Writing Exercises Gone Wrong
By Bob Boyd
The most abysmal part of this whole situation wasn’t that there was no chance going back. I could manage the quickening of my pulse with counter breaths taken slowly in my nose and then hissed out through my teeth. The worst part of this predicament was that with every breath I wheezed out the stench of mattress musk weighed on me like a tombstone. In all possibility this mattress was my tombstone.
Actually the mattress was better cast as my grave. A more appropriate metaphor for my tombstone would be the bumbling idiot in the Santa suit whose giant ass keeps crushing my sternum. Although I’m not sure you can “bumble” or do much of anything else after the city’s top superhero kills you with a super-punch to your forehead.
I’m not certain Santa is dead but I do know he road Captain Commander’s punch through a chain link fence and the mattress leaned up against it with another force to pin me to the ground. The real Santa may have been able to take that punch but Jimmy “Skinny” Schmidt could not, even in the appropriate duds. From the look on the Captain’s face before he knocked Jimmy way way out I could gather two things: He was very surprised to see me watching him from behind my mattress and he was not going to help me out of this clusterfuck.
The look of Captain Commander’s eyes had been that of a child with his hand caught in the cookie jar, but it wasn’t cookies C.C. was into. Apparently he preferred crack cocaine.