Our Lady of the Inferno by Preston Fassel

Author:Preston Fassel [Fassel, Preston]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Encyclopocalypse Publications

SATURDAY, JUNE 18TH, 1983

The clock is buzzing in the bedroom, ricocheting again and again against Ginny’s eardrums, and even through the nearly impenetrable slog of her hangover, she knows what the sounds mean, what they signify, and she is peeling her face off of the carpet with perhaps a little more ease than she normally would, enjoying a little more vigor than would be customary on any other weekend morning, the sun not yet having risen over the skyline of 42nd street.

“Trish,” Ginny slurs, maneuvering herself to the couch. She shakes her sister’s shoulders, neglecting to notice or care that the salad bowl has somehow transported itself onto Tricia’s head. “Trish. Triiiiicia. Patricia Kurva. Wakeup. Wakeup. It’s almost time. The space launch is happening …” Ginny checks her watch. “Soon.”

Tricia fails to respond. Ginny grabs one shoulder, shakes her. Tricia comes to with a start, grabs the salad bowl off of her head.

“I didn’t do it!”

“…Didn’t do what?”

“Where am I?” Tricia asks.

Ginny grabs the salad bowl from her hands, sticks it back on her head, staggers to the shower. Although she bathed last night, sleeping on the floor has left her feeling inappropriately prepared for such a momentous occasion. Once she’s dried off, she hurries to the bedroom, dresses quickly; the electric blue suit she puts on was her Christmas present to herself last year, purchased secondhand and altered by Michelle to fit her figure, a near exact replica of the one worn by Princess Diana when she appeared on the cover of Time Magazine two Aprils ago. Ginny makes a mental note to herself to introduce the Princess into the pantheon of female role models she has been developing for her sister; play on Tricia’s love of the fantastic, the common woman who became a princess, through personal charm and proper manner and, most importantly of all, Ginny thinks, not at all without a good foundation of dance experience and a passion for teaching…

“Hey! Hey, come on!” Ginny says as she enters the living room,Tricia slouched over on the couch now, the salad bowl still on her head. Ginny sits beside her on the couch, shakes her.

“Omigsawh, wake me up when something interesting is happening.”

“Come on. You need to see this. You’ll regret it later if you don’t. This is, like, your moon landing.” Ginny smiles, briefly lost in memory, for a split second seven years old again and kneeling on the floor inches away from the television, squeezing Mrs. Butter Bunny, Tricia crying from some other room and dad telling her to move so everyone else could see too, and Ginny not particularly caring to mind anyone that night, her front row seat well worth being sent to her room afterwards.

Tricia rights herself begrudgingly, takes the bowl off of her head, rubs her eyes. Ginny switching on the television, darting to the kitchen to fetch coffee.

“What’s happening?”

“Omigawsh, I think, like, you have the wrong channel.”

Ginny panics. “What? What’s happening?”

“A bunch of ugly people are all getting into an RV together.

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