The
Rules Of Cheating Part 2
The Apple store, dark. Closed. Apparently the store
closed early on Sunday, at 7pm to be exact. Out of vodka and juice. I
needed more booze and maybe a twenty-four hour Apple store. I wanted
to play Tetris so bad I could taste it.
I
wanted to let my fingers do the walking on an iPhone.
Life
sucked.
I
got into the car and started the engine. My pre-paid phone rang. I
answered it. Darren's voice on the other end worried me.
“Dude,
I need help. Meet me in the hills, please. I need help with it.”
Darren said, then hung up.
I
had nothing much to really do. I did however need more liquor. The
warmth of the buzz was wearing thin. It didn't really matter anyway.
Nothing did. Ever, anywhere, at any time that ever existed.
The
hills were just that. The hills towered over the Inland Empire. The
giant white letters that were build into the side of the hill, those
letters, they spelled out: Choose Life.
Republicans
were insane but Liberals were retarded, there was no real way to win.
I
drove the small path, the path that ended behind the obnoxious sign.
Parked next to Darren. The black sky appeared gray, reflection of the
stark city lights. The cool Spring air lingered. No one came to the
hills. A year ago some Satanic cult slaughtered cats up there. That
kept even the Cholos and Blacks at bay.
Darren
leaned against his car, smoking a cigarette. His head lights
illuminated the beginning of a hole, some lone shovel appeared strewn
to the side.
“I
couldn't even dig my own fucking hole. I feel like Pesci in
Goodfellas.” He said.
“You
gonna bury the hillbilly?”
“You
gonna help?”
“I
guess.”
“You
get an iPhone?”
“Store
closed.” I said.
“That's
fucking gay.”
“I
know.”
“You
got coke?” He asked. It was sort of rhetorical, Darren knew I had
coke.
I
chopped four lines on a Violent Femmes CD case. We each did two lines
with a rolled up Chinese restaurant pamphlet. Then we had the power
to dig a seven foot deep hole. Then the hillbilly thudded into his
final resting place.
“Should
we say something?” I said.
Silence
a beat.
Darren
whipped out his dick, started pissing on the hillbilly corpse. I
laughed, then joined him. I hated being on coke, but when in Rome and
when the Percocet and Vicodin and Xanax runs out, you must resort to
whatever you have in your blazer pocket. I needed a downer quick or I
would start to “coke freak” it was something I had done in the
past.
At
the liquor store. I bought three bottles of cheap vodka. Darren only
drank beer when he was on coke. He had a six pack of Pinky’s
Pilsner under his arm. I picked out three bottles of pineapple juice.
The store smelled like sour milk and cheap cigars.
In
the parking lot, we drank.
“I
need more downers.” I said.
“I
know a guy in Fontana.”
“I'll
follow you.”
On
the freeway, traffic was non-existent. All the neon electric signs I
passed were hyper-realistic. I felt like a mouse stumbled into a Las
Vegas casino. The colors and noise. I realized that the stereo was
turned to its limit. The Ramones screamed out of my speakers.
“I
don't like Burger King, I don't like anything...”
Joey Ramone sang.
I
exited at Sierra, following Darren north bound. I drove past Fast
food places, mini marts, bars, pizza places, bums, cops, more and
more neon lights. Eventually everything got nicer and not as bright
and then I realized we were not in Kansas anymore.
Darren
parked along a curb. I parked behind. The street, residential. Track
homes that all looked the same. A Beamer here, a Porsche there, Range
Rovers a plenty. I finished the first cup of vodka and juice. The
buzz throbbed, mild euphoria blanketed my soul. I wanted to be even
more down.
I
got out of the car. Darren met me at my door. He had buttoned up his
coat, a tire iron in his right hand.
“Pit
stop. After this, my connections place, it's further south. He always
has good Percocet and Vicodin.” He said, his face dark.
“O.K.”
I didn't care about Darren's personal drama. I had nothing to do
anyway. I followed along. Drunkenness shadowed reason.
Behind
the track home, there was a pool. The pool illuminated the backyard
with underwater lighting. I plopped into a pool side tanning chair
and lit a cigarette and Darren smashed a window with the tire iron.
He crawled through the gap in the window. I sipped vodka and
pineapple from the juice bottle.
“Hey.
Come here.” Darren's head stuck out of the hole in the window. I
stood up and walked over to the hole and looked at Darren. He smiled
like a demon. “This is the place. Come on inside.”
Inside
the house had nice furnishing. Latest gadgets and TV mounted to the
wall, surround sound, Blu-Ray. The carpet smelled fresh. Darren
searched through drawers. I looked at pictures on a fire place
mantle. The girl in the pictures I recognized immediately.
You
know that moment in life when everything doesn't make sense? Stars
and science and violence and politics and shit. Even the technology
behind the very iPhone I had been wanting. Sometimes though there are
moments when everything makes sense. This was one of those moments.
The
girl in the picture was clearly porn star Hilary Hennessy. Except
instead of a dick in her mouth or butt plug up her ass or semen on
her face, she wore clothes and regular clothes that. No hot pink
bikini, thong back panties, black thigh high stockings, nor
ridiculously large heels. Just jeans and t-shirts with family and
friends and even little siblings.
“Why
did you break into Hilary Hennessy's house?” I asked Darren.
“Go
through everything, try to find an address book or file cabinet.”
“O.K.”
“Her name
isn't really Hilary Hennessy.”
“She
just looks like her? I'm positive that's her.”
“Oh
no, it's porn star Hilary Hennessy alright. But her real name is
Blanche Matthews. She was raised a hardcore Mormon in Utah, but she
rebelled and moved to Hollywood to pursue acting. One thing lead to
another and POOF. She became Hilary Hennessy.”
“O.K.
Why are we in her house?”
“You
are in her house because you followed me in here upon my request. I
am in her Summer house, by the way, because the one-hundred and
forty-fourth rule of cheating is never get caught off guard by the
person you are cheating with.”
“O.K.
So you and Hilary are fucking?”
“On
the contrary, quite the opposite, we were fucking. She stopped fucking
me, then came the restraining order and blah blah blah.”
“Who
is she with?”
“No
one, she's single.”
“So
no one is cheating.”
“Wrong.
I'm the one cheating.”
“Huh?”
I said. This was confusing because I had known Darren for years.
Granted I had never seen where he lived or met any of his family nor
did we speak of such topics.
“This
is what I believe is called a next level move in a friendship.” He
stopped looking through things for a second, he looked at me. “I'm
married.”
“Hmm.”
Was my reply.
“I'm
also in love with Blanche Mathews aka Hilary Hennessy and I need to
find the address to her home in Hollywood.”
“You
want to drive out to Hollywood just to tell Hilary Hennessy that you
are in love with her?”
“No,
I'm going to drive to Hollywood to kill Hilary Hennessy aka Blanche
Mathews so that she doesn't run her mouth off to my wife. The fifty first
rule of cheating is to tie up any loose ends.”
As
I helped Darren rummage through Hilary's private property I realized
a few things. There was an Apple store in Hollywood, Darren actually
had a wife, and I wasn't sure, but Darren may have been making up the
rules of cheating as he went along.
To
Be Continued...?
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