ecial Edition arrived!'

ken think so. Georgette Porkorney clomps onto the porch by the kitchen door. Mom a

'They're pulling over

I know!

eside the laundry door. A clown holds up a fucken umbrel

eona, stealing a f

bar, next to a greeting card with a cartoon baby on it. 'It's Wuv!' says the baby. I look insid

ard us in a filmy pink robe. An alien scent drags behind her. 'Well hi, baby, I didn't expect you

to deliver the fridge t

't even going to stop by! My new consultant's installing the ton

son steps into the hallway, wearing a blue robe with gold detail, and new Timbe

wiped over with cream-pie lies. Don't fucken ask me about this love people have of saying things are fine when they ain't fucken fine at all. Lally's toothbrush in my bathroom ain't fucken fi

rge. 'It's the Special E

m not eve

wear too ...' It's a record-breaking fourth thing. Mom j

lready, look!' I crane to the kitchen window; sure enough, a JC Penney's truck is

wait ...'

get it right. Turns out the horse couldn't do math at all, could he fuck. He just kept tapping until he felt the tension in the audience break. Everybody relaxed when he

ou around so long I called and cancelled that order. I'm sorry -

l, o

asks George. 'Look, they're unloading a new alm

oes blank trying to suck back the fo

sping at any straw of human dignity. Then Brad walks in, wearing a brand-new pair of Timberlands. Fucken 'Bang!' goes the door. He

this is my fucken struggle for learnings and glo

es like he's mussing my hair, but he's actually holding

n's business - I'll fix a brew and fill t

, 'she went back t

ne,' sa

room. I get sat at Pam's end of the sofa, the end closest to the floor

ur mother through. Can you imagine if I h

ven days, and now he's like my fucken blood? I

enged, Vern, is to

sofa. 'They're y

hat?' He gr

off,'

e flat of his hand.

shuffling on his ass. Lally

you want your co

e a table lamp with the shade off would do to both their fucken colons. Lally pulls me clo

stay

rts to scratch out the Dallas Cowboys label my dad sowed into the arm. 'It's not too late to shift the paradigm, Vern. In fact, if the paradigm doesn't shift, the story will die. Nobody wins if the story

ome fuck

'He's only twelve and he has a hundred mi

illionaires on TV. The la

Brad. 'My first bi

Bradley!'

dred million dollars.' The way he says 'doll-larrs' you'd think he'd dipped his fucken tongue in molasses, or something. Pussy or something. Ricky just sits

,' says Mom. 'I bet his

ittle girl, and she leans over to whisper loud in Brad's ea

om. Then everybody's eyes settle on me. I

ing for Milliona

ome air through my cheeks and shuffle

'm only funnin.' I let his words

she keeps things moving along. I guess all these ole fakes are good that way, with their fucken pre-progr

lation and load it, cranking the volume way up. Clothes fly out of the closet into my Nike backpack. Even a jacket flies in, because you never know how long I'll be gone. My address book and my daddy's Ste

the voices in the living room. 'Hell no,' says George, from

payout,' says Mom. She's on her way back to the kitchen f

a body, you know

Who lives on the other side is a wealthy couple; at least their house is painted wealthy. It means they spend less time spying through their screen, not like Mrs Porter. Wealth makes you less nosey, in case you didn't know. I climb over the fence, scare a hiss out of their cat on the other side, and scoot across their lawn to Arsenio Trace, t

l, but I content myself with the thought of enchiladas when I get over the border. I guess Taylor likes enchiladas, not that I ever asked her. It's one of the things I should've asked her, but never did. Tsk. It bums me to think how few things Taylor has actually said to my face; like, maybe twenty-nine words, in my whole fucken l

n the Pizza Hut opposite my bank. She sits by the window, hunched over a wedge of pizza. Sitting by the window ain't a sharp idea for a diet fugitive, but you can see the place is overflowing with strangers. I stop and fumble in my pack, watching her through the corner of my eye. Strangely, I get a wave of sadness watching her. Fat ole Vaine, stuffing emptiness into her voi

lear. Heat shimmers clean at the end of the street, a pair of Stetsons wriggle through it. Dirk's Eatery passes on my right, with all the specials painted on the w

irl. Trying to blend into the place, I line up behind two Mexican ladies at the ticket counter. They talk in Spanish. It gives me a buzz, I have to say, that and the spicy smell of their clothes. It makes me picture

n pockets, like he has lead implants. Character, they call it. It ain't character, though; you know it's feelings. Erosion from waves of disappointment and sadness. One

adline. The room turns icy. My eyes bounce, and I swear I see a flash of Jesus' casket being wheeled in to catch the San Antonio bus

t counter, just ask him some question; that way, if anybody comes looking for me later, he'll say, 'Nah, I only saw some kid from The Apple.' The ladies

almyra,'

me. 'Hell, Vernie, what'

oking fo

ty belly - c'mon now, I'm on my w

like a goddam kid. The man with the newspaper nudges somebody next to him,