24 Hours, Mitchell H. Allen [i read books .TXT] 📗

Two squares of dark chocolate, a quarter cup of cola. How late is too late? How much sugar is too much? My notebook is nearly full and I have yet to find a way to keep the Mt. Vernon Street Bullies from ruining my sleep.

Almost every night, I have some variation of the stupid dream. Idly, I flip back to March 3rd – my birthday. I had eaten two pieces of frosting-loaded cake. That night, Mookie, Lockjaw and Birdman chased me through the back alleyways of South Philadelphia. One of them chucked a brick at my head. I barely escaped.

Wordlessly, my wife places the pill beside my tea. She has left the curtains drawn, for which the angels have reserved her spot in heaven. By the time I get to work, the migraine will have dulled to a mild roar.

My boss is being a real tool. He is blaming me for the misfiled records. His gravelly voice is oddly soothing. I nod dumbly and agree to search for the files.

I missed lunch, but I found the files. My boss' secretary had them all along. Now, I'm steamed. Against my better judgment, I throw them on his desk.

South Philly is beautiful in the spring. People complain about the crime but, really, it's everywhere. The best we can do is contain it. I take a moment to savor the aromas coming from Luigi's. I've got to treat my wife, soon.

Only five more house to go. Lockjaw owns them all. I skip the first house – squatters have taken over. Same with the next. I'll come back for those, next time. The third is vacant.

His insurance company probably doesn't believe him, anymore. I certainly don't go out of my way to conceal the accelerants. The alleyway is clear.

Text: Mitchell H. Allen
Images: ..stiina.. (Flickr Creative Commons)
Publication Date: 06-05-2012

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