Why Cute Asian Girls Don't Work in Redneck Gas Stations Stream of Consciousness
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An old fashioned time clock goes, "Snap!" as an analog hand clicks five minutes before the messy ink scheduled boxes. Dried salisbury, spaghetti with crispy tomato smeared noodles, and brown gravy, skin so tough a finger makes an indention without a squirt. Best Value, Basic, American Gold, Maverick, so close to the real thing, the cowboys, the nomad cadillacs, witch trial sites, and Rhode Island getaways. Blood shot jaundice, handfuls of dirty couch tolls. Would you like some corn bread, a roll? Ignore the stare, forcefield of fearless intimidation on, I said, "ON!" That's right. Look away. Go home and fondle your magazines with your calloused permanent oil stained fingers. Ever held a book, besides the paper torches ignited by the white porcelain E Z boy? Ever dreamt of brushing those rough fingers over the lips of a whelping geisha in the sweltering heat of the dead summer, smelling her sweet rice whispers? Better than moist mildewed kleenex, the greasy bottle of pink plastic by the remote, Brenda, who blew up eight sizes after the honeymoon, and watching her eat those corndogs with mayonaise, burritos with extra sour cream, bologna nipples, cottage cheese thighs, and when she bleeds she smells like a bucket of chum on the couch, in my sheets, all the way to work. Those cigarettes can't neutralize, drown, or mask, the taste of forbidden logic in a redneck nightmare.
Sabra Embury's forcefield is strong.