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Don’t lose your hair over this. Below this, fine. But not over this. Kris, 43. Hands on his steering wheel. Get away from me, thinking too loudly… it messes up his grip. Now he looks like a grandpa. Grand father. Kris it isn’t over yet. Jesus, how much more of this? Fuck you, fuck the whole line, down we go to fishes. You’re a hero gramps, a flopping gill born truth. Kris thumbed the bumps on the inside of the steering wheel and glanced at the radio station. He moved his right hand over the rubber nob and twisted it, shifting the radio station. The station clicked, it read clear and digitized 102.4 KYUP. There should have been sound, there should always have been sound. Kris shook his head and slammed the heel of his right palm back into the wheel. Why isn’t there more than this? He glanced over to the adolescent Labrador retriever that was dying in the passenger seat. She rolled her eyes towards him despite her caving breaths. Almond eyes. Torn lungs. This. She’s dead. No question. Maybe he could look like a hero in the local paper. Maybe he could fuck the widow that owned the dog. Kris shook his head as the sound broke through bad wires. “…the pentagon remains silent despite the multitude of people claiming that not only has Kabul been struck by nuclear weapons but that there are clouds over Nanjing…” We are clouds over Kabul, over Nanjing. Kris thumbed for another three fries. Ketchup, dip & swirl. Taste.
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