We pass a church on our right going 15 maybe 20 miles per hour, deliberately trying to avoid exceeding the posted speed limit.
"Psalm 16:3, verses 10-12" the sign says in navy blue removable lettering on a less than elegant looking white plastic, semi transparent back lit billboard more appropriate for a seedy motel than a house of worship.
"My ravenous enemies beset me; they shut up their cruel hearts, their mouths speak proudly," the girl in the passengers seat says, looking straight out the raindrop covered windshield and blinking twice when the wipers move across.
"Their steps even now surround me; crouching to the ground, they fix their gaze. Like lions hungry for prey, like young lions lurking and hiding," continues the girl, a too young prostitute I picked up and fell in love with a few miles, two nips of vodka and a speed ball ago and I ask her, is that supposed to make me feel better?
"This is my favorite song, you know," she tells me, turning the radio up and leaning into me lighting my cigar, creating fire from the palm of her hand. Hours after the sun goes down, cities and cities and a state line behind us, the rain coming down and the light of the moon is nowhere to be found, closing it's eyes to the madness and I tell the girl I can't do this alone, ash on my lap and blood on the back of my hand but she's sleeping.
"Two months ago I asked Sister Marie to be excused to go to the bathroom, tore up my hall pass and never went back," she said with her eyes closed, somewhere a few miles passed Knoxville. The heroin was making her drowsy and melancholy. When we get to Marietta I don't have to wake her up.
"I've got no reason not to," she says after a few minutes and a drink, the bottle of Jameson resting comfortably between her thighs, turning the cap around and around in her fingers.
In Chatanooga I had pulled into a gas station and got high in the bathroom just before leaving. Another speed ball and then an extra shot of coke but she slept through the whole thing and I don't bother to tell her now. The attendant behind the counter shouted when the power went out but stopped when I walked in through the door, the only visible light coming from the headlights of my car parked outside.
"I don't have a safe, just what's in the register," he whined in a shaky voice, not sure whether to look at me or not and I told him I don't want any money, the Springfield XD pistol loaded with .45 caliber bullets pointed right for his face.
Braking to drop my speed limit as I take the exit off the highway and turn right heading into the center of town she wants to know "What's his name, anyways?" and I ask her who, though I already know the answer.
"Your brother. What's your brother's name?"she asks, screwing the cap back on the bottle and taking a cigarette from her bag on the floor and I tell her, he has the same name as mine.
"Psalm 16:3, verses 10-12" the sign says in navy blue removable lettering on a less than elegant looking white plastic, semi transparent back lit billboard more appropriate for a seedy motel than a house of worship.
"My ravenous enemies beset me; they shut up their cruel hearts, their mouths speak proudly," the girl in the passengers seat says, looking straight out the raindrop covered windshield and blinking twice when the wipers move across.
"Their steps even now surround me; crouching to the ground, they fix their gaze. Like lions hungry for prey, like young lions lurking and hiding," continues the girl, a too young prostitute I picked up and fell in love with a few miles, two nips of vodka and a speed ball ago and I ask her, is that supposed to make me feel better?
"This is my favorite song, you know," she tells me, turning the radio up and leaning into me lighting my cigar, creating fire from the palm of her hand. Hours after the sun goes down, cities and cities and a state line behind us, the rain coming down and the light of the moon is nowhere to be found, closing it's eyes to the madness and I tell the girl I can't do this alone, ash on my lap and blood on the back of my hand but she's sleeping.
"Two months ago I asked Sister Marie to be excused to go to the bathroom, tore up my hall pass and never went back," she said with her eyes closed, somewhere a few miles passed Knoxville. The heroin was making her drowsy and melancholy. When we get to Marietta I don't have to wake her up.
"I've got no reason not to," she says after a few minutes and a drink, the bottle of Jameson resting comfortably between her thighs, turning the cap around and around in her fingers.
In Chatanooga I had pulled into a gas station and got high in the bathroom just before leaving. Another speed ball and then an extra shot of coke but she slept through the whole thing and I don't bother to tell her now. The attendant behind the counter shouted when the power went out but stopped when I walked in through the door, the only visible light coming from the headlights of my car parked outside.
"I don't have a safe, just what's in the register," he whined in a shaky voice, not sure whether to look at me or not and I told him I don't want any money, the Springfield XD pistol loaded with .45 caliber bullets pointed right for his face.
Braking to drop my speed limit as I take the exit off the highway and turn right heading into the center of town she wants to know "What's his name, anyways?" and I ask her who, though I already know the answer.
"Your brother. What's your brother's name?"she asks, screwing the cap back on the bottle and taking a cigarette from her bag on the floor and I tell her, he has the same name as mine.