Our Kingdom of Dust Read Online Free Page B

aloud.
    “Watch the language, please,” answered a soft voice from behind me. I twisted my head and saw a fat guy with a moustache, frowning at me. “You’re in my house,” he said.
    “Who the fuck are you?” I asked, a little louder. I panicked. I was in a fat guy’s house. He didn’t like cursing. And he had a moustache. This couldn’t be good.
    “Language, please!” the fat man said, exasperated. “I’m the guy whose shoes you vomited on yesterday.”
    I focused and saw that he was wearing boxers and a wife-beater, and was covered in tattoos. Creepy.
    “I’m the guy whose limo you urinated in. You also vomited there. You vomited a lot, actually. What did you eat yesterday?!”
    The tattoos were all Disney. Just like the shit in the house. Weird. But then instead of panicking, I just felt bad, because, yes, I likely had pissed and puked all over this guy’s limo.
    “Damn, dude,” I said, trying to get up and immediately regretting it. The pain in my head was unfathomable. “I’m really, really, honestly sorry about that, and I will fully compensate you for any, uh, damages I might have caused.”
    I turned my body to get a better look at the fat man and right at that instant he opened the curtains. The light shot from the window, barreled through my bloodshot eye, and exited through the back of my head. The pain was so intense that I was pretty sure the light somehow blew off a chunk of my skull. I fell back onto the sofa.
    “Well, I hope so,” he started, “because I had to cancel all of my appointments today to get the upholstery professionally cleaned, and….”
    I cut him off.
    “I would really love to continue this conversation,” I said, “and discuss what I owe you, and more importantly, try to figure out what exactly I’m doing in your house. I’m sure it’s all very innocent, and that you’re a nice man who has no intention of murdering or raping me. But, and I hope I’m not imposing too much here, in order to have that conversation I’m going to need like six ibuprofen and at least two cups of coffee.”
    My stomach was burning. “And something to eat,” I added.
    I looked down at my shirt. “This is a rare shirt. Is the stain going to come out?”
    My head was pounding to a beat. Specifically, to the beat of Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious . “I’m also going to need you to please turn off that music. Thank you. In advance. Seriously, thank you, I’ll pay you for everything. I’ll pay you to turn off the music. Seriously.”
    “Give me the shirt,” the fat man said.
    I pulled off the shirt, threw it in his general direction, plopped back onto the sofa and did the only thing that seemed socially acceptable at that point in time. I turned and fell asleep….
    …and was woken by steaming hot coffee under my nose, served in a vintage EPCOT Center mug. This was nice. This I could get behind. Anyone who served coffee in a vintage EPCOT Center mug was okay by me.
    “It is thirteen-hundred hours, Mr. McKinnon, and you need to wake up!” said the fat tattooed man, jumping around like Tweedledee (or Tweedledum, I guess).
    How did he know my name? Oh, yeah, right, he knew it because he was my limo driver, and he must have been holding a sign with my name on it. Which I didn’t see, because I was too busy puking on his shoes.
    I sat up and he handed me four ibuprofen and the coffee, and laid down on the table a glass of orange juice (a picture of Orange Bird was printed on the glass) and a fancy plate of gold-leaf-rimmed china engraved with “Disney’s Grand Floridian Resort & Spa” on the edge. On the china were two Mickey-shaped waffles, two slices of bacon, and some scrambled eggs. I threw the pills into my mouth, followed by a gulp of the OJ and a gulp of the coffee, which burned my tongue. Which was fine.
    “You’re a lifesaver, uh, Disney Tattoo Guy.”
    He looked at me, amused. “Yes, I will answer to ‘Disney Tattoo Guy’ at the parks, but here at home I go by