Evil Jester Digest, Vol.1 Read Online Free Page B
Author: Peter Giglio (Editor)
sprouting behind these balls and so what? So I’ll be a little bit more like the rest of ’em. A little grounded.”
“Grounded.” God spits on the sidewalk. “Buried is the word, Emil.”
*****
They continue to the Laundromat at the bottom of the hill. It’s cool inside, not like the 7-Eleven but refreshing nonetheless. The dryers rattle and hum like the Slurpee machines. Sharpe sits on a little plastic chair and kicks off his sandals, cooling his alabaster soles on the tile.
God sits beside him and surveys the joint. There’s a girl in the back unloading a washer and that’s it. Sharpe looks her over. She’s got dark brown hair cropped at the neck, thin but dark eyeliner and an aquamarine top about Hello Kitty. Kitty looks like a hydrocephalic over those fake tits. Doesn’t stir Sharpe in the pants any, but she’s nice.
“Pretty girl,” God says.
Sharpe puts the straw in his mouth and scrapes the tip of his tongue back and forth over it. He says, “Why don’t you do her?”
“It isn’t about killing, or watching you kill,” the old man replies. He coughs and hitches up his dungarees to scratch his calf. “I haven’t anything to learn about that . I could teach you a thing or two.”
Sharpe doesn’t say anything in reply. God nudges him. “What?”
The girl is in full view now, putting her stuff into a dryer. She’s wearing gray jogging shorts and flip-flops. Laundry day, right. And she doesn’t even know the two of them are there watching her. Her head’s bobbing a little, not in a blank-eyed fugue but in time to some song in her head. In her head. Sharpe wonders what it would feel like, boring into her brain with a screwdriver and watching the music run out. He shifts in the chair.
“You like her,” says God.
“She’ll do.”
Sharpe sets his drink between his legs. He’s getting hard, actually getting hard, and he feels his face go from chalk-white to eggshell in a semblance of embarrassment. This day of all days the old man has to show up with his Catholic guilt. Some G-damn adventure. And Sharpe knows there’s no getting rid of New Best Friend until he’s been allowed to scratch his secret itch.
“I know you want to watch,” Sharpe says. “No sense fibbing. It’s the kill. You’ve never dropped in to watch me do the dishes.”
God shakes his head, but he’s full of it and they both know it.
“You’re a long way from Sunday, preacher,” Sharpe says and smiles. “You talk her into leaving with us and I’ll turn her inside out.”
The old man harrumphs. If they’d been playing cards Sharpe would have pushed all in.
“No glamours,” Sharpe says. “No hoodoo. Straight pick-er-up.”
“I’m not interested—”
“Then don’t play.” Sharpe goes back to nursing his Slurpee.
“So you’ll just let her walk out of here, then?” The old man’s cheeks tremble as he tries to keep it below a whisper.
“There’ll be others. She’s just alright.” Sharpe’s making his bluff, and he knows there’s a red-hot tell pulsing against his thigh. It makes him feel stupid, that hard thing. Was that the point of the Adam story?
Sharpe looks at the Creator. The old man is incredulous.
“You don’t think I can do it,” God breathes. “You don’t think I can speak to a woman.”
“I think you’ve got the personality of a sandwich,” Sharpe replies.
God rises from his seat. His face flushes red, but it’s not anger—and maybe that’s why he likes Sharpe, after all, because who else has the stones to mouth off to him like that? Grieving mothers and fallen clergy don’t count. They’re just screaming into their hands. Only one other gentleman has ever dared say anything salty to the old man’s face. Maybe this outlaw has that same charm.
Then the old man walks over to the girl, and that just reaffirms Sharpe’s long-running theory that he’s but a god gone soft and looking to see some Old Testament torture porn.
Sharpe leans forward and
“Grounded.” God spits on the sidewalk. “Buried is the word, Emil.”
*****
They continue to the Laundromat at the bottom of the hill. It’s cool inside, not like the 7-Eleven but refreshing nonetheless. The dryers rattle and hum like the Slurpee machines. Sharpe sits on a little plastic chair and kicks off his sandals, cooling his alabaster soles on the tile.
God sits beside him and surveys the joint. There’s a girl in the back unloading a washer and that’s it. Sharpe looks her over. She’s got dark brown hair cropped at the neck, thin but dark eyeliner and an aquamarine top about Hello Kitty. Kitty looks like a hydrocephalic over those fake tits. Doesn’t stir Sharpe in the pants any, but she’s nice.
“Pretty girl,” God says.
Sharpe puts the straw in his mouth and scrapes the tip of his tongue back and forth over it. He says, “Why don’t you do her?”
“It isn’t about killing, or watching you kill,” the old man replies. He coughs and hitches up his dungarees to scratch his calf. “I haven’t anything to learn about that . I could teach you a thing or two.”
Sharpe doesn’t say anything in reply. God nudges him. “What?”
The girl is in full view now, putting her stuff into a dryer. She’s wearing gray jogging shorts and flip-flops. Laundry day, right. And she doesn’t even know the two of them are there watching her. Her head’s bobbing a little, not in a blank-eyed fugue but in time to some song in her head. In her head. Sharpe wonders what it would feel like, boring into her brain with a screwdriver and watching the music run out. He shifts in the chair.
“You like her,” says God.
“She’ll do.”
Sharpe sets his drink between his legs. He’s getting hard, actually getting hard, and he feels his face go from chalk-white to eggshell in a semblance of embarrassment. This day of all days the old man has to show up with his Catholic guilt. Some G-damn adventure. And Sharpe knows there’s no getting rid of New Best Friend until he’s been allowed to scratch his secret itch.
“I know you want to watch,” Sharpe says. “No sense fibbing. It’s the kill. You’ve never dropped in to watch me do the dishes.”
God shakes his head, but he’s full of it and they both know it.
“You’re a long way from Sunday, preacher,” Sharpe says and smiles. “You talk her into leaving with us and I’ll turn her inside out.”
The old man harrumphs. If they’d been playing cards Sharpe would have pushed all in.
“No glamours,” Sharpe says. “No hoodoo. Straight pick-er-up.”
“I’m not interested—”
“Then don’t play.” Sharpe goes back to nursing his Slurpee.
“So you’ll just let her walk out of here, then?” The old man’s cheeks tremble as he tries to keep it below a whisper.
“There’ll be others. She’s just alright.” Sharpe’s making his bluff, and he knows there’s a red-hot tell pulsing against his thigh. It makes him feel stupid, that hard thing. Was that the point of the Adam story?
Sharpe looks at the Creator. The old man is incredulous.
“You don’t think I can do it,” God breathes. “You don’t think I can speak to a woman.”
“I think you’ve got the personality of a sandwich,” Sharpe replies.
God rises from his seat. His face flushes red, but it’s not anger—and maybe that’s why he likes Sharpe, after all, because who else has the stones to mouth off to him like that? Grieving mothers and fallen clergy don’t count. They’re just screaming into their hands. Only one other gentleman has ever dared say anything salty to the old man’s face. Maybe this outlaw has that same charm.
Then the old man walks over to the girl, and that just reaffirms Sharpe’s long-running theory that he’s but a god gone soft and looking to see some Old Testament torture porn.
Sharpe leans forward and
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