the car.
• • •
On the Buttwynn’s kitchen table sits a spool of common thread, a needle, a lighter, a crusted tube of super glue, a bottle of single malt scotch whisky, two shot glasses and a pack of Blue Llamas. Grundish sits at the table, sipping at a tumbler of scotch on the rocks, waiting for Turleen to get Askew cleaned up. He takes a mouthful of the smoky liquid and lets it sit, warming and stinging his gums all at once. Leaning back into the chair and hanging his head over the back of the seat, he nods off and is awakened when Turleen and Askew return.
“Uh-uh,” says Askew. “Dyou er noth thewing my faithe,” he tells Grundish, the words coming out mangled as they are filtered through his torn upper lip.
Grundish shrugs, fills both shot glasses with scotch, and slides one across the table. Askew, hands in pockets, stands on one leg and lifts the other. His long toes grip one of the legs of a seat at the table and pull it out. He sits and looks down at the shot glass and then back at Grundish. Grundish picks up his shot glass and gently clinks it on the top of the glass set out for his friend. Opening his bloodied mouth and leaning down over the shot glass, hands still in pockets, Askew grabs the top of the shot glass between his teeth and sits up quickly, tossing his head back and draining the contents down his throat.
“Ahhhh,” they both grunt, as the warmth travels down their throats, spreads across their chests, and snuggles up in their bellies. Grundish pours two more shots and they repeat the ritual again. And again, and again, Grundish’s serving getting smaller and smaller each time until he stops consuming his altogether and only refills Askew’s glass.
“Now get up on the table, you big pussy,” Grundish says, “and let me take care of that lip. We can’t take you to a hospital looking like that. They will call the police and then you’re...no...make that
we’re
fucked. And this’ll make you look tough, you little bitch.”
Through the whisky haze, Askew tries to rethink the idea of getting stitches from Grundish. He nods toward the shot glass. Grundish shrugs, nods back, and fills up one more shot which is quickly downed via Askew’s shot-glass-deep-throat technique. With a flick of the head the shot glass is thrown toward the sink and shatters on the floor. Askew stands on the chair, turns away from the table and sits down on it. Hands still in pockets, he wiggles himself fully onto the table, facing up, and tells his friend “Dyou vetther noth fuggup my faithe.”
“I could do nothing to make your face any uglier,” answers Grundish as the excessive alcohol consumption pulls the shades on Askew’s consciousness.
16
Grundish never had one sewing lesson and never so much as bothered to stitch a patch to a pair of pants or a torn shirt. To him, Home Economics was a class in junior high for chicks and fairies. So what made him think that he was qualified to stitch up Askew’s lip is anyone’s guess. But stitch it he did. Luckily, Grundish did at least like watching surgery shows on the Health and Medicine Channel. He knew that it would be best to stitch up the skin so that the two torn pieces formed an outward ridge, and that they would heal up, tuck themselves back in and make for less of a scar. He also saw something, somewhere about super glue being used to mend minor wounds. Once the sewing was finished, culminating in a meaty, gashed seam running from mid-upper lip to just below Askew’s puffy, rounded cheek pad, a heavy layer of glue was applied on top of the gash.
At mid-day, upon waking, Askew stumbles through the house, hands in pockets, and opening doors with his feet until he finds a bathroom. He looks in the mirror. An accident victim stares back. The super glue, being somewhat over-applied, adheres the torn lip to the gum line, exposing the teeth on the front left side, giving him a Presleyesque upturn of a lip (no fool Billy Idol lip either
• • •
On the Buttwynn’s kitchen table sits a spool of common thread, a needle, a lighter, a crusted tube of super glue, a bottle of single malt scotch whisky, two shot glasses and a pack of Blue Llamas. Grundish sits at the table, sipping at a tumbler of scotch on the rocks, waiting for Turleen to get Askew cleaned up. He takes a mouthful of the smoky liquid and lets it sit, warming and stinging his gums all at once. Leaning back into the chair and hanging his head over the back of the seat, he nods off and is awakened when Turleen and Askew return.
“Uh-uh,” says Askew. “Dyou er noth thewing my faithe,” he tells Grundish, the words coming out mangled as they are filtered through his torn upper lip.
Grundish shrugs, fills both shot glasses with scotch, and slides one across the table. Askew, hands in pockets, stands on one leg and lifts the other. His long toes grip one of the legs of a seat at the table and pull it out. He sits and looks down at the shot glass and then back at Grundish. Grundish picks up his shot glass and gently clinks it on the top of the glass set out for his friend. Opening his bloodied mouth and leaning down over the shot glass, hands still in pockets, Askew grabs the top of the shot glass between his teeth and sits up quickly, tossing his head back and draining the contents down his throat.
“Ahhhh,” they both grunt, as the warmth travels down their throats, spreads across their chests, and snuggles up in their bellies. Grundish pours two more shots and they repeat the ritual again. And again, and again, Grundish’s serving getting smaller and smaller each time until he stops consuming his altogether and only refills Askew’s glass.
“Now get up on the table, you big pussy,” Grundish says, “and let me take care of that lip. We can’t take you to a hospital looking like that. They will call the police and then you’re...no...make that
we’re
fucked. And this’ll make you look tough, you little bitch.”
Through the whisky haze, Askew tries to rethink the idea of getting stitches from Grundish. He nods toward the shot glass. Grundish shrugs, nods back, and fills up one more shot which is quickly downed via Askew’s shot-glass-deep-throat technique. With a flick of the head the shot glass is thrown toward the sink and shatters on the floor. Askew stands on the chair, turns away from the table and sits down on it. Hands still in pockets, he wiggles himself fully onto the table, facing up, and tells his friend “Dyou vetther noth fuggup my faithe.”
“I could do nothing to make your face any uglier,” answers Grundish as the excessive alcohol consumption pulls the shades on Askew’s consciousness.
16
Grundish never had one sewing lesson and never so much as bothered to stitch a patch to a pair of pants or a torn shirt. To him, Home Economics was a class in junior high for chicks and fairies. So what made him think that he was qualified to stitch up Askew’s lip is anyone’s guess. But stitch it he did. Luckily, Grundish did at least like watching surgery shows on the Health and Medicine Channel. He knew that it would be best to stitch up the skin so that the two torn pieces formed an outward ridge, and that they would heal up, tuck themselves back in and make for less of a scar. He also saw something, somewhere about super glue being used to mend minor wounds. Once the sewing was finished, culminating in a meaty, gashed seam running from mid-upper lip to just below Askew’s puffy, rounded cheek pad, a heavy layer of glue was applied on top of the gash.
At mid-day, upon waking, Askew stumbles through the house, hands in pockets, and opening doors with his feet until he finds a bathroom. He looks in the mirror. An accident victim stares back. The super glue, being somewhat over-applied, adheres the torn lip to the gum line, exposing the teeth on the front left side, giving him a Presleyesque upturn of a lip (no fool Billy Idol lip either
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