So I kind of looked at her, she gave me a smile. I told her I ain’t seen that smile pretty in a while. She looked at me dazedly then socked me in the jaw from below, what I assume you call an uppercut. She clambered off to do what men abusers do best, sharpen her knife collection or the like. It then hit me that through my absentminded tomfoolery I said the line wrong. So I hit myself in the groin and laid on the floor for about twenty minutes telling passersby that I was okay. That my injury was self-inflicted and that medical attention would be of no help at all.

It happened just like that. I swear to every word. It was after this incident that the lies start. But what is true in my little tale? Only a fool can tell.

The following happened on a weekday, any is as good as any, what’s the use of a specification? Would it really add to the circumference of this tell-go-round? I don’t think as much.

I’ll finish with this and continue the tale.

The weekday started as any other. A sun in the sky and my feet on the ground. I was venturing north at that moment. Capitalizing on the early hours to drive as fast as I might to arrive at my mother’s so that I might evacuate her premises at a reasonable enough time so that I may enjoy the viewing of the new Mark Paul-Gosselaar movie and not feel as though I am rushed in it’s ocular glorification. When I arrived I found the door half open, maybe half closed, I was too far away to tell. So I entered with caution and saw the thing to haunt my dreams running out the backdoor with my mother’s uterus encapsulating the peak of his pointy little skull. Around the corner I found my mother dead as she would be after a uterus removal attack. I approached her body and tried that eyes-close-move they do in movies and tv shows so that the actors don’t actually have to touch the other actor’s eyeballs. Nothing happened as you would assume, so I took two fingers and pressed them to her eyes and closed them. Standing over her, contemplating the complexities of a good life lived to be stolen so violently the little troll poked his head inside as if to taunt me. To ask if I were interested in a little game of cat and mouse. Which he followed with, “You’ll be the pussy and I’ll be the sly rodent that gets away.” He started laughing; fell over laughing. While he was distracted in his own amusement I grabbed one of my father’s golf clubs, quietly approached the “sly” rodent and hit the little fucker with so much gusto that his limbs and head all separated from his torso.

I wasn’t truthful in telling what haunted my dreams. The little troll thing was not in fact the cause of my nightmares. No, the real cause was much worse and I wasn’t entirely sure I was going to share it with you, so here it is: After hitting the troll with the golf club I thought everything was over. That I’d call the cops, report the murder and go home and plan the funeral. Instead I nearly shit myself when I saw my mother’s uterus crawling back towards her, crawling back inside and my mother opening her eyes and saying to me, “Charlie, how are you? I ain’t seen that smile pretty in a while.”


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