by Matthew Sanborn Smith
There was Southern Comfort, there was a little coke, there were rocks in snowballs and why the hell were they running around naked in the middle of winter? Hank's rapidly returning consciousness discovered that his willie was tucked so far up into him it might as well have been a vagina. AC/DC's Jailbreak was blaring, distorted around the edges, from the back of Soto's Buick. They were drunk and fucked up and even if Hank caught Selina out there in the playground of the old elementary school was he going to do with her, besides warm the hell up?
"With a bullet in his back!" Paul screamed to the song when it came time. Fuck it, Selina would have to come back on her own, Hank was freezing his ass off and couldn't feel anything below his knees. Hank watched each step, concentrating too much on balance. His feet were bleeding maybe? He thought he left dark splotches in the moonlit snow.
Selina had long been forgotten. The location of his clothes as well. All there was was the exhaust ridden fifty-dollar Buick. The Buick was warmth. The Buick was life. He prayed it held more booze and or drugs. As he fell to his knees and crawled for safety, he prayed he could get blitzed enough to wipe this thing entirely from his life's memory.