Mental Unravelings on Interstate 70

It's late. The front left tire is losing air. I can make it to the gas station, but I'm afraid that if I stop, the ghosts on my trail will catch up, and I don't plan on being alive when they do. The kids I took as souvenirs from my raid of the morgue are in the trunk, bundled tightly in sleeping bags. Cold sweat. Jaw clenched.




Underneath the seat is a power drill. Pillows are duct taped to the roof. Tupperware containers scattered on the floor. Stuffing, mash potatoes with gravy and carrots, and a ball of lard wrapped in tin foil. Reggae on the radio.

It's daytime now. Sun gleaming off the hood. Sunglasses. Visions of dancing frogs in little monk's robes. Bobble-head nun gives a wink. Catholicism. Very pious. Let the incense waft and let us chant in unison and hope for an afterlife. Kids in the trunk sleep soundly. I've been awake for 3 days and my pants reek of dick cheese and old ham.




Nighttime. The moon is made of static. Wolves and elk line both sides of the road. They stare me down. A never-ending gauntlet of black eyes and nostril steam. 'Hunan' Dave, the bus dodger, scrambles across four lanes of highway, poo nuggets dropping from his pant leg. I am emperor of greasy teepees. Come on in for a free rubdown.




Eating a Tombstone Pizza with jokes printed on the cheese. I've been dead for 13 days.