I know who I am. And after all these years, there’s a victory in that. – Rustin Cohle
A kite, silver-white, sails overhead.
Drifting, soaring.
He had been conscious of it.
Aware of it.
Maybe even noticed it.
But now the old man was studying his huge power leather recliner.
Right there, right in the middle, a perfect outline of his flat bony butt ass.
Two cheek prints.
Looked like a couple of brown cartoon kidneys.
Dented.
He looked at her recliner.
Barely a vertical smile in the seat.
The old man had to stay sane until she retired.
He had promised her.
Voting had helped.
Pull that lever.
Felt like a YUGGGE shit after fifteen months of constipation.
Bone deep relief.
Flush!
Now he could watch the campaign for the theatrical spectacle it really is.
Except for tribal warlords in battleground states
wage media scuffles of salacious malicious ridiculous obfuscation.
Feel like Noriega when the CIA blasted Pat Benatar for hours at his casa.
No, he couldn’t watch.
A year to go.
All guests must be approved by the dog.