Black Rabbit and Other Stories by Salvatore Difalco
Authors: Salvatore Difalco
Tags: General Fiction, FIC029000
Ads: Link
phone bills calling home. Presley didnât trust her. She came on to him once, last summer. Heâd been playing hoops in the school-yard. He got home all sweaty and went upstairs to shower. Clair had just vacated it, a towel covering her breasts, her hair dripping wet. Afew years younger than his mom, she wasnât as prettyâhis friends thought his mother was hot, something he found disgusting, something he had biffed guys for sharing with him. Imagine them talking about his mother like that. Clair approached him, reeking of herbal shampoo and gin, and started saying stuff, like how she loved his blonde hair and his blonde eyelashes and his blue eyes and how tall he was and strong. She stressed that word. Then she dropped the towel.
Well, youâd thinkâitâs not as if his father was boning her or anything. She was just a friend from back home. The old man paid her two hundred bucks a month to take care of the house and to cook Presley a few meals. That was it. Presley could have fucked her, maybe he should have. But she had these banana-shaped breasts and a horny horse-face he found more humorous than attractive. Itâs not that she was ugly, but she made him laugh. She would have been a funny comedienne, he figured, with that face and that smile. Anyway, when he refused her advances, she told his father that
he
had come on to her. His father lost it. He punched Presley in the forehead so hard he cracked his skull. He still suffered migraines from that. He split for a week after the incident, breaching his probation and risking another year in detention. He stayed with this eighteen-year-old skank he met in a crackhouse. She was useless but liked to fuck and always had money. She didnât hook so he didnât know where she got it from. He figured she had a sugar daddy or something else going on, he didnât care. He wound up taking a vicious beating from her toothless meth-head ex-boyfriend who showed up unannounced one day. The fucking guy tried to cut his throat with a straight-razor. Lucky he turned his attention to the girl. He used his fists on her, did a number. Presley just missed getting killed. It was funny how easily it could have happened. You just never knew when you were going to escape a bad situation with your life. You just never knew. One day a counsellor at the detention centre gave him a lecture on something called karma. He said Presley had bad karma. Presley scoffed at this when he understood what the guy was talking about. He felt there was no such thing as karma. Shit just happened. I could kill you right nowand all your karma would mean squat, he told the guy. But the counsellor wasnât amused and Presley wound up getting restrained by the guards that day for uttering threats.
The pickup truck jerked to a stop, startling Presley from his thoughts. They had come to a red light. Bert turned his head toward him and for a moment looked like he wanted to say something; instead his mouth fell open as a police car cruised by, manned by silhouettes. These bikers always got weird when they saw cops. Presley heard a grunt and then what could have been a laugh, but Bert assumed a rigid posture and when the light turned green the pickup truck surged forward and stopped again, throwing Presley into the dash.
Put on your seatbelt, Bert told him. His voice sounded dry as an ashtray. He gestured with his thick hand and Presley secured his seatbelt with a snap. A hint of a smile edging Bertâs profile irritated Presley. Maybe this ex-biker thought he was heavy duty but he didnât scare Presley a bit. The only things that frightened him were skunks, and the dark. He still slept with a nightlight, this green plastic frog his mom gave him. He glanced at the fat manilla envelope. His old man never said how much weed Bert planned to score and Presley didnât give a fuck, except that now he wondered how much money the manilla envelope held. It looked like a lot. What the
Well, youâd thinkâitâs not as if his father was boning her or anything. She was just a friend from back home. The old man paid her two hundred bucks a month to take care of the house and to cook Presley a few meals. That was it. Presley could have fucked her, maybe he should have. But she had these banana-shaped breasts and a horny horse-face he found more humorous than attractive. Itâs not that she was ugly, but she made him laugh. She would have been a funny comedienne, he figured, with that face and that smile. Anyway, when he refused her advances, she told his father that
he
had come on to her. His father lost it. He punched Presley in the forehead so hard he cracked his skull. He still suffered migraines from that. He split for a week after the incident, breaching his probation and risking another year in detention. He stayed with this eighteen-year-old skank he met in a crackhouse. She was useless but liked to fuck and always had money. She didnât hook so he didnât know where she got it from. He figured she had a sugar daddy or something else going on, he didnât care. He wound up taking a vicious beating from her toothless meth-head ex-boyfriend who showed up unannounced one day. The fucking guy tried to cut his throat with a straight-razor. Lucky he turned his attention to the girl. He used his fists on her, did a number. Presley just missed getting killed. It was funny how easily it could have happened. You just never knew when you were going to escape a bad situation with your life. You just never knew. One day a counsellor at the detention centre gave him a lecture on something called karma. He said Presley had bad karma. Presley scoffed at this when he understood what the guy was talking about. He felt there was no such thing as karma. Shit just happened. I could kill you right nowand all your karma would mean squat, he told the guy. But the counsellor wasnât amused and Presley wound up getting restrained by the guards that day for uttering threats.
The pickup truck jerked to a stop, startling Presley from his thoughts. They had come to a red light. Bert turned his head toward him and for a moment looked like he wanted to say something; instead his mouth fell open as a police car cruised by, manned by silhouettes. These bikers always got weird when they saw cops. Presley heard a grunt and then what could have been a laugh, but Bert assumed a rigid posture and when the light turned green the pickup truck surged forward and stopped again, throwing Presley into the dash.
Put on your seatbelt, Bert told him. His voice sounded dry as an ashtray. He gestured with his thick hand and Presley secured his seatbelt with a snap. A hint of a smile edging Bertâs profile irritated Presley. Maybe this ex-biker thought he was heavy duty but he didnât scare Presley a bit. The only things that frightened him were skunks, and the dark. He still slept with a nightlight, this green plastic frog his mom gave him. He glanced at the fat manilla envelope. His old man never said how much weed Bert planned to score and Presley didnât give a fuck, except that now he wondered how much money the manilla envelope held. It looked like a lot. What the
Similar Books
