The Thursday Thief. Part VI

(Roberto Matta, "Vertige du doute" - 1991)

“What day is it?” I stutter through the cracks.

“Time to pull a card.” It’s The Shuffler.

I realize I’m no longer hanging or swaying. I’m sitting in a chair blindfolded but awake. Strangely awake. Like after three bottles of jolt-cola mixed with espresso. Or just crack. My body’s tingling. I can’t feel the days of the week like I used to.

“Pull a card, kid.”

I reach out tentatively in search of a young girl’s shivering hand and feel the cold surface of fate. I pull, get punched, and fall back asleep.

“Red or black, kid?”

I mumble something about Skippy the Squirrel and precious awkward fingertips. I can hear the machine-gun typewriter taking notes.

Like a rat in a maze, the routine repeats itself countless times. How many weeks or months go by? Wake, pull a card, say a number, pick a colour, drink, and get knocked out. I don’t know what I’m on, but I don’t like it. It’s not like the intense focus on the moment of mescaline. The powder that teaches you to love the present. These are drugs that kick the past up into the tranquil air. I can hear the thundering of Godswill’s nimble fingers recording everything. Even my dreams follow the quick rhythms of his sterling silver typewriter.

They were analyzing this thing much more thouroughly than I could ever bare. Blanket-covered reasons were beginning to reveal the shape of a young girl’s tender waist and lollipop lips. One spun bottle and our twisted fates had collided in a closet-room kiss. Boxers don’t know how to ask questions, only how to hit the present hard enough that the past swells to the surface. Forever stuck in their own sadistic ways.

For the thrilling conclusion, feel free to contact spcmnspff (he may or may not agree to give it to you). Also, keep an eye out for the board-game version of this story coming soon!