The Weird Insights of a Scobberlotcher

Thirty-six Sounds Stripey Yellow

The next day was one of those new ones they're always telling you about that end up looking disappointingly like all its predecessors. I'd acquitted myself of my unsolicited duty but I still didn't feel particularly good about it. Another bit of shitty irony inserted into my life. I mean, isn't it the cop who is supposed to break the bad news to the unsuspecting civilian? Or is that even irony? Oh well, whatever it is, just throw it on the growing stack of mouldering corpses in my mind. Literal and figurative. Anyway, I decided I'd go and air out my alveoli. Take a walk down the main drag unplugged. A beautiful, quiet morning. Early spring. That blessed interregnum between the bad weather and the beeping, braying beach goers. Japanese Cherry blossoms were well out front. Magnolias struggling to catch up. I was strolling along, looking in those storefront windows again. Just me, alone, humming a merry Emerson, Lake and Palmer tune,

'Brain Salad Surgery 

 It will work for you, it works for me.'

At first I didn't make much of the fact that I was just coming up on the psychic shop. No reason to. I'd been by there many times by then. I used to cross the street to the other side for awhile. Then I started passing directly in front. There was neither sign of life by day nor ray of light by night. So I assumed that the last time I saw her in the hospice would be the last time ever. Period. End of fantasy. Then I felt this most peculiar sensation. An auger placed at the back of my head started drilling through towards my frontal lobe. An auger, not an electric drill. The vibrations were low, the progress slow, grinding, deliberate. Definitely hand powered. I was going to shake my head to try to clear the painful vision when an explosion went off, blowing it up in a massive shower of fiery sparks.

It was a truck. A throaty diesel. It was passing me from behind on my left when it backfired. That same beer truck. Or at least the same company - Storm Coast Brewing. Coincidence? Maybe. Odds were high with all the bars on the strip but still suspicious. Then I started to feel faint. I recognized it right away. A recurrence of one of those infrequent PVC attacks I've had for decades, now more frequent. The irregular heartbeat is usually only brought on by an alcoholic blitzkrieg. This time it was surprisingly spontaneous. And coming on like gangbusters. I thought I'd have enough time to take my usual safety precaution, get down on all fours so I wouldn't hurt myself, but my buckling knees beat me to it. The last thing I saw during my descent was the door to the psychic shop. It was propped open with a wooden stop. Like someone was expected. Ah, shit! Then I was out.