Western Palaces by Smith Logan Ryan

Western Palaces by Smith Logan Ryan

Author:Smith, Logan Ryan [Smith, Logan Ryan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Horror, Science Fiction
Amazon: B01AND7IWG
Goodreads: 28578551
Publisher: Transmission Press
Published: 2016-01-15T08:00:00+00:00


PART II

Otis Redding’s “White Christmas” bleeds into The Fall’s “Jingle Bell Rock” which melts into Charles Brown’s “Merry Christmas, Baby” and before I know it my Christmas Eve is nearly expired. I’m at Bourbon Bandits, which is only staying open until ten tonight. They’ve had Christmas music on the internet jukebox all night, as well as Christmas movies on the TVs such as Scrooged and that old Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer claymation. Right now Jingle All the Way is on the tube and Arnold Schwarzenegger, our governor, is tearing a man’s head off and spiking it like a football because he was able to get the last robot something-or-other at Wal-Mart or something. Arterial blood spurts in thick, red, ropey arcs all over. It becomes a kind of montage because Arnie’s now greased up, wearing speedos, flexing and dunking a naked blonde head-first into a toilet while toking on a rather large reefer. But, because all of time is fast and slipping by, we’re at the end of the movie now where Arnie’s got that big old loveable grin on his face as he gives his estranged son that prized toy. The kid takes it and gives Arnie a hug before the cops haul Arnie away for violating the restraining order imposed upon him by the courts, which says he needs to keep at least five-hundred yards away from his wife and kid at all times.

Moral? Not even Christmas can save families.

Bourbon Bandits has also managed a festive mood tonight by providing dinner: a crockpot of bubbling red and green chili that looked an awful lot like the skin of many of the zombies that stroll the neighborhood. Old Man Bill ate most of it, but he’s passed out now at a table in the back by the pool table. He’s been his usual festive self, telling as many Jew jokes as possible. He’s also been unwittingly sporting the antlers Stan slipped over the top of his floppy brimmed hat some hours ago. Old Man Bill’s mostly avoided me though, saying something about my lack of gratitude and respect. He said I hurt him. I really hurt him. I called him a free-loading old racist windbag and told him to fuck off. He told me to look in a mirror and I did and had no idea what he meant.

Somebody that looks like Eric, my drug dealer and Abigail’s husband, pushes a red clown nose onto Old Man Bill’s unconscious face. Eric, pool cue in hand, stands back and admires his work. Laughs. He pulls Abigail toward him and kisses her, her red hair flicking like flames, and I have to turn away because it makes me sick. It makes me sick knowing she somehow got out of the closet in the apartment right above this watering hole. It makes me sick knowing I miss her more at this moment than I miss Cameron, and that kid, whatshisname.

That’s not entirely true. But at this moment I do believe I may be missing Pearl more than anyone, and I wonder what she’s doing right now.



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