Cigarette number fourteen (for the day) stamped out and laid to rest amongst his fallen brothers. Half empty (full?) glass of warm brandy loosely cradled in the left hand. A brain that feels like it’s been in one of those industrial sized washing machines just tumbling and tumbling and tumbling. Cold and smooth floorboards in a terribly modest single apartment in an overlooked pocket of the city. No sound coming from the radio because nothing is right and even if it was right the atmosphere needs its silence so there’s no point in pitting the two against one another.
I’ve been over this one hundred thousand times! I’ve pulled the teeth of my reslove until he gave in to me! But somehow, that little sonuvabitch grew some of those teeth back. Or maybe he’d pinched his pennies until he’d socked away enough for a good set of implants. Whatever the case, the treaty had been broken, the cease-fire was now only a fond memory, and it was time for the trenches to become home once again.
I’ve been over this one hundred thousand times!
Perhaps one hundred thousand and one is the magic number.