Above, electric white magnesium exploded to throw up our hick town’s gang sign for boredom.
The three of us — ensigns sharing sips of Boone’s Farm — piled into the car’s cabin, its sunroof a crucifix-bone.
Saturday’s ennui plotted a plotless arc on which we drove past the BP and Sonic, underneath the overpass tagged with alien alphabet sprayed in saffron, around the Elks’ Lodge where our parents carved out corners, tipped green bottles, and watched for the bottom with inverted binoculars.
A maven of histrionics, you unbuckled your seatbelt, stood up, and lifted your baby tee for beads. White brassiere flapping in your hand, you bounced your titties until they uttered libertad. Our driver, your Castro, turned the steering wheel hand-over-hand, burned black donuts onto the road, and slingshotted your body from the backseat.
In a graveled parking lot, we found you splayed atop the rocks, an asterisk of limbs, an aster emanating astral matter, your alabaster skin uncorked and left to breathe.
Still, our driver jogged to his trunk, fetched a tire iron, and said it’ll have to do, thumping the tool in his hand. No need for overkill, I said and snatched the tire iron. Our driver bristled and flexed, but stood down and folded his barbwire arms. We showed mercy.
Lightning bugs wiggled their neon asses before our eyes. We passed the Boone’s Farm around your carcass, a coffer unhinged at the joints. Alone, the three of us contemplated a Saturday struck dead; its blood trickled across the horizon; Sunday beckoned us with a come hither finger as it bent over to pick up a stone.
A village of abandoned babies, we’re left here to breed and sprawl, to spend weekend nights entertaining ourselves, taking excitement as it comes. It bears repeating: we showed you mercy.