Drake
Not much ever changed in Smolder, West Virginia. Heck, nearly no one knew the town even existed, and most people forget West Virginia even exists as a state or simply believe one is simply talking about western Virginia. It, its cities, and its people were so intertwined with nature, its beauty enduring like bedrock, itself, and just as ageless. An age and a song could pass and it would persevere. The people? Dwindling but holding out. Mostly from pure orneriness. Smolder was no different. People came, went, but it always had at least a hundred. The biggest export of the town was Rock and Roll, inc., owned and operated by Shayle and Oak, the two wealthiest families in town. They were the blood to the heart of the town and its pimp, stripping away its body to sell to others for ends better not discussed. There weren’t any proper schools in Smolder save for the old schoolhouse out by the church in the southern part of town and it was closed decades before. Instead, the chitlin would go to Kingwood for their education, a thirty-minute drive north across the only road in and out of Smolder, a bridge over a dry valley. Aside Rock and Roll, there were only two other places to work in the town: The old gas station and Golden Arches. They flanked that bridge, knowing where opportunity, even a touch, was best seen. An old horse path was paved over by the church, leading down under the bridge that led to Rock and Roll and into the valley they had wrought. Just at the cliff side, under Rock and Roll, was Timber Trailer Park, which was always but a snowstorm away from becoming a part of the construction site. Off to its left, under the bridge leading out of town, was Gilded Gates, where those of Shayle and Oak resided and lorded over the town on raised estates. Alas, in Smolder that wasn’t far from the truth. The only thing that separated them from a feudal system and the present were the power lines, built into the bridge and buried under the town. The only poles the town needed were for cable and FIOS, a demand a certain company didn’t front the bill for, but Shayle and Oak were generous to their people. If they weren’t, they wouldn’t be kings, after all. They would be like the others just scraping by, doing what was necessary to survive in that town and state and nothing would have changed.
However, on the ninth of October 2017, Smolder, the state of West Virginia, and the world, itself, did.
The sun was low in the sky, casting the West Virginia skies in dusky purples and oranges. Rays glistened off the black metal bridge, caught in the puddles of the rainstorm earlier in the day, the air smelling of ozone and fresh timber. The rocky walls of the valley glowed with such fire, rippling from the setting su. The town was settling in for the night. Chitlin had already come home, gone from the playground that took most of western Smolder, and the last customer of the gas station put away the nozzle, paid for by credit card.
Luckily. For them.
A tremendous blast rippled through the postage stamp store in the center of the pumps of the gas station. It thundered across the concrete, bounded between the concrete poles and blue-painted pumps. The force of the shock wave seemed to peel the paint, flaking off more and more with each wet warble, rising to make a tornado blush until it died down to a groan.
The groan belonged to the gas station’s tenant, its caretaker for the evening, still grumbling and whimpering as he opened the bathroom door on the back of the store. It creaked open, and Drake Mortus peeked out, his shaggy, black hair swishing as he scanned the lot. He was quick to pull his head back in, though, when the semi’s from Rock and Roll rumbled by, heading to the bridge. They seemed to roll the city’s streets up after them.
Drake waited for their engines to be but a distant huff, a warbling echo on the air, and opened the door again. He slowly inched out, making sure to keep his pants above his knees, undone at that moment as he shuffled over to the women’s restroom. Grumbles and curses rolled from of the small cubicle until he managed to shuffle back out, returning to the men’s with plunger in-hand. He was still cursing, rising into the darkening sky and becoming the stars.
With a resounding flush, the vulgar words were gone... save for one, uttered as he crab-walked back to the women’s.
“Fucking Suzy,” he muttered, his voice still pained as he made the journey to the men’s room one more time. “Told me she filled them... Never use more than one whole roll a d-”
His rambling was cut off by the men’s room door, rumbling with another flush in no time. Water hissed a moment then he was out, rubbing his hands dry on his black jeans as he stomped back into the store. The measuring along its frame showed he was almost at six foot, one of many of his features he believed was below average. He lumbered over to the cold foods and pulled out the microwaveable burritos, grimacing at their date.
“I should know better by now,” he said, and tossed them in the trash before he trudged behind the counter. He wrote the fourteen Mexican gut bombs down on the notepad under the cigarette display before yanking one of the packs free. Menthol. He rang it up, paid for it, then headed back outside, pulling out his phone. “Five more minutes.”
He checked his chats, specifically the one with Maria, and started a new message.
Everyone still good for tonight? He wrote.
Yup. Just waiting on your sorry ass, she sent back not a moment later.
Going to stop to change and... check on her.
Ugh!!! Do you really need to? You know it’s going to be the SoS
She better. This is her last shot.
That’s what you always say...
Ten minutes once I get there. Then I’ll be on my way.
k
He scoffed, pocketed his phone again, and enjoyed his cigarette, looking up at the stars, twinkling away. The moon was over the horizon, half-full that night, washing the streets around the station and the bridge in pale light. He looked, almost longingly, wistfully, at the Golden Arches across the street. His stomach gave him an evil growl, reminding him of the Hell he had just wrought.
The cherry on his cigarette glowed one last time, and he flicked the butt out onto the concrete, near to pump two. He hoped it would suddenly explode, that it would chain with the others, making a Hellscape that would make the Devil blush. Instead, it simply sat there on the dry concrete, smoking only twice more before it put itself out. Damn; he had to close the store.
Most of it was already done; nobody ever came into the store after 8, so all that was left was to clock out, turn off the lights, lock the doors, find a reason to live, and go to his place of living. Calling it home was always a stretch, and his mama back in Detroit taught him never to lie. She, also, taught him how to best clean a pipe, too, and that was why he wasn’t anywhere near Detroit.
He heaved a weary sigh, and locked the final door of the gas station, turning towards the playground, taking up the majority of the town. A handful of lights twinkled in the houses across from it, lining the mountainside and forests beyond, his domicile right in the corner of the upper left. They were all Victorian styled, only told apart by color and degradation. His was once red and was flanked by two white houses. The one on the right had red shingles, the other black, and not a single person stirred in them. As he liked it.
Drake hated living in Detroit. He hated the stress, the... enclosed nature of it, but mostly the people. He never got along with many, and being packed almost ass-to-mouth? Was there any wonder he left for western Virginia and ended up stumbling into the wrong state.
Keith, his friend, once asked him why would he move into a place like Smolder.
“Why wouldn’t I?” He answered. “It’s fucking paradise.”
Yes. Paradise. That was some odd years ago, and he wished he could go back then and slap some sense into him. Sadly, he would still consider the place better than the alternative, but that was like comparing acupuncture needles in his balls and dick to somebody putting an angle grinder on them.
The soft sounds of night buzzed from the houses as he lurched on. Miss Adams was watching a documentary on serial killers. Again, and that one from a passing listen was somehow even more outstanding than the last. How far can people go to alter truth and somehow make monsters sympathetic- oh who was he kidding? Thousands of years later, and people were still gullible enough to believe God was a righteous Being. Mister and Missus Reed were getting it on while their son was drowning it out with heavy metal. Louie was panting and weeping as his bed creaked and air hissed out of the window, and his neighbor after, Miss Bea, was in her usual position: Face down, ass up, passed out and naked on the sidewalk. Her clothes were in a jumbled heap beside her, left by her driver, all reeking of booze.
Drake stepped into the street, walking around the landmass that was Miss Bea. Beat the alternative; his leg still ached when he tried to step around her through her yard. And she tried to charge him with trespassing and sexual assault? He’s lucky he didn’t demand Deegle to be put down. Perhaps that was why he didn’t feel a single bit sorry when he stepped on her third tit flap when he tried to tip-toe over her.
No matter. That amorphous blob that was more fat and alcohol than human was behind him. Which left the real challenge. He stood before the six steps up to that house. Six, long, concave, brown-and-red steps. He stared at them with incredible disdain, his hatred smoldering into them, making the paint chip faster than it already was… then took a deep... long breath.
He let it out, slowly, evenly… then... carefully, took the first step. It creaked, groaned just as much as he wished to, wanting him off just as much as him, but it held. As did the rest. There were four chairs there... somewhere... Under all the boxes, boxes that would soon have a use if he didn’t hear what he needed to.
He lumbered the three steps to the screen, creaking as he swung it open, and entered into that house.
Let’s see, he thought, taking off his name tag and putting it in the glass bowl by the door. He wiped his black work shoes off on the dirty rug One and slid them off. They fit in the nook that was left beside his old tennis shoes, slipping them on as he looked at the dusty entry Two. The house reeked of week-old garbage Three still piled and waiting in the living room off to the left, also left a mess Four. To the right, the dining room table was still littered with dishes from last night Five, as well as the sink in the kitchen behind it was still full Six.
He stomped up the steps, front and center in the entry- and gagged. The smell downstairs may have been bad, but it was rancid up there... Seven? He pressed on, making it to the platform, and turned to continue to climb, to the bedrooms and bath. His eyes started to water as he drew close, practically yanking his shirt off to cover his nose as he entered the bedroom on the right. Both doors on the left were shut, the one at the very end of the hall the bathroom. That was not where the smell was coming from.
His eyebrows, his hair felt singed by the blast of odor released when he cracked the seal to that room, blasted out by a thunderous clap. It rumbled through the house, shaking it to its foundation. Mary giggled as she waved it off, getting off the bed, wearing nothing but a smile. She was on the shorter side, barely coming to his chest, but was almost as wide as him.
“That was a good one, wasn’t it hon?” She said, leaning up to kiss him.
Stopped.
“Mary, what did I ask you to do before I left?” He said.
Her smile was gone, replaced by a sneer.
“We doing this already? You just got home.”
“What did I ask?”
“Well, I’m sorry. It slipped my m-”
“Jesus, Mary! What did I ask you to do!”
“I don’t know!”
“You don’t know? Then lets go downstairs so you can be reminded-”
“Okay! You asked me to do the garbage-”
“Since last fucking week!”
“The dishes-”
“Two fucking weeks ago!”
“And to tidy up the living room... but! I have a good explanation.”
He chuckled, already derisive, and shook his head. “Oh yeah?”
“Yeah! I was calling around for a job-”
“Bullshit! You laid up here on your sorry ass all day and did fuck-all. McD’s would have called you.”
“They did, actually!”
“They did, huh? What did they say?”
“They said I was too qualified to w-”
“‘Too qualified’, my ass! You don’t even have your GED!”
“Well, whose fault is that, huh?” She shoved his chest, sniffling. “Who told me school was for chumps and coaxed me to drop out? Who now is a loser who lost his job at the mill?”
Drake raised his arms, walking back out of the room.
“I told you. I fucking told you.” He rushed down the steps. Mary followed close behind, but stopped at the door as he went outside. He picked up a few boxes and turned around, glaring at her until she moved, then followed him back upstairs, placing them in between the two rooms. He turned on the light, which the last bulb blew at that very moment, making him snap back at her. “You didn’t even fucking change the lights!”
“Oh yeah! Let me tell you. I’ll just grow my arm out like Mister Fucking Fantastic. While I’m at it, I’ll give myself a reach around!”
He rolled his eyes and pulled out his phone, using the flashlight to empty the two sets of chest of drawers of her attire. He tossed them in the box with abandon, laces, silks, satins clashing as they were rumpled and discarded. He simply swiped the items off the top of them into it, clacking away, spilling and oozing onto the material as he continued his tirade to the closet.
“I fucking warned you, Mary,” he said, wrenching, practically tearing the cloth out of the closet and into the box. “This was your last fucking chance... Go start the other r- Jesus, Mary! Did you have to rip another one?”
“It’s been happening for the last couple of hours.”
“What did you eat?”
“Nothing- speaking of, why didn’t you bring anything home, asshole! There was nothing to eat h-”
“Bullshit! There was plenty to eat. You just didn’t want to fucking cook because you knew you would have t- go into the other room if you are going to rip those!” He shook his head, and slammed the closet shut, wheeling to her. She was doubled over, holding her stomach, her face contorted with pain as another blast rumbled out of her. “You okay?”
“Why does it matter? You’re throwing me out, anyways!”
He groaned, and walked over to her, helping her to the bed. She sobbed as another blast rippled through her. He nearly threw up from the stench that came with it, as if a thousand skunks died inside her.
“Have you taken anything for it?” He said, his voice softer than he really wanted it to be.
“A whole bottle of antacids- oh, God...”
He stood and went into the bathroom, checking the medicine cabinet, and returned with ultra-strength stomach aid. He didn’t bother with the instructions, blinking away the tears, burning just as much as the smell, as if it had permeated them and started to sear into his flesh, and simply opened it, holding it for her as she swallowed the entire thing.
“Alright... We’ll give that a bit of time to get into your system. If you still have problems, we’ll call 911... I was going to go hang with the band tonight. I’m running behind, but... when I get back, and you feel better, I want you packed up and ready to leave. You got that?”
She nodded, sniffling- bawling as she expelled another cloud of death... squishing a little onto the mattress.
Drake held his breath as he left the room, practically sprinted down the steps and out the front door, making it to the bottom of the steps before he threw up. He straightened himself, cleared his throat... and realized he hadn’t changed his shirt.
Fuck it, he thought, and tossed his shirt back onto the steps. It was a nice night.
And, as he made for the south side of town, he was surprised with how much better he felt. He had a spring in his step, knowing he was going to be free. At last, at last! Freedom! Change at last.
More change than he realized, than anybody in Smolder would ever expect.
