Top 5 Reasons G-d Invented the SuperCycle

They booted Ada’s cab. I sat on the hood, my hair exploding around me in the humidity, sucking down HiTar after HiTar and scribbling an update in my notebook while Adelaida paced the sidewalk, screaming three dialects worth of profanities at the 311 Operator. “…Roy is the third victim perpetrator New York City taxi driver to die in a string of recent explosions incidents that began this July in Brooklyn. Police would not say whether the explosions are related.
“You cunt-licking ass clown, I’m gonna put a boot on your fucking face,  you shit-eating donkey-fucking bhenchod.”
Akbar Hussein, the lone witness, said Roy was eating his breakfast with the engine idling when the cab burst into flames.
Roy was 52. He is survived by his wife, Anjali, and three daughters. (I could hear them, G-d help me)¬¬¬

“Have you got that, Ankur?”
“Filed,” the furious clatter of keys stopped, and Ankur Singh sighed into the receiver. “Thanks again for taking my shift. I don’t know what happened. It must have been that salt lassi I got at Haandi. You know Haandi, over on Lex?”
My stomach groaned, because by now, my entire digestive tract is fairly suggestible. Maybe I’d been too petrified and then to keyed up to register it before, but now that the black gas smoke and the foot traffic had cleared, I could feel it sharp and familiar as the itch for nicotine under my fingernails. Anyone who ever had parasites knows the hot laundry-soap churning before the boil—spare a quarter and SuperCycle your sheets, your shit-stain dignity disappearing in the bleach and scald. In the space under my ribs, the centimeters between my navel and my spine I felt a not-small revolt in progress, the invaders in their safari shorts and gold mustaches, the natives with their spears and poison darts, locked in deadly battle for every inch of mucus membrane. I was suddenly and absolutely certain I would be sick.
“Yeah, why am I even asking, right? Listen,” there was a pause on the line, “I was thinking. You wanna, you know, grab lunch sometime? Just one of the taxi places, nothing special.”
“Ankur…”
“I know, I know, we don’t even have the same lunch shift, right?”
“It’s just that…” they were wheeling the body away. I felt my shriveled rock of a stomach lurching against my ribs. Who was I after all, except a child-bride who cuckolded her green-card husband at every opportunity? For only half a Jew, I gotta tell you, I do pretty all right on the guilt.
“It’s ok, you don’t have to make excuses. I understand.”
“I’m married.”
“Sure, yeah, I figured I mean…” another pause. “Oh.”
Something that was surely sick bobbed just north of my collarbone.  “Will you excuse me for just one second?”  I slid from the hood of the Crown Victoria into the gutter and vomited, my head between my knees, squatting dotwise eye-to-eye with the terrifyingly hot and still breathing belly of the beast.

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Filed under nanowrimo08, Reimagineers

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