Uncle Drew's Lysergic Backbrain Apocalypse (Slight Return)
The next night was a big step up the ladder of responsibility for Uncle Drew. Security had their hands full because they’d received a disturbance call---some of the more prized guests on the seventh floor---those were the Presidential Suites---very pricey---were fighting and screaming. Two of the security guys went up there and found the couple flinging shit everywhere and they had spray painted “BLACK SABBATH” across all the walls.
Flying Cats.
But back to Drew---Jeff didn’t feel like letting me out on the trash run, so he pawned the duties off on Drew. “‘Kay, Uncle James, as long as we’re alone, we may as well settle up. Whaddya want this time out?”
“I can give you one fifty…”
“That’s good for maybe thirty…I’ll tell you what, Uncle James, ’cause you’re, like, my very best customer, I’ll give you thirty-five!”
That made me a happy boy. “I can deal with that!”
“I just need you to promise me somethin’, okay, Uncle James?”
“Sure!”
“Don’t ask me for anything else again. Not for a long time, okay?” His eyes got big and he looked around the trash run warily. “Things are getting a little weird around here, you know? I’m not sure who to trust anymore!” He grinned nervously.
I thought about Candi and Charlie Brown. “Yeah,” I said. “I feel that way, too!”
Drew looked relieved. “You been feelin’ it, too?”
“Shit, yeah. Just promise me one thing. Somewhere down the road you get more cats, lemme know…you know, privately.”
“Deal, bro---now dump the rest of the trash and let’s get back in, okay?” He forked over that strip of happy cat paper and I threw him my dough. Drew was puffing on a cigarette and as a rule I was never a smoker, but I took a few drags myself.
I was aware, in kind of a backbrain fashion, that helicopters were flying around out there in the distance.
I caught a ride home with Clem that night, and was looking over my shoulder all the way home.
C.F. Roberts is a writer, visual artist, videographer and antimusician living in Northwest Arkansas with his wife, writer Heather Drain and a small menagerie of animals. He published and edited SHOCKBOX: The Literary/Art Magazine with Teeth from 1991 to 1996. He sings lead for the rock band, the S.E. Apocalypse Krew while also commandeering his own industrial project, 90 Lb. Tumor. He most recent publication credits are in Fearless, Paraphilia, Pressure Press Presents, Crab Fat Literary Magazine, The Birds We Piled Loosely, Blue Collar Review, Corvus Review, Antique Children, and Guerilla Genesis Press. His book, The Meat Factory and Other Stories, is available from Alien Buddha Press.
