Episode 2

What follows is a work of fiction, and all included characters are fictional and do not represent any actual persons, living or deceased; even though many of the geographic locations are real places. I would also like to let readers know that much of my content tends to be raw, and possibly offensive to some. So, if colorful language and content offends your sensibilities, please avoid reading any further. That said, I hope you find it stimulating.

Episode 2
4:30AM on a June Saturday finds Rudy in a familiar position, on his knees, sweating, and coated with a lacquer of his own vomit. He’s even managed to squirt a little shit into his whitie-tighties due to the violence of his projectile vomiting. Ah, the sweet caress of demon alcohol. Somehow, the mostly finished bottle of sugary convenience store iced-tea with a lemon twist and the remnants of a bargain-brand vodka bottle just don’t look so appealing anymore. He knows he’s been out for at least three hours; three whole hours of comfortable, dreamless, stupor and escape. Three hours to forget about the pain of being alive, and being the victim of a shitty excuse for an existence. He even thinks of masturbating for a brief moment, and then the spins start. No joy in Mudville.
He didn’t start the night with the intention of committing suicide, but thoughts of going out like Hendrix or Moon did cross his mind. Too bad he was never that lucky.
The worst part of the whole ordeal is that he’s the one that will have to clean up the mess. Who in the hell else going to do it? That’s the joys of the single life in Gettysburg. The only excitement is the excitement you create, and tonight’s excitement is absolutely a solo effort.
He feels a slight vibration on the thinly carpeted floor. Then the sound becomes more apparent over the din of some bullshit hair-metal on the CD player: another fucking chicken truck. He thinks of one word: cock-suckers. Those cock-suckers, those cock-suckers that drive about sixty miles per hour through this shitty excuse for a town; not only are the trucks loud, you get that vibration and the incessant sleigh-bell like rattle of tightly packed poultry cages. Rudy thinks of those chickens. Those poor, stupid fucking chickens riding blindly, and in fear, to their dooms on that unseasonably hot June morning; all to be consumed by even dumber bastards at fast food restaurants, and in countless frozen entrées. Yum.
A rational thought briefly crosses Rudy’s mind, how did all those Jews feel on those trains? He’s sure some of them believed the Nazi’s promises through either shear naivety or blind hope, but most of them had to know. They had to know they were on a train to their final destination and couldn’t do a damn thing but hope. Hope for the intervention of a benevolent God. “Christ, I watch too much fucking Hitler Channel,” Rudy mutters to himself as he surveys the filth he has surrounded himself with.

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