I could hire somebody to take care of the problem for me. Dirty work comes cheap in a grimy ice cube like Montreal, where a fresh pool of blood is just a hockey rink away and the West End Gang is always happy to show you the business end of a shillelagh.
But why bother, when I will enjoy doing it myself so much?
Yes, it’s time for a road trip. My packing list:
* Three cases of Coke
* Four pounds of beef jerky
* One large bag of naval oranges
* A whole lotta Led Zeppelin’s “Trampled Under Foot” on my iPod
* A radar detector
I’ll need a fast car, too.
I’m thinking a black 1967 Lincoln Continental with suicide doors and a stroked 700-hp Ford 514 V8 with Mass-Flo fuel injection and the suspension to handle all that power. It’ll go, and that’s a good thing, because it’s a long drive from Denver to Montreal — 1,840 miles and 27 hours at normal speeds. Less than 20 if I hit it hard.
Nicky and Mike will be surprised to see me.
And they’re going to learn some appreciation for the misery they’ve caused me with this little 28-day writing competition of theirs. They’re going to pay, and dearly.
No violence, of course.
I’m not a violent man.
But I’m gonna eat all their fucking cheese, drink all their fucking liquor, treat fucking Mike’s fucking cat with disdain, and then fucking move in with fucking Nicky and Jepeto and the fucking kids. Eat fucking Cheetos and fucking sleep on their fucking couch with their fucking remote tucked in my fucking underwear.
They’ll be sick and tired of me by the fall, I guaran-damn-tee it.
It’s the ninth day of 30 Days Minus 2 of Writing, and I’m starting question my sanity and wonder why god allows evil in a fallen world.