Marin's Dale

XI

The first thing Tyler noticed was the empty baby carriage in the middle of the food court.

How many babies can an alien invader abduct before there's a witness?

Tyler was convulsing. With laughter. It was too good, cuz the oogie boogie men were comin down from the clouds and pickin out infants like real scary shit. Real scary shit.

Real scary shit!

Tyler was laughing. With convulsions. He had ziiiipped a couple more a few seconds or minutes ago, but what did it matter? His kids weren't the ones with goo for brains. So be it if some schmuck was having a fit or an aneurism for freak's sakes—it wasn't Tyler's freakin responsibility. He wasn't Joan of Arc; he was a goddamn high school student. People told him he had this and that; high potential, high power, high this, that, and the freakin fourth.

Tyler didn't want all this high shit piled on him. He just wanted to stay high. Even keel. Like wayward sons on the ocean blue. He just wanted to smoke a little and drink a little and pop a little. Fuckin grandpas with their crooked canes and their Viagra pills thought they knew what was good for him?

Fuck those limp-dick codgers. Fuck the know-it-alls and the snotty-nosed money grubbers that told him to open his savings account at x % interest with this, that, and the freakin fourth. Tyler was tired of freakin "normal" people running his life; dictating their horseshit clusterfuck microcosms. Tyler reached into his pocket for another. He never did this many at one time, but fuck it, that's what.

The stupid world was coming crashing down; Tyler had no intention of going out sober. He was gonna ride this freakin wave into the goddamn sunspot supernova splash, that's what, Kermit.

And Audrey was actin like somebody had smashed her balls with a tin bat. She was giggin out haaard, goin all mute. Tyler hated that shit; if you had something to say, just freakin say it, don't hold that shit in—were you tryin to be a volcano?

Fruck yo. Frucking Fruck. Tyler was fruckin frucked. Clamblasted. Fudruckered. Skonzzzed.

Sober people. They just didn't know what the hell they were missing. They were living in their silly worlds, acting like the realities they erected were somehow more 'real' and authentic than what Tyler had.

Tyler laughed. Most those dingbats had no idea what he was gettin into. He was the "nice" boy with the shaggy hair. Milfs wanted his freakin seed in their mouth like warm milk. And what was with these milfs? They take it from behind from the Brazilian landscaper, then the bigshot Mr. Moneybags would roll home in his Benz, lookin for a good meal and some hot dome.

Most these skonzoids didn't even know Tyler was disheveled whenever they saw him. He was always freakin disheveled; like they would ever know. He had to get disheveled just to be on the same wavelength as most these "normal" people. Fruck the normal people—they were so silly. So fruckin silly. Tyler loved them. He really did—totally hated them. It was a love/hate. He lated them. He hoved them. Haved them all.

Fuck them.

And that was it, wasn't it? At the end of the day, when you sat your white ass on the satin sheets, that was freakin it. If you weren't fuckin them all, what were you doing? Life was too short to do what other lifers wanted you to do. You had to do you. Zip if you wanted to zip, skonz if you wanted to skonz—freakin do you.

Tyler turned to Audrey, looking all forlorn and skinny and hot as shit. She was lookin like the biggest bitch ever right now, and Tyler wanted nothing more than to give it to her. Right here, right now, in the middle of the mall's abandoned food court for all of nobody to see. The world was coming crashing down, and what Tyler had was hard dick and hard abs. Grabbing her by the rear he shoved her against a nearby booth. Audrey muttered something but fuck it, that's what.