Prime and Crunishment
This will be a place for short stories, ramblings, poems, new EP/LP information, bloggage of sorts, and the like. All from me.
Untitled Story #?
It was 5.00 when Thomas walked into the diner along Highway 91. He was unaware of anything out of the ordinary when he entered the place, cognisant only of the scent of frying meat and the sounds of forks clattering against plates. 'A symphony of found sounds' is how it might have been described by a critic. But Thomas wasn't a critic, nor was he fond of the sounds or scents coming from the dining area. Sitting down on a bar stool that might have been as old as he was, if not older, he quickly told the waitress, 'Cuppa coffee and two eggs, over easy.' Hardly dinner fare she thought, but acknowledged him with a nod and a pleasant, 'Bring it to ya right away!'
The food cooked slower than molasses in Fargo during a winter storm, but it wasn't a problem. Time was irrelevant to him. Taking his coat off, Thomas revealed his face to the other patrons for the first time. Eyes the colour of the sky on a cloudy day, hair a deep brown, and a light haze of a beard that might have resembled freshly razed grass when put into scale. Everything was normal about him, save for the scar of stitches that ran from his left temple to the back of his head. They all looked pretty new to boot--and they were.
After what felt like a small eternity his dinner of breakfast items arrived. The eggs had a texture akin to old tyres and the coffee was less water and more grounds. Nothing salt and cream wouldn't fix in other words. By then the place had emptied considerably, leaving only Thomas, the staff, and an old woman eating a donut greedily and sucking down endless cups of milk. As he sat there drinking his cream/coffee grounds creation and eating his egg-replica meal, the memories returned.
Three days ago he had fought with his girlfriend (what was her name? Lillian? That seemed right), and he had left her crying on the bathroom floor with a bloodied nose and a black eye. Twenty miles away he had left a pool table with a nasty scratch and a man with a few less teeth. And thirty more miles away he had left with that wound and a man's life taken. How it happened was unclear. All he knew was something got out of hand, and that a dark alley could lead to bad choices. Was it simple chance that a pipe had been there, or was it some person who knew his nature? Was it the man's fault, or his? Where had it been? Had the police found the body? And why did that woman in the diner look familiar? More questions that he needed now, and fewer answers than he could tolerate.
As he choked down the last of his milk/coffee grounds/sugar concoction, the memories flooded him. A torrent of things past came to him faster than he could bear. He suddenly remembered Lillian's argument about his friends, about the man provoking him--a piss-drunk activist--and how the man in the alley died. He remembered how the man had surprised him, and WHY he had that pipe...
. . .
As the torrent of images came to him--a demented set of flickering images--he realised his errors. Breaking up with Lillian was the deepest cut. He had been with her for over 3 years now, close to proposing, and deeply in love. But all over a minor spat over bills (of all things) he had left her beaten, broken, and bruised. The mental reel changed. The location: A pool bar. A man with crooked teeth, eyes too close together, and a slightly bent nose, piss drunk and smelling of old tobacco, had picked a fight with Thomas. His recent break-up had not helped the situation. One pool cue and 3 billiard balls later the man had some major dental bills and splinters lodged into his skull. Thank God the police were not around--Thomas could escape easily. And so he did, running for his life. He heard sirens, the Doppler effect making them a hideous chorus. Ducking into an alley, he hit his head on a pipe--lightly, but enough to give him a helluva headache. He grabbed it in frustration, and heard footsteps. Without thinking, he swung the pipe and turned simultaneously. A man of about 27 was on the ground in a slump with a broken nose, bleeding profusely and breathing shallowly. Thomas tried everything he could to revive him (his name was Robert, or so said his ID). It was all for naught. Robert died within 10 minutes. The police report would later say of blood loss and several skull fractures. Repeating his bar stunt, Thomas ran more.
Four hours later, he hobbled to an Enterprise and rented a cheap car. That was when he found the diner.
The moment he walked out of the Enterprise, ready to drive to a Burger King he saw the diner. Plasticised magic, 24 hours a day, roadside diner--straight out of the 1950s. Walking in, he found himself in a haven. And that was when his slideshow ended.
. . .
Snapping back to reality, Thomas put down $20, left his seat hastily, jumped into the seat of the small Honda and turned on the ignition. Driving on the freeway, he wondered if it was too late to apologise to Lillian. He knew it was, but the small glimmer of hope left was gleaming brightly. As he sat there, foot on the gas, alone on the road, radio playing Stairway To Heaven, windows down, he came to a simple conclusion: He was a dead man. If he returned, the cops get called and he gets his ass put in gaol. If he returned to the bar or (God forbid) the crime scene, his ass gets placed into a cell for even longer--maybe life. But that didn't matter. He was too smart to do that type of stunt, and too smart to kill himself. He would go out of state, change his name legally, and start a new life.
It was 2.30AM, a Wednesday morning, coming to the border of Kentucky. He was a long way from home, and, after several days of marathon driving and living off of dollar burgers and Pepsi, had a case of stomach cramps worse than anything. There it was--his salvation. A cheap motel called The Maroon Lady, rent was $15/night. He knew with enough talking he could get some sort of deal worked out. The car came silently into the only space in the lot, and Thomas found the sound of his shoes hitting the asphalt to be sweeter than any Beethoven or Mozart symphony, more grandiose than any Wagner opera. That was the last time he would ever be happy.
'We have news of a man on the run, suspected of battery, assault, and possible murder,' the TV blared from inside the front office/check in area/lobby. Thomas knew it was America's Most Wanted, that Lillian had obviously reported him, and that his picture would be plastered in every post office, scanned across every TV screen, and imprinted on the mind of everybody. Nonchalantly he walked in--don't make a big deal of things was his adjustable slogan. But it WAS a big deal.
'You-you-you-you-you're that Thomas guy! I JUST saw you on AMW!!!' the clerk screamed. Picking up the phone and pressing 9-1-1 would take 5 seconds. Just long enough for Thomas to get to the car and drive off.
Running to the car, the Convict (as he called himself now, sarcastically) jumped into the Honda and got it running. Just as he was about to get into the next town, a small squadron of cars with blue flashing lights surrounded him. He gave up instantly.
. . .
Good won out once again.
Lillian got the news three hours later that Thomas had been caught. Her only words were, 'Serves that asshole right.'
The bar received news an hour after that, and received praise 2 days later for providing witnesses to the attack.
The family of the man who was killed received a letter from Thomas explaining it all. That was discarded in the rubbish bin after being torn up.
Thomas received 30 years in prison--no more, no less. His last words were, 'This is not happening. This isn't real.....this can't be happening.'
He was found three weeks later dead in his cell. Thomas Clark Porter had hung himself using his bed sheets at 3.00AM on October 26.
He was not too smart to kill himself.
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Originally Posted by Matt
