Something Just Broke From The Second Floor Balcony


The out stretched fingers of the sun were reaching through the blinds leaving fresh fingerprints all over the morning yellow kitchen walls. My Parliament cigarette was nearing the end of its destiny as it was inches away from the gates of St. Peter when I heard the front door open. The “pretty girl” was home. I took one last drag and flicked the heaven bound cigarette out the kitchen window. It’s quite the fall from up here on the second floor.
I can’t help but smoke when “the Pretty Girl” doesn’t come home or call or answer her phone from the night before. I hate these mornings. I must have smoked like two packs since midnight. Cigarette buds were spilling over the ashtray like tears of a clown or a broken melody. She closed the front door slowly and softly without making a sound as if she was concerned over my shut eye. But as always, she tossed her keys on the table by the front door alarming me that she is home. She always does that too. If she wanted to be under the radar why not place the keys down quietly on the table? “Pretty Girl,” is a puzzling creature.
Her cold stroll sent polar chills through the hallway and into the kitchen. With her every step frosty chills nipped on the soles of my feet sending goose bumps all over my heart. Every time she came home from the morning after there was a sudden chill throughout the house, especially the bed got artic cold. “Cold-blooded” as Rick James would say. As often as she stressed me the fuck out with her frost bite antics, you would think by now that I would just row over and fall back to sleep. But that was not the case. Because I love her, I worry all night long. Sleeping was hard when she didn’t call. I like to sleep. I’m good at sleeping. I made a “B” in Sleeping at ACC, it was the Pinnacle campus.
For those who have been through the sleepless nights worrying about where the boyfriend/girlfriend were at and why they didn’t come home, as you can imagine my mind was all over the place. Its like eating glass. My emotions and fears were way up and then way down all night long. I found myself happy one minute and the next I was angry. Hot and cold. Then cold and then hot. Then I was too hot. And then I was too cold. I kept thinking that I was suffering from menopause, as funny as that sounds. Or that global warming was becoming all too real right in our apartment. Perhaps my girlfriend was the cause of the mysterious global warming.
I heard her step up to the entrance of the kitchen hallway. One look at her eyes and I could tell she was tired as her eyes spelled hangover. We locked eyes for just a second. And then she looked away. Our relationship or lack of relationship has been chronologically frozen for quite some time. We kinda just stop talking to each other. And now, we don’t even bother to look at each other for days or weeks on in. The relationship has gone bad like spoiled milk but neither one of us has the energy to move out.
“I made you some tea.” I softly suggested.
She leaned up against the fridge and took off her red hills. And she did so like she had some practice the night before. Shortly, after stepping out of her red hills she then strolled across the kitchen floor now leaning up against the sink counter. I knew she was going to be in a sedated mood when she got home, so I laid out her sugar, her lemon, and her favorite tea spoon with the dainty blue deer on the handle next to her tea cup. “I won’t ever love you.” She confidently stated.
“It is nice to see you too.”
I was only half paying attention when she expressed her frustrations. She has a habit of being cold and distant the morning after. You see, on the mornings like today she usually comes home with a crass attitude, usually a coke hangover from her night club haze. She enjoys pushing my buttons but I always refuse to play her word games. It’s the alcohol. Or the drugs. More than likely both. “So how is the tea?” I asked.
She whipped her hair around to one side exposing one of the prettiest things I have ever seen, her collar bone. She has the prettiest shoulders along with the prettiest back I’ve ever touched. With the teacup in hand she replied, “The tea is warm.” She paused. “Just how I like it.”
Warm. I wanted to laugh so bad because she said, warm. I had forgotten that she had the term in her vocabulary. There has been nothing warm about us for quite sometime. At night the bed was cold when we both whisper “good night”. That is if I sleep with her in bed because lately I feel so uncomfortable that I end up on the couch. Warm. This pass summer I shivered myself into a bad case of frost bite all over my body from the lack of warmth between us. Warm. The way she used to look at me every time she came home from school or work. That was warm. She has the warmest smile, yet now I feel her smiles were never meant for me.
“So have you eaten breakfast, yet?”
She sat down at the kitchen table opposite of me. “Yup." She responded short and icy like an ice cube. Despite the hangover she looked quite happy this glorious morning. Her skin tone was vibrant and alluring. As oppose to other mornings when she is often haggard and distant, fuming with vodka, and yes laced with cocaine dreams. And then there were the mornings when she came home from her night clubbing lookin’ worn out and sore as if she just finished a two week long road trip with one of those WNBA teams.
She placed her tea cup beside my cigarettes. I could see that the tea was working and soothing out the aches of her sins. The slight yellow haze in her eyes began to fade and I noticed a tiny smile growing on her beautiful face. As she grabbed one of my cigarettes she started humming her favorite Klaus Nomi, “Nomi Song.” It’s a very beautiful, tragic song. A lot like the situation my girlfriend and I find ourselves in. She reached out for one of the two lighters on the table unknowingly the one she grabbed is my trick lighter. She grinded the flits together with her tiny thumb and an erected veiny penis popped out just inches from her face. She gave me this eerie look but I’ve seen it before, in particularly, when she falls for the penis lighter trick. I’ve been getting her with that lighter for years even when we were just good friends in college. As always I laughed loudly. It’s funny to me. She put down the lighter and grabbed the other one, the right one. Finally, she took a drag and exhaled, “Ya. My friend and I had some breakfast earlier over at the Woodlands.”
“So what did you have?”
She didn’t answer me right away. She just sat there calm and collected pulling back drag after drag of the cigarette. In between each drag she took baby sips of her morning after tea. Something was on her mind as she pondered away looking out the kitchen window. All I saw outside was a lively red cardinal eating Sunday brunch on a doomed cricket. But I doubt she was thinking about that doomed cricket or even the cardinal.
The sun was getting bigger and bolder, and showing more of its presence in the kitchen. The sun began to creep into her hair and bring life to those burgundy highlights yet again. Something about her pretty hair always brought a smile to my face, especially when she was just getting out of the shower or times like this morning when the sun was pumping life into her locks. I found myself some mornings smiling away as I combed my fingers through her hair like her favorite brush. But today was different. I didn’t smile. I didn’t feel anything. And before I could really figure out why today was different, my attention was shifted to the suicidal cigarette that was tossed from the kitchen window. Once again, I followed the cigarette all the way down from our second story window toward the rugged creekside that was our neighbor. The whole time I was thinking how far of a drop that must have been for that poor little cigarette.
“It’s not that important what I ate.” She replied.
I expected her to be crude and crass so I wasn’t to upset or shocked when she snapped at me. I figured she was lying to me anyways. She probably had morning after sex for breakfast. Furthermore, as of late she has been more vulgar toward me whenever she gets home in the morning. Her devilish behavior has been occurring so often that I have stopped paying attention to her at times. I feel like she gets off on belittling me, but at this point she was just making it harder on herself. She grabbed another cigarette and put a flame to the ass end of the cigarette. “So did you eat something?” She inquired.
“Well, I was kinda waiting on you as I always do when you come home in the morning.” It’s true. I do wait around for her to eat so that we can sustain some kind of a relationship or perhaps just a friendship.
“I think you should eat something.” She suggested.
“Oh. Thanks for being so concerned all of a sudden.”
She took another pull from the cigarette yet this time she blew the smoke in my face. “Oh. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do that.”
“Ya right.”
“I really didn’t.” She confessed. “Don’t be such a pussy.” She got up from the kitchen table to get some more tea. “You want some tea?” She asked.
“No, thank you.”
She sat back down and took one more pull on the cigarette before she flicked it out the second story window. She tossed her hair to the side and asked, “I know its bad timing but do you have any weed?” She paused rubbing her sore neck. “I’m really tired and want to go to bed.”
“I think do.” I grabbed our stash box from behind the salt and pepper shakers and peaked inside. Sure enough I did and then immediately closed the box. “Before you start smoking, I have something I want to say to you.” I wasn’t surprise when she gave me a fuck yourself look, as if I was going to read to her another one of my poems. But today was different. I haven’t written a poem about her or us in a long time thanks to the coldness of her presence.
She took another drag from the cigarette and exhaled. “Are going to read one of your love poems to me? Because I much rather smoke some weed before you do.”
I grabbed cigarette and fired it up. “No, what I have to say is much more poetic.” I took a couple of quick drags. “I don’t know how else to say this but I’m just going to say it.”
“Alright already. You’re starting to fuckin’ bore me.” She interrupted.
“I’ve been seeing someone else for about five months now, ever since you began staying out late these past several months.”
“What do you mean by seeing someone else? She paused to inhale and exhale the poisons of the cigarette. “Do you mean…you have been watching crazy amounts of porn again or chatting it up on E Harmony? Because I can deal with the porn, but if it’s the E Harmony--we definitely got a problem. You know how I feel about that site. It creeps me out.”
“You got me all wrong, Pretty Girl. I’m done with the days of porn and E Harmony. I’ve been seeing someone really special, who respects me and appreciates every big or little thing I do. She understands me not like you. You have been taken advantage of me for far too long, and I got lonely. You’re never home anymore. You’re out late three or four times a week, and sometimes you never come home at all. So I started seeing this girl.”
She tossed her cigarette out the window and grabbed another one with a violent calm look to her eyes. “So you are having sex with her.”
“Yup.”
“You’re a dumbass, you know that right.” She paused to light her cigarette. “Do I know her?”
I looked out the window and saw a charcoal colored hawk ripping apart that red cardinal I saw earlier. I looked back up at my girlfriend and replied, “Yup.”
She took one monster pull back on the cigarette and exhaled with a silent anger, “Do you know why I have been coming home real late and sometimes not coming home at all? What do you think I’m doing? Do you think I’ve clubbing and fucking other people? If you think that, you’re a fucking idiot.”
“So why these late hours and why coming home smellin’ like vodka and sex all the time?”
“I haven’t said anything because I wanted to surprise you. If you must know, cheater, I picked up a second job, stripping at the Palazio. I have been trying to make some extra money to get you a new car. Because as you and I know, your car is a piece of shit, and that dead horse cost us more money for repairs than a new car payment would.”
I flicked out the cigarette out the window and grabbed another one. This time I didn’t bother lighting it up right away. I was perplexed. Confused. She seemed so sincere as she confessed about her late night shenanigans, but how I can be so sure. We still have not had sex in about a year, and whenever I try to arrange a romantic evening she had a headache or was tired. Then I started questioning or perhaps doubting if I was not attractive enough for her. What’s wrong with me?
She held in her last drag for a long time. I could see the pain pulsating all through her pretty face. She then tossed her cigarette out the window perhaps for the last time in our apartment. The weird thing about that cigarette is that this time I could hear it screaming as if fell from grace. “So, who is this girl you’ve been seeing?”
I looked away again out through the window. The hawk was gone, but some how the branch where the hawk once perched had cradled the cigarette. And every time the wind blew the cigarette looked like it was being rocked to sleep. Then the funniest thing happened, the branch caught on fire. And I started thinking about the burning bush story of Moses from the Bible. But before I could finish that thought a strong gust of wind blew out the little fire and the cigarette continued its journey down to the earth with the other cigarette butts.
“Hello.” She snapped.
“Sorry. Where was I? Well, she is actually still here.”
“She’s here?”
“Yup. She is in the bedroom right now.” I took a puff on the cigarette, and exhaled, “Madison, come out.”
The bed room door opened slowly and closed very softly. The pity-patter of bare feet on the wooden floors echoed throughout the house. I’m sure Madison was scared so she took baby steps as she approached the entrance of the kitchen. Like the temperature in the room--fear began to rise melting all the cold tension that was lingering from earlier. I, too, was overwhelmed with fear. I think any human being in that position would be in a state of fear. Well, maybe except Fillmore Slim, the famous American Pimp, who infamously preached, “I don’t love them hoes.” He would probably would have slapped his bitch and then ask for his money when she walked into the door from her late night devilish antics. I heard Madison release a deep breath as she made her first step into the kitchen entrance.
“Madison!!!” My girlfriend cried. She then looked over at me. “You’re seeing my sister? What the…..”
Madison was the younger sister of my girlfriend. And she was extremely hot and sexy too. If we were playing the celebrity look-a-like game, I would say Madison looked like Miranda Kerr, especially her Tahiti ocean eyes. I know what you guys are saying, there was no excuse to be having sex with my girlfriend’s sister. But it wasn’t all me. She seduced me like the ghost scene with Dan Ankroyd in Ghostbusters. One night when Danielle, my girlfriend, was apparently working late making extra cash stripping, Madison and I were taking shots of tequila and snow skiing on record albums while listening to Doobie Brother and Steely Dan records. We locked eyes and had a moment. And then our animal instincts took over. That was like five or six months ago, and we have been seeing each other ever since.
There was a moment of silence in the room between the three of us. I sensed death in the room today. Madison cautiously stepped closer to the kitchen table and stood right next to me resting her hands on my shoulders.
“I’m so sorry, Danielle. I know you are my sister, but we are for real. We are really in love. I’ve been searching for someone like him all my life.” Madison paused for a second and took a deep breath. “I know it looks bad but it was all my fault. I initiated this affair. And besides you told me you were sleeping around too. Right?”
“I told you that in confidence.” Danielle replied. “I can’t believe this.”
Danielle lit up another cigarette and looked out the kitchen window. I didn’t know what to say, and when I looked at Madison she just shrugged her shoulders. I should feel disgusted too, as I just found out my girlfriend was cheating on me. I always trusted my instincts.
“So, how long you’ve been cheating, Danielle?” I inquired.
“That’s none of your business.”
“None of my business!!!”
“That doesn’t sound really fair, Danielle.”
She flicked the cigarette out the window and looked over at Madison and I. “There is nothing fair about this world. Nothing. And I really hate the both of you right now. I would really like for you two to get the fuck out of my face.”
“But Babe.”
“Don’t you ever call me Babe, again. You got that.” And she grabbed the picture of us vacationing in Colorado on our third year anniversary, and tossed the picture out the kitchen window. It was my favorite picture of us. I ran to the window and saw the picture fall two stories down onto the rocky creekside down below. The picture landed on a tiny patch of daisies that was surrounded by a huge area of gremlin like rocks and troll like foliage. The way the picture found the smallest patch of daisies to brake its fall was symbolic to me, I started thinking that perhaps the three of us would end up friends again. However, Danielle did something to grab my attention. I looked back at Danielle and I noticed she pulled out something shiny and chrome out of her purse. I zeroed in on her index finger, which was tapping on the cold steel trigger. The tapping sound reminded me of the grinding razor teeth of a great white shark.
“So…what is that for?”
Danielle took one last pull back on her cigarette, and exhaled “Well, I didn’t pull this out for nothing.”

Where The Bunnies Roam

Where The Bunnies Roam

On March 18, 1982, a little boy was born in St. Louis, Missouri. His parents had already picked out a name for him prior to his birth, Maxwell Honeycutt. But his grandmother on his father’s side, who was a full blooded Sioux Indian, had other plans for him. She knew this boy was going to be different from all the other little boys, and so just before his birth she gave him a spiritual name, “Runs With Bunnies.” And Maxwell “Runs With Bunnies” Honeycutt ended up quite different from the other little boys. Maxwell was born with ears that were not your average ears. His ears were extremely long and floppy like a bunny. Maxwell, also had a little tail. Well, the tail was more like a nub, a long nub that extended out from his tail bone. Furthermore, what made this tail so cute was that his tail wiggled from side to side whenever he was happy or anxious. But the most interesting discovery came six years later when Maxwell was diagnosed with schizophrenia, as he began to think and believe he was a bunny and started wearing bunny suits on the regular--at home, at school, school plays, at church, and even when he went to bed. There was never a time Maxwell wasn’t wearing his bunny suit. Maxwell’s diet changed too as his bunny transformation progressed, as he became a vegetarian and only ate carrots and celery, and on special occasions like let’s say Thanksgiving, Momma would make him a special fruit salad. On the subject of special, because Maxwell’s bunny transformation was progressing at alarming rate, the multiple doctors that studied and analyzed Maxwell, agreed that his behavior was his way to cope with his so-called “birth defects.” In short, Maxwell was forcing his transformation into becoming a reality.
So as you might have guessed, Maxwell didn’t have any friends at school or in the community. Most of the people in his neighborhood and everyone at school, including the administration, used to laugh at him and called him names because he wore a bunny suit to school. And will he was just different physically, mentally, socially, and fashionably. “Runs With Bunnies,” had a plethora of bunny suits of all different colors. You name the color he had it, and his favorite bunny suits were the colors pink and purple, and he wore these colors mostly on Fridays. Fridays were his favorite part of the week because he didn’t have to bullied by the kids at school over the weekend, so these colors were more like a “up yours, it’s Friday” on many levels. Maxwell’s haters also laughed and made fun of him because he hopped around like a bunny from class to class and destination to destination. Fortunately, he did have loving, supportive parents and other family members, especially his grandma, who offered much encouragement and the confidence he needed to be successful in school and in life.
And boy did Maxwell succeed. At every grade level he had the highest grades in the class and was involved in just about every extra-curricular activity the school had to offer. In high school, Maxwell not only was Valedictorian but he was Captain of the Latin Team, the Spanish Team, the French Team, the German Team, Captain of the Chess Club, Physics Club, the Poetry Club, the Fencing Club, the Ping-Pong Club, the Uno Club, and the Golf Team--his favorite sport. His favorite golfer on the tour was Greg “The Shark” Norman, mostly because he was afraid of sharks. After all he was a little bunny rabbit. “I’m ssskkared,” he would shout every time Norman came on the TV. Moreover, during Maxwell’s senior year in high school he faced a discovery that was somewhat alarming but in a good way. After golf practice he was in the locker room taking his shower with some of the other male athletes when he was suddenly overwhelmed with hot flashes and became aroused. Luckily, the other boys didn’t notice his erection through his bunny suit because he surely would have been humiliated across the school campus and completely traumatized for life, perhaps? Later on that evening after dinner he approached his Pop about what happened in the showers.
“Hey Pop, can I talk to you?”
“Most certainly.” Pop stated as he wiggled into his favorite recliner.
Maxwell stood there pondering to find the right words, “Well, I don’t know how to say this so I am just going to say it. While I was taking my shower after golf practice, I suddenly became overheated and aroused when I was checking out the naked bodies of the other boys…......I am really confused, Pop.”
Pop straightened up and out of his recliner and leaned into Maxwell, “Son, what you experienced is perfectly alright. Your different, Son.”
“I don’t want to be different. I want to be normal like everyone else.”
“But you are, Son. In my eyes you are normal. You’re my little homosexual bunny, and I love you very much.”
Maxwell was perplexed. “What does homosexual really mean? I don’t understand.”
“Well Max, if you must know homosexuality is the romantic or sexual attraction or behavior among members of the same sex.”
“Oh….you mean like Rosie O’Donnell. Or when boy dogs hump on other boy dogs.”
Pop laughed, “No not quite. But that’s funny.”
Maxwell bit his upper lip and stated, “Well, thanks Pop for talking with me.”
“No problem, Max. Just remember I will always love you, my little gay bunny.”
“I love you too, Pop.”
It was at this point that Maxwell realized that not only was he a bunny but he was a gay bunny. However, Maxwell started to have these common feelings that everyone goes through in life. “Is there someone out there for me?”
Maxwell, experienced some love interest throughout his adult life from college to present time, but his experience was only one sided as all of his love interest were not interested in poor, Maxwell. Maxwell was just different from everyone. He battled bouts with depression on random nights because of the emptiness in his heart. But unlike some of us that emptiness didn’t slow down Max, as he continued his focus on his education which he later graduated tops in his class from the University of Missouri. And later got his Masters in Business at the University of Penn State. Shortly, after graduation he began to take more of an interest in becoming an insurance salesman. You ask why insurance? Well, still today Max doesn’t even know why he chose the insurance salesmen path. I guess since he had never loved or felt loved by someone other than his family, the term “insurance” made him feel safe. After graduate school, Maxwell ended up joining the biggest insurance company in St. Louis, and later became the best insurance salesman in the city of St. Louis, maybe even in the state some would say. I mean who could resist a highly educated bunny….not I. That’s why he’s my insurance salesman.
Despite his success with his healthy annual income, high rise condo in the heart of the downtown, two nice brand new cars, and his great closet full of designer suits and shoes, he was still very empty inside. Material items as such were not doing the trick anymore the emptiness was growing and was becoming more evident in his eyes and in his work. One night after supper he opened up a bottle of wine and put on one of his favorite records, Depeche Mode’s “101.” Two bottles later Depeche Mode’s “Somebody,” blared into his sad floppy ears and down to his empty heart, and he began to feel lonely and neglected, as he danced and paraded around his condo trying on some new clothes he had bought earlier in the day from Neiman Marcus. Finally, the song ended and Max decided, “I need to get the hell out of here……RIGHT NOW.” That Depeche Mode song is quite a sad song in case you haven’t heard it before. And so he grabbed his favorite cashmere sweater and hopped down the street to his local bar, 04 Lounge. The bar was hopping distance from his condo. Max was a regular there and so everyone accepted his gay bunny demeanor, especially the older Mexican men that frequent the joint. Max sold them a great health insurance package, so they always bought him beers or his favorite drink, a michelada with a Bud Lime.
As soon as Maxwell walked into the bar he was greeted kinda like Norm from Cheers. “Yeah, it’s Max!!!” Everyone shouted. Sure the greeting was pleasant, which always was the case, but not today. Max hopped up to the bar and immediately the bartender, Brandy, got to work on his favorite drink.
“I really like your color today, Max.” Brandy smiled.
“Thank you, Brandy.”
“What’s wrong, Max? I can tell something is wrong. Your ears are down.”
“Girlfriend, I don’t think I will ever meet someone like me….ever.”
Brandy shook her head. “Don’t say that. You are tryin’ to hard. It’s a competitive world. Even for love. Even for bunnies.”
“Please. I am a gay bunny, Brandy. How can I possibly find love?”
Brandy stepped over to Max and handed him his drink. “Keep thinking like that and you will find yourself alone. And I don’t want that for you, Mr. Maxwell.” Brandy pondered for a sec with a shot in hand. “Maybe, just maybe you need a vacation.”
“That sounds so good. What do you got in mind?”
“Well, I hear San Francisco is good this time of year.”
Max took a sip of his michelada. “San Fran? I’ve never been before. What’s it like?”
Brandy paused to take another shot. “I’ve never been either but I hear wonderful things. You just might fit in there.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Well, I hear the city has great museums and I know how much you like the arts. And you just might find love there on the docks of the Fishermen’s Warf. It will be romantic.”
“Ooohhh. I like the sound of the Fisherman’s Warf.” Max then took a long pondering sip and sighed, “That will be the day.”
Max finished his drink and shared some laughs with his therapy Mexican buddies (Jody, Gilbert, Albert, Cowboy Sam, Liko, and Senior Sam), and then headed home to purchase tickets to San Fran for a weekend trip. That night Max laid in bed with the dreaded high heart sprain, as he laid sleepless in St. Louis. Later that night as he finally fell asleep he had visions and dreams of founding true love in San Francisco. The following morning came very slowly like a soldier finally coming home from Iraq, but that all changed once he popped in a xanax and had some drinks at the airport. The anxiety of the flight and the anxiety of the treasure hunt for love came and went in a flash as he landed at the SFO, San Francisco International Airport, right on time. Max immediately hopped to the nearest taxi and headed to his hotel. Once at the hotel he didn’t spend any time getting cleaned up, he was on a mission. “Runs With Bunnies,” was tired of being a slave to time without having a special someone in his life.
So Max headed out and hopped out to the nearest bus to the nearest subway to the nearest trolley to check out all the museums and eat at all the fine restaurants he had heard about on the net. Each destination he hopped to he kept a third eye out for Mr. McDreamy. But each time he was disappointed. He went to Haight and Asbury--no luck. Too hippieish he thought and everyone smelled like rotten onions. The next day he went to the Castro District, where he heard there were many gay men but he didn’t meet anyone interesting. As he put it, “There were mostly crack heads there.” That night he hopped back to the hotel slightly disappointed but full of other kinds of treasures--the food, the people watching, the museums, the adventure, and hearing the beat of the city. All he really wanted was to find his lover, so that he could sing his favorite Rod Stewart song “You’re In My Heart” to him. But as the sun began to set, he slowly felt the light slipping away because that night was his last in San Fran. The next morning he woke up in a better mood. He was finally going back home to his things in a matter of hours. Max hopped out of the hotel one last time and went for a hop to the Fisherman’s Warf to check out Alcatraz with the fog lingering over the prison like a bad nightmare. As he stared at the prison he ate the depression away by munching down on a bread bowl clam chowder, and thinking, crying his heart out because yet again his heart had miss the boat. He thought about biting his lip and turning away but he held on for one more minute to catch Alcatraz one last time.
And that minute was all it took. Max received a love tap on his shoulder and a smile grew all over his face and his bunny tail began to wiggle out loud and his ears erected upright. And just before he spun around he thought, “This is it. Thank you, Lord.” Max spun around and standing right behind him were his parents. Tears of volcanic joy smothered his cheeks and steamrolled down to his bunny feet.
“We love you so very much, my little gay bunny.” His parents expressed as they each wrapped their arms around Maxwell “Runs With Bunnies” Honeycutt, the love of their life.
“I love you too, Momma…and Pop.” With his arms wrapped around his parents Max began to cry with complete happiness in his heart and his soul.

Tonight: Pop Muzic at the OMNI

Tonight: Pop Muzic at the OMNI

Winter rolled into town with a vengeance like some Banditos, and decided to stick around like a murder rap. It has been six months of gang wars between the snow flurries and the black ice—two dangerous motherfuckas. Mother Nature has a way of letting us know who is the real o.g. (orginal gangsta) in this hood. Just think of Haiti and Katrina, Mother Nature has the money and the power. However, despite the winter’s turf wars there was only one person brave enough to venture out in those hellish winter conditions and his name, T-Bo Poqus Johnson. While everyone one else in Winterville, USA, got to sleep in and woke up to defrosted, paved roads, T-Bo on the other hand didn’t have that luxury as he was up early in the morning every winter gangbangin’,pavin’ away on the roads against those murderous elements. For the past twenty-two years, T-Bo has plowed the streets of Winterville, USA, through the worst winters recorded. For the record, T-Bo has never lost a bout with the winter’s heavyweights. Subsequently, his work ethic was second to none as he also took pride in his superstitious morning rituals. His morning rountine was simple and down right American. He woke up to his timely coffee that was set up at night for four in the morning. And, today because the weather was so bad T-Bo fired up his computer for his news updates and the weather report. Normally, T-Bo read the paper in the morning just like a lot of other Americans but the paper boy these days are not built like our parent’s paperboy. These days the paperboy was lazier and rounder. But I digrest, T-Bo favored his eggs scrabbled and his toast buttered up with grape jam or peach as an audible. And on Sundays’ he liked his Sunday grits buttered and sweet with a dap of honey. The last and final stages of his everyday routine was his militant march to the front door of his humble dwelling to take one last gulp of his black coffee. And with the screen door opened to the outside world he took down that last gulp with a big rub to his belly for super powers, and then finally with a rebel yell he would shout, “THE GREAT OUT DOORS.” In other words, it’s takin’ care of business time. TBC, as we called in Winterville.

T-Bo didn’t see himself as a God or a savior to the folks of Winterville by any means. T-Bo considered himself to be an average man, working man. He worked hard every day and rocked out to Steely Dan while on the job just like many other Americans. He was neither greedy or selfish, as he was a bible man. Some folks and residents of Winterville thought of T-Bo as a hero of sorts. Not like Iron Man or John Mclane from the “Die Hard” fame. But more like a firefighter. Sure, he plowed the streets and divided the ice like Moses, so that the rat racers had a clear path for their morning trek to work. But, where the rat racers really began to their day was what made T-Bo infamous around Winterville—a folk hero. The point I’m talkin’ about between home and work was T-Bo’s real job. T-Bo’s real job consisted of providin’ a gospel offering of the best chicken and waffles known to man or woman of all races—American, African-American, Asian-American, Mexican-American and all the other “cans” out there. His joint was called “The OMNI,” and the shop was a holy temple for all. Every single person in Winterville started their day or ended their day having T-Bo’s chicken and waffles. Some considered the chicken and waffles as water and others felt like the plate was oxygen—their life source.

The slogan at the OMNI was “I’ve been hittin’ it for the past few days.” And because of the mass following to the OMNI on all the days that end in “y,” T-Bo made t-shirts, hot pants, wristbands, headbands, and the infamous stickers which featured a cracked out lookin’ man leaning up against the wall under a street light surrounded by ten or so empty plates of chicken and waffles that read, “I’ve been hittin’ it for the past few days.” Even his merchandise was a hot commodity and flew off the shelves just like the chicken and waffle plates. Some folks like his childhood buddies (now retired) had seven shirts for the seven days of the week—different colors too. The kids on the play ground shootin’ hoops or playin’ four square were all rockin’ one form or another of the OMNI’s merch. So as you can guess, T-Bo was a man about town—a local hero, salt of the Earth.

Today, T-Bo plowed on through the major roads of Winterville with little resistance from the snow flurries and the black ice, and made it to the OMNI with time to spare. He parked in his usual spot and caught the last few minutes of the Howard Stern show. T-Bo had a thing/a crush for Robin Quivers. The show went to commercial, so T-Bo decided it was time to light up the engines for another glorious day of chicken and waffles. The way the Lord intended it to be in T-Bo’s eyes. As he walked up to the front door with keys in hand T-Bo gotta a sharp, alarming tap on the shoulder. It was as if T-Bo had just been touched by a ghost of pussy past.

“Holy shit, boi. You scared me.”

“Sorry sir, I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Don’t do that again, you hear. You see this”. T-Bo opened up his jacket and flashed the stranger the heat he was packin’—baby sittin’ as they say in Ghettoville, USA. “Next time you might have your cap peeled, son.”

T-Bo noticed that the kid’s eyes never left T-Bo’s eyes, the kid was locked in, a sign of respect. T-Bo always told the kids in the hood to, “Always look at dem eyes when you talkin’ to another person, it’s a sign of respect”. Moreover, the mention of the pistol didn’t faze the pup. The kid had no fear, he must have been through a lot T-Bo thought.

“So what brings you out this early in the morning, boi?”

“Well.......”

“Spit it out, son. I don’t have the time to be messin’ around.”

“Well, I was wantin’ a job. You see I’m not from around here, and I can’t find a job any where. No job equals no money, and you and me both know that ain’t right.” The boy paused for a sec, “some cat down the road said you might be hiring—day labor kinda thing.”

T-Bo unlocked the door and looked back at the feral kid. He had a gut feeling that this stranger might just work out for once. T-Bo had a history of being a charitable man, giving jobs to strangers or the desperate. But more often than not he was disappointed time and time again, as the new hires would run off after lunch or after they get their days pay never to be seen again. Once, one stranger tried to rob T-Bo. T-Bo and the stranger were cleaning up at the end of the night but the stranger had know idea that T-Bo ain’t afraid of dyin’. T-Bo was in the special forces during Vietnam. T-Bo had seen enough death that he was numb to death. And so T-Bo turned the gun around on the stranger, pistol whipped the dumbass, and then hog tied him up until the cops showed up twenty minutes later to arrest the chump.

The moment T-Bo locked eyes with the boy he felt instant connection for some odd reason. So with a short pause T-Bo took a chance, “Boi, come on in. I need some help with the morning prep. You know how to work a knife?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What about a fryer?”

“Yes, sir. My heart don’t pump no slushee.”

T-Bo stopped in his tracks. “What did you just say?”

“I said, my heart don’t pump no slushee.” The boy recorded back.

Déjà vu hit T-Bo with a right cross. As T-Bo continued to the kitchen he asked, “Boi, where did hear that from? I’ve been sayin’ that for years. A lot longer than you’ve been born. “

The perplexed kid replied, “Shit, I don’t know. I think I got it from my Momma.”

“You got it from your Momma? Who do you think you are, Juvenile?”

The kid laughed, “No sir.”

So the kid followed T-Bo to the back of the kitchen where the sink room was. T-Bo showed the kid where all the knives and pretty much all the kitchen ware was stationed at. And then showed him the walk-in where all the food is stored. While in the walk-in T-Bo mentioned, “Here is where you can smoke weed if you’re in to that. But don’t slack off if you smoke, I’ll fire your ass.”

“Cool…..sometimes I do but not here at work.” The boy replied.

“I don’t mind if you do just don’t slack’ off.”

“Yes sir.”

After the walk through of the kitchen the apple tree and the apple got to bustin’ out the morning prep. T-Bo showed the kid how he wanted everything to be cut and prepped, and later stored for backups. And the kid took up the system like he done it before. T-Bo was quite impressed with the kid’s work ethic and how fast he picked up how the kitchen functions. The whole time T-Bo kept lookin’ over his shoulder to inspect the kid’s work and each time he thought, “This kid is good. Reminds me of myself. And I think he is going to work out.” In just a matter of a couple of hours, T-Bo and the kid knocked out the morning prep in a timely fashion which is unheard of. Normally, the walk-in strangers T-Bo employed were a bunch of “lazy ass mothafuckas,” and the morning prep routine lasted up until the doors were open for business. So with time to spare T-Bo tapped the kid on the shoulder, “Say kid, lets take a break. I gots somethings to show you. Follow me.”

So the kid followed T-Bo to the front of the restaurant, the dining area. And T-Bo began to point out his prize possesions around the dining area—the autographed sports memorabilia. He pointed out the Dominique Wilkin’s autograhped jerseys and cards, the rookie card of Dale Murphy and signed bat, Hank Aaron’s last game program, Deon Sanders Brave’s jersey and Falcon’s jersey, and the list continues from wall to wall. All of the local professional teams were well represented at the OMNI. And the lone wall that didn’t have all the sport collectibles was the hall of fame wall with pictures from all of the celebrities who have bungeed through the OMNI throughout the decades. T-Bo was like, “Here is the photo of Ali and me in ‘79. And over here is Rodney Dangerfield and Richard Pryor in ’83. This one over here is Redd Foxx and me in ’81. Elvis swung by here in ’71.” T-Bo went silent as he drove himself back to memory lane. And then he exhaled, “This is one of my favorite pics.....Jimmy Carter and myself in ’77.”

The kid took a step closer to T-Bo and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Man, you’ve done a lot for yourself. This OMNI place must be real good?”

“Kid, you’ve never eaten here?”

“No….sir.”

T-Bo about faced and was lookin’ at the kid in the eyes, “Kid, you don’t have to call me sir anymore. You can call me T-Bo from now on. Around here folks call me T-Bo.”

“You got it, T-Bo.”

T-Bo spun around to the soda station and grabbed a couple of cokes while the kid admired the walls of the OMNI. T-Bo then sat down at one of the tables in the dining area. “Say kid, come over here. I gots somethings to run by you before I open up the doors.” The kid sat down opposite of T-Bo. “Alright, I’m going to have you run the register today. We always get really slammed in the morning and you ain’t ready to be behind the fryers or the stove top.”

“That’s cool. I catch on pretty quick.”

“I’ve noticed that. So what’s your name, kid?”

The kid took a sip from his coke. “My name is Tre’ but most folks call me Quick.”

“Tre’? That’s a good name. I’ve always liked that name. I always wanted to name my son, Tre’, if I ever had a son.”

Shortly, the two guys got into a brief chat about how to run the register and how to take orders. Soon after the quick lesson the other employess started to roll in—Niesha (the chicken specialist), Jordan (the fryer), Lastings (stove top), and last but not least KJ (dishwasher). Everyone got introduced in a quick manner and then it was TBC time as the doors got unlocked and the sign flashed “open.” Breakfast and lunch ran together as the OMNI yet again got slammed for the next five hours. The once clean kitchen now looked like Katrina slammed right through it. There was batter, flour, butter, eggs, and spices scrambled all through the kitchen. But after the morning and lunch rush, business kinda slowed down for everyone, which allowed everyone to catch up with their cleaning duties before the dinner rush swung through. And as usual after T-Bo did his midday drop into the safe, he then marched around to inspect everyone’s stations and offered praises for a “job well done.” Finally, he made it to Tre’ and tapped him on the back, “You did good, Tre’. I’m surprise how fast you adapted to the situation and overcame all of those hungry ass folks. They can be quite vicious—animals.”

“They don’t call me, Quick, for nothing.” Tre’ swiftly replied.

“Well said, Tre. I mean Quick.” T-Bo uttered.

Moreover, the OMNI got cleaned up in a timely manner as always leaving time to spare for everyone to get their heads on straight inside the walk-in including T-Bo and Tre’. T-Bo normally doesn’t smoke with the staff, but this glorious day wasn’t in ordinary day—“today was a good day”. Not much is known about what goes on in these smoke breaks in the walk-in but the smoke break was a success as everyone walked out diggin’ on Tre’ even more. Niesha said it best, “I gotcha yo back, playa. You crazy funny.” The dinner rush came and went with very little hangups. After the dinner rush everyone knocked out their duties and went home, except for T-Bo and Tre’. They stuck around drinking beers and pullin’ back on a joint.

“So how do you like workin’ here, Tre’?” T-Bo exhaled.

Tre’ exhaled, “This place is dope. I like it a lot. You gots some cool cats up in here.”

“I agree. Most of dem cats have been with me for along time. Lastings has been with me for over ten years and everyone else for about seven. They work hard and I pay them well.”

“People seem to love this shit here. It’s like crack is in the recipe.” Tre’ exhaled.

T-Bo laughed, “Na…ain’t no crack in my yardbird. Just good ol’ fashion southern recipe with a twist.”

“What is the twist?” Tre’ inquired.

“Boi…I’ll never tell. Well, I gots to do somethings in the office so I’m going to bungee to the office but I’ll be right back. Help yourself to anything.”

T-Bo slipped out of the booth and headed back to the kitchen and into his office. He didn’t bother closing the door or locking the door as he normally does, he felt confident that Tre’ was on God’s side. T-Bo spun around the dial on the safe and got it open. He had to pull some money out to do his morning drop at the bank. As he was counting the bank from the safe there was a knock at the half closed door. But it wasn’t no ordinary knuckle knock, the knock sounded like a cold steel knock. T-Bo started to put the money back in the safe when he blurted, “Tre’ is that you?”

The door slowly swung open and Tre’ had a nickel plated glock 9 in his left hand with the pistol pointed sideways at T-Bo’s head. Right away T-Bo noticed that Tre’ was a lefty like he was. “What’s goin’ down, Tre’?”

With his finger on the curved trigger and his radar locked in on T-Bo’s eyes Tre’ replied. “What’s really goin’ down isn’t the money in your hand or in the safe. We have some unfinished business to discuss, Mr. T-Bo Poqus Johnson.”

With fear in his eyes and sweat tears poppin’ out of his forehead T-Bo asked, “What the hell are you talkin’ about, boi?”

Without any sort of hesistation Tre’ fired a shot. “POP.” Then came T-Bo’s screams of pain. As the bullet pierced through the palm of T-Bo’s right hand some bloodlets splattered against the wall coating the first dollar spent at the OMNI that was pinned up next to T-Bo’s desk. Other bloodlets splashed on T-Bo’s face and a couple of drops landed on Tre’s shirt. Tre’ never flinched.

“What da fuck?” T-Bo cried out as he cradled his wounded right hand into his chest. “You shot me mothefucka. Now you better kill me you little bitch.” This wasn’t the first time T-Bo had been shot, so he took it rather bravely.

Once again without any hesistation Tre’ fired another shot. “POP.” T-Bo yelled out again this time louder hoping someone would hear. This time Tre’ shot T-Bo’s right foot, which went right through the steel toed boot. And yet again bloodlets splattered this time across the floor, also landing on Tre’s kicks. I guess the steel toed boot isn’t bullet proof. Tre didn’t flinched.

“Aaaaawwwwwww. You little bitch. What’s your fuckin’ deal?” T-Bo cried in pain.

Tre’ started pacin’ around the office wavin’ around the glock. Anger and pain was pumpin’ through his whole body. “Alright, T-Bo. Do you remember a woman by the name of Tamika Cole Starghill?”

“Hell na.” T-Bo cried.

Tre’ took a step toward T-Bo, and stepped on his bullet pierced foot. As T-Bo shouted in pain Tre’ asked again, “Do you remember a woman by the name of Tamika Cole Starghill?”

“What part of no do you not get?” T-Bo cried.

Tre’ pointed the pistol at T-Bo’s head and fired a third shot,”POP,” this time the bullet clipped the right ear. “Fuck you,” T-Bo yelled as blood tricked down his neck. More bloodlets splattered the wall.

“Do you remember the name of a woman by the name of Tamika Cole Starghill, NOW?” Tre’ asked again.

T-Bo started to feel lightheaded, delirious, and sick to his stomach. The andreline was flowin’ and kickin’ in. The third shot jump started his memory bank all the way back 1986. August of that year, T-Bo remembered that he had a one night stand with a Tamika Cole Starghill. A day he now regrets. Tamika had walked into the OMNI for lunch lookin’ good with her short blue jean shorts, tiny white tank-top, red high hills, fuck-me red lipstick, and rockin’ her spanish flowing hair like Queen Isabel. T-Bo thought, “GOD DAMN. I’m takin’ her home tonight.” She flirted out her order and lured T-Bo in right off the bat. And as she ate she kept lookin’ up at T-Bo giving him pretty eyes. Before she left she strolled up to the counter with an alluring smile and left T-Bo with a message written on a napkin. T-Bo leaned over the counter to check out her big round beautiful ass, and as she walked and sped off in her ride T-Bo opened up the napkin. Inside the napkin was the name of the hotel and room number, and the remains of a kiss from her perky red fuck me red lipstick. Sure enough after work T-Bo b-lined straight to the hotel and took well advantage of the sweet offering. A night to remember. Well, a month or so later after the sex rendeavous had faded out of memory, The Ghost of Pussy Past, drifted into T-Bo’s life unexpectedly. Tamika called up the OMNI one September afternoon talkin’ about her period was late and was pregnant. And this is what T-Bo said after hearing about the news, “Naaa….it couldn’t be me. Not me.” And he hung up the phone. Tamika never attempted to contact T-Bo ever again. And T-Bo never cared. T-Bo never said a word to anyone about this skeleton bone in the closet.

“Yes…..I do remember Tamika. She was a mighty fine fuck.”

Tre’ raised the gun up and fired another shot, “POP.” The bullet hit T-Bo’s other foot leaving more blood and bloodlets across the office. Once again, T-Bo yelled out for “help” but not even help was goin’ to help tonight. Tre’ again wiped the blood off of his face with his sleeve. He didn’t even flinch when the blood hit his face. Tre’ then sat down on the office chair across from T-Bo and admired the sight of T-Bo layin’ there with his clothes soaked in his own blood and big rain drop tears streamin’ down his treblin’ cheeks. Tre’ smiled, “You like that, right? It feels good.” Tre’ took a short pause to admire the master piece he created. “Tamika Cole Starghill was my Momma. You little bitch.”

“Fuck you, Tre’.” T-Bo cried.

Without any sort of hesistation Tre’ shot T-Bo again. “POP.” This time he shot T-Bo’s other hand and more blood splattered against the wall. T-Bo cried out louder than before for help. But help is not in his cards today. “How does it feel, T-Bo?” Tre’ asked as he got up from the chair and grabbed his cigarettes, and pulled out a joint half smoked. He put some fire to the ass end of the joint and exhaled, “So how does it feel to be alone and nobody here to help?” Tre’ started to slide and dance around the office with T-Bo’s blood at this feet. “This is quite fun….don’t ya think, Daddy?” He had a smile of happiness stretched across his face. Tre’ had never been happier in his life seein’ the pain on T-Bo’s face. “Tamika, my Momma, talked about how great of a man you are. Well, where.” Tre’ walked back over to the chair and sat down again. “But I don’t see it.” He inhaled and exhaled, “How can a good man be considered a good man if he showed no interest in takin’ care of the woman who was carrin’ his baby. Or how about keepin’ in contact with the child for the the child’s sake. You’re a bad man. And now I’m here to share some quality time with my Pop.”

T-Bo tried to his hardest to get up off the ground not like James Brown but more like a man tryin’ not to die. But Tre’ kicked him back down. “Where do you think you’re going, Daddy?” Tre’ flicked the roach at T-Bo in disgust. “I’m not done with our quality time.”

“Just kill me already you little bitch.” T-Bo cried. “If you’re lookin’ for an apology you can go fuck yourself because you ain’t getting’ one.”

Tre’ dropped down to one knee next to his daddy, T-Bo, and placed his non-gun hand on the floor and absorbed T-Bo’s blood. He then brought his hand up to his face and painted war paint streaks down his face with T-Bo’s blood—two lines runnin’ down his cheeks kinda like tears of a clown and one long streak runnin’ across his forehead. “This is fun daddy.” Tre’ crept closer to T-Bo’s shot right ear and whispered, “I’m not lookin’ for an apology, Daddy. I’m lookin’, well, excuse me I’m wanting to do this.” Tre’ brought the glock up to T-Bo’s face and slowly ran the barrel down T-Bo’s nose. Tre’ played with T-Bo’s tears with the glock before shoved the glock into T-Bo’s mouth. “I love you, Daddy.” Tre’ whispered as he pulled the trigger. “POP.” Muzic.