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Topic subjectThis ain't my best, but I'm at work. What can I tell you.
Topic URLhttp://board.okayplayer.com/okp.php?az=show_topic&forum=18&topic_id=75170&mesg_id=75185
75185, This ain't my best, but I'm at work. What can I tell you.
Posted by dhalgren718, Wed Oct-05-05 10:26 AM
…and crawled back to the car, one arm limp, legs useless. Blood and shit smell (no one ever mentions how the impact makes some people’s sphincters release – panic shit, terror shit, sense of oncoming death shit), and the smell of burnt linen. It was a long crawl, broken glass and parking lot asphalt digging deep into his one functioning hand. A fingernail came off. Air hit it like lemon juice, sweet sting sole reminder that yes, he was crawling, yes he was still here, yes he would make it, but only if his cell phone still worked and his wife were still home.

Sound of crunch-gravel-crunch-draaaaag-crunch-gravel-crunch-draaaaag; and he knew Sumner was back on his feet, big bastard’s leg the only casualty in their exchange. Ponderous wounded waddle left a soundprint that drummed like cannons in his ears; Sumner ever a stack of bricks crammed inartistically into a sloppy off-the-rack suit. Crawling, he still moved almost as quickly.

“Benny,” he heard, Sumner’s voice a half-drunken warble. “Where you think you’re goin’, Ben-knee.”

He told Sumner to fuck himself, but it came out a copper-tasting wheeze.

Crunch-gravel-crunch-draaaaag-crunch-gravel-crunch-draaaaag – he was picking up the pace. “Benny. Fucked up, Benny. Look over here.”

‘Keep fucking crawling,’ he thought, ‘make it to that fucking phone. She’s there. She’s waiting at the other end. This can all be fine. Just keep crawling.’ Reached the door, palm sweat and blood lapping at it with all the finesse of a dog’s tongue. Distantly, he heard crying, realized very acutely how much the voice sounded like his own.

“Benny boy,” Sumner said, “Had one shot, Benny boy. One good shot. Look over here, Benny.”

Door open, half dragged inside, one working arm flapping about with the strength of Solomon, accuracy of Ajax, phone discovered on the driver’s seat. Speed dial. Ringing. Sound of ringing at the other end and –

– nearby?

“Benny,” Sumner said, voice crisp as a New York autumn, mercilessly close. “Who do you think is in my passenger seat? And who do you think told me where to find you?”