the tingly brink of shock. I heard the amputee jam mogul's tirade all over again. Saw Mimi's shoulder stump bucking in an empty sleeve as her southpaw fanned the air, unable to collide with its phantom wingman and create aggressive call-the-manager Karen claps.
Reheated memories of Mimi's rage refused to cool on the way to the airport. The sounds and scenes continued on a loop, slithering against traffic on my timeline, handily keeping pace with my Now.
Anxiety compressed my chest and robbed the world of subtle hues. Pris appeared in paint-by-number patches: sun-browned skin, black roots, blonde hair. Flowing white athleisure wear. She fussed in her seat, pulled up her hood and fit her phone into her bra.
A sensation like the taste of a nine-volt battery found a route from my tongue to my toes.
I felt the red lotus open between my shoulder blades. Fought the impulse to reach down the back of my tracksuit and claw each coarse petal to its livid root.
Pris broke through the haze. Her hand stilled my fingers, busy following the string on my wrist, counting all the knots I would have to untie after blowing thirteen sober days at the team buffet.
"Aw Vinny," Pris moaned, curling a lip at the dirty string. "Thissa Jesus thing? You tryin' ta manifest somethin' bettah?"
I gave Pris the rundown. She understood completely.
She held my hand all the way to the airport.
I helped Pris check her bags. She argued with some poor Qantas grunt over the dimensions of a carry-on.
She was determined to escalate the conflict. The luggage was, to my eye, about the size of my touring amp.
I paid the extra bag fee.
Pris took scissors off the counter and cut the string from my wrist.
"Cheer up," she said. "Nunna this is real and tomorrow's a whole new daya tomfuckery."
We found a quiet bar with a runway view and watched faraway lights come and go.
YOU ARE READING
HUMILIATION of a SAMURAI
General Fictioncover: @JELyrica / One week after Margaret pulls the plug on her relationship with Vincent, a decade-old video of their performance as a musical duo called Citizen Samurai goes viral, and they're hired as an opening act for an aging British boy ban...
