Family Values

The blaring siren, accompanied by the all-too-familiar red and blue spasmatic flashes reflecting through the window pane and onto the visible side of the neighboring brick wall, were early warning for any nearby druggie or prostitute still lingering in the area, seeking either a quick fix or your normal deep penetration session, to bolt and slither their way back into whatever proverbial chemical cesspool they termed home. As normal, the annoying boys in blue passed by in a matter of seconds, probably on call to yet another safehouse gang shootout. Whatever the case, at least the walking, talking pigs-in-a-blanket were gone, leaving me to enjoy this daydream that I happily called my life.
For the first 2922 days or eight years of my childhood experience I had lived here. The same tiny, dingy, two-bedroom apartment in downtown Queens. Complete with a lovely view of the filthy, trash-ridden alleyway that was no more than thirty feet or so below. On many a nights I found myself in a state of jubilation since I had a perfect bird?s-eye view of the city?s numerous midnight celebrations. From the average, yet risky, bareback backalley fornications, to your everyday underachieving college dropouts? slow suicidal attempt cry for attention. Drug busts and drug exchanges were particularly hilarious. Needless to say, I lived in an exciting neighborhood. It was a cultural wasteland with a taste for experimentation and modernization.
The dilapidating box that served as my home was actually quite nice. However, it constantly fought with social service standards in the Youth and Families Department. Despite that, everything was neat and had its own space. Except of this evening; something was amiss in the Land of Oz. Maybe it was me, maybe it was that there were no plates set at the square, mahogany table, or maybe it was the slim, battered, and bruised feminine body sprawled out in between the old Sanyo TV and the couch that most caught one?s visionary glance and artistic notice. Then I remembered that such a heartwarming scene was only a redundant ritual performed by Mom and Dad. He called it ?Passing kidney stones without the nasty after-effects of regret,? Mom called it ?Bulll****,? and I called it ?Theater?.
I stared at Mom as she lay broken and bloody on the family-room floor. Her once youthful and strikingly beautiful face was now purple and swelled from years of some heavy-duty throwdowns, and that?s not including the most up-to-date beauty marks she had earned. Mom always wanted the house kept in pristine condition and here she was?bleeding all over the rug. Hypocrite! The dark red crimson flowing from her crushed nose created a mosquito?s paradise just below her head. I knew from the odd angle of her elbow that her arm was obviously and forever useless, no longer good for anything short of a penguin win. Looking over her maimed hourglass form, I began to realize she had a bizarre resemblance to a blood-drenched Housewife Barbie. Kinda funny and ironic, in a ****ed-up sense of thinking, her name was Mary, so?Bloody Mary had a church-bell ring to reflect her present condition. Hah! Dad would love that one, especially considering he?d slammed a couple of those prior to engaging in this favored pastime of his. But hey, you dig your own grave, right? Or is it, you choose your battles? Whatever, I can?t remember, either way she ****ed-up to say the least. Her many visible scars, an amusing cocktail of physical, mental, and emotional stretchmarks, were proof enough that the old peacock had made poor choices.
The swirling, flushing noise of a struggling commode filled the empty apartment air. Pops was done laying some cable. At last, the Ted Bundy circus that was my parent?s marriage could continue. Guess my night wasn?t a total loss after all.
The boozed-up bear that I called father thundered down the hall in short, laboring steps. I guess the journey from the family-room to the toilet was an exhausting trek for the old man. He used his large meaty hands to hive him support as he pulled his heavy-set, six-foot-four frame into the ring for yet another shot at the blue, black clown that had, somehow, offended him so.
From his slurred obscenities to the magical glean of enlightenment in his eyes, any idiot could conclude that Happy Hour was over and done, but the party in his skull wasn?t. I?m not sure whether it was the percussion session parading down the main street of his brain that was the catalyst in this first round knockout of fight night or the fact that Mom had burned the roast. As I mentioned earlier, she had poor decision-making skills.
Hmmm?I guess you do dig your own grave.
By now the burly grizzly had stumbled his way to the carcass that was his wife. Towering over her, he scratched his gut and chuckled harshly at her stupidity. What can I say; every artist must admire the choice of paints he?s thrown on the canvas, eh? Using the edge of his workboot (Dad was a construction foreman and he wore size 10 ? -inch CAT?s with steel heels and steel toes), he nudged Mom, or what rag of flesh was left of Mom, onto her back and not-so-gently kicked her legs apart. Then he retreated a step or two.
Oh-oh! I?d witnessed this particular stunt before and just like before, it was going to hurt like hell. At least for Mom, especially since she was on the receiving end of Pops? drunken kicker.
In position, the inebriated western panda raised his leg and, lacking the wishful grace of Broadway, charged, putting the weight of his massive form into the full apex of his kick.
Ouch! There it was, a field goal peg to the old friendly moose knuckle, ye olde soccer punch to the ouckering camel toe, a Budweiser-endorsed, wife-beater approved, cheap shot to her fallopian lips of pulsing silk. If Mom had been conscious, or if she was even still alive now that come to think of it, I?m pretty sure she would?ve screamed like a virgin in San Quentin during a meds riot.
The results were immediate and worth Olympic gold. The off-balance drunk went into an inverted swan dive straight onto the 32-inch, environment safe, Sanyo Television set, sensing bits of shattered glass and broken plastic sailing across the immediate area, ending the ceremony in a power-surged company-built firecracker. Hmmm?wonder if it had a warranty? Mom, on the other hand, barely slid on the floor in what could be described as a prepubescent attempt for a strike in bowling glory.
Looking over the carnage?the in particular, for I?d just lost my Saturday night Adult Swim eye candy of Family Guy, Neon Genesis Evangelion, and Samurai Champloo?I realized that Dad had blacked out in his self-induced rage, and if she went without medical treatment for more or less than twenty minutes any longer, Mom was going to be declared officially dead and tagged. She could already be considered half-past dead.
Seeing as how the downstairs nosy, I?ve-got-to-know-everything-about-everybody, neighbors one floor directly beneath me had undoubtedly heard the ruckus and undoubtedly called the fuzz for the emergency, I knew I had an hour before the reported call would be answered. The police had made one or two?or ten!?visits to our faithless abode before and weren?t going to waste their time on small-time until another call was received?that or until they got bored and felt the urge to belt someone. Either way, this was my chance for a little R&R.
Going to my room directly across from the bathroom, I quickly went to my dresser and opened the drawer. Rummaging through the clothes for a second, I found what my lungs desired beneath the last layer of small sized tees. A twenty-sack of NYC?s finest ghost plant and a pack of Zig-Zag rolling papers.
Finding a light wasn?t a problem. Casually walking over to the hibernating bear?s drooling body, I searched his pockets until I found what was the fruit of my search. A Bic lighter, the stoner?s choice of flame for any session of high.
Reclining onto the couch, I rolled a joint, taking my time in filling the piece of paper and licking the edges just right, so that they met on a hairline. Then bringing the end to my lips, I lit the little happy bird, inhaling, pulling away to inhale again for a proper toke, then exhaling through my nose letting the smoke drift ever so serenely into the stiff air.
This was a good night?

Originally Posted by paul wow bull u call that short but it pretty good stuff dude