Black Rabbit and Other Stories by Salvatore Difalco Page B

approached the pickup truck, then swerving around it. The debris consisted of shattered cocktail glasses and two bottles, one in pieces, one intact and half-filled with an amber fluid. Someone had been partying. Presley glanced at the label, the letters indecipherable to him. He didn’t know how to read. After going to school his whole life and sitting through countless classes with dozens of teachers and tutors, he could barely read his own name. He screwed off the cap and took a whiff; it smelled like whisky. He gulped from the bottle and fire filled his chest. He took another big gulp, and another. It was good stuff. Bert tooted his horn. Presley drank again. He saw something else among the glass shards: an icepick, the tip gleaming.
    The handle looked to be fashioned from ivory; the pick itself shone like silver and came to a needle-like point. It was beautiful. All kinds of weird things got dumped on country roads. He returned to the pickup truck with his booty. When he climbed back in, Bert didn’t look at him. He put the truck in gear and pushed ahead. After they had traveled a kilometre down the road, Presley uncapped the whisky bottle and drank. Bert eased up on the gas. What the fuck you got there? he asked. Whisky, Presley said. That’s not whisky, Bert said. That’s bourbon. Knob Creek. Where’d you find it? On the side of the road? Are you fucked up or something? He stopped the pickup truck and snatched the bottle from Presley. That’s not whisky, okay, Bert said, flashing him the label. That’s bourbon. Can’t you read? Are you fucking stupid? Your old man didn’t tell me you were stupid. He rolled down his window and chucked the bottle.
    They drove in silence, the landscape a work in charcoals and flaked quartz. The effects of the whisky and the humming engine made Presley drowsy, his eyes half-shutting, his head lolling. Then a beast with yellow eyes sprang from the side of the road. Presley watched in horror as it lunged across the path of the oncoming pickup truck. He heard an ugly thunk and then nothing but the hum of the engine. Whatever it was got smoked on impact. Presley felt sick. Bert didn’t so much as slow down. Presley wondered if it was maybe just a rabbit—but it sounded bigger, maybe a fawn or a raccoon. Aren’t you going to stop? Presley asked. Bert didn’t respond; he just kept driving. Hey, Presley said, sitting upright, I’m fucking talking to you. But Bert continued driving, a smile curling his lips.
    A minute later Presley said, You just passed the farm. Bert glared at him and pulled over to the soft shoulder. You fucking goof, he said, but before he could say or do anything else Presley stuck the icepick into his right eye. Once it pricked the cornea it slid in so far his knuckle hit Bert’s occipital bone. Bert’s mouth opened wide and a strange sound came out of it. Then, with his eye gushing blood, he made a grab for Presley, who jabbed the icepick again, this time piercing his throat. That took the fight out of Bert.
    Presley sat there listening to Bert gurgle and gasp. It went on for a minute, then he fell silent. His blood greased the manila envelope. One of his gold hoops had come off his ear and lay on the seat. Presley stroked his finger across the blood then jumped out of the pickup truck and started sprinting down the road. Man it was dark. He couldn’t see his own hand in front of him. He felt fucked up. He started giggling. He couldn’t help it. What the fuck did he just do? He stopped running. He was out of breath. He looked around him. He was standing nowhere.

Reckoning
    He saw himself tented, with a little plastic window. Inside there, looking out. He saw the talking globe of the world and talked back to it under his breath. The skeleton hanging by the blackboard knew him, shook slightly when he stared at it. And the hamster Rafael knew him. He fed Rafael his pellets first thing. Then the little guy