She kind of likes her menial job at Denny’s. She puts in her graveyard shift, 8 hours, then back to the residential hotel. A lovely Victorian piece of deterioration with a picturesque view of a swill-soaked alleyway. As she wonders if it’s a good night to score some heroin, she counts her tips and softly makes an appeal to God.
Am I there yet?
Am I there?
Bill ran out of medication this morning. His state medical assistance was cut off last month. He’s starting to hear those voices again, just like when they found him out by the river. Presently, they’re telling him that the CIA knows he’s still got the chip the aliens implanted in his thigh, and the agents have been putting sodium penathol in his tap water. He knows they won’t make him snitch, but then there’s a knock on the door; he thinks it’s a pair of agents come to grill him at last, but actually it’s the landlord and the hotel manager coming to collect the rent. He suddenly runs to his window, leans out and bellows at the top of his lungs.
Am I there yet?
Am I there?
It’s an okay job, as far as jobs paying what he gets paid tend to go. A little puke or piss to clean up once in a while, or a drunk or deadbeat to kick out occasionally, but that’s not too often. He was reading a story in the Weekly World News about how members of the Knights Templar were the ones really in charge of the Trilateralists, the Catholic Church, and the Monkees reunion tour, when the guy in the hooded sweatshirt walked in. There wasn’t even any words, no “stick ‘em up” or anything, the guy just produced a Smith and Wesson .38 and discharged the weapon once in the bartender’s face. At the one crucial last moment frozen in time as the poor kid stared at the seemingly endless tunnel of the handgun’s barrel, the question suddenly and inexplicably entered his head.
Am I there yet?
Am I there?
Giuseppe was hauling ass out of the door of his condominium. Fresh in town from the relocation at the behest of his father, the reputed mob boss Don Jacuzzi, he was the poster boy for the Optimist Society tonight. Hopping like an Olympian over the door of his Ferrari convertible, his mind was clearly fixed upon the evening ahead. It was time to meet for coffee with the freak he’d met through the personals section of the local weekly free newspaper. Nearly maintaining an erection from the anticipation alone, he turned the ignition.
BOOM.
Ciao baby.
Within 2 hours, the FBI, the ATF, the local and the state law enforcement were carefully combing the scene, scooping up
microscopic bits of explosive material and Giuseppe as well.
Don Jacuzzi received the call late that night. He thanked the agent on the phone, hung up and stared at the Long Island Oceanside. Suddenly, he clutched his chest, and the most beautiful cherubic winged figure came forth from a tunnel of light and held his hand, and suddenly everything seemed all right.
Later, at the double funeral of her husband and son, Mrs. Jacuzzi related to friends and relatives that when she entered the room, the Don was just laying there moaning and groaning something that she swore sounded like he was saying…
Synths abound on the new single from Hearts and Rockets—icy cold, sharp, and minimal, and topped with a punk rock sneer. Bandcamp New & Notable Nov 22, 2020
