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Pif Magazine
Pif Magazine |
Last Rights : Page 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 "Gene, could it be that you’re reacting so strongly because of your own doubts about eating meat?" Hammy asked. "Don’t give me any of that L.A. nutrition-action-psycho-babble, hippie." "At least I’ve done something with my life." "You’re a scuba instructor." "At least I’m not living off my inheritance in Mom and Dad’s house." Hammy then pointed at me. "Or spreading out for a bunch of hard hats like they were a gynecologist convention." "I wore a G-string," I cried, my hand over my heart. "I was tasteful." "Like that husband who fucked up your face and made you more ridiculous-looking than ever?" I sank to the floor. Gene slammed the table with his fist. "This house takes enormous effort to maintain. And Trix and I have committed our lives to helping others." "Helping others?" "Trix volunteers at the Community Center and I have my work with Tutor Tots." "So you can twiddle little boys." Gene shot up from his chair and flipped the oak table. "You," he said through clenched teeth. "You." Hammy locked his fingers behind his neck and crossed his feet at the ankles. "Yes, Gene?" He said. "Me?" "I don’t have to take this from a, from a, from a, from a," Gene turned purple and lumbered to the back door with his arms out and his legs apart like a matinee mummy. Hammy and I watched from the dining room window as he staggered around the patio. "It wasn’t supposed to be this way," I said. "This was supposed to be a nice time. Family time. You were coming home to build on that." "Family time?" Hammy said. "I’m on my way to New York to pick up my advance on the book I’m writing about Tim." "Your w-w-what?" "Last Rites: A Killer Among Us." "No." "Shit yeah. I’m gonna blow life into that son-of-a-bitch." I let out a scream that was so guttural, loud and blood curdling that I thought it was coming from someone else. "Trix, Mom and Dad have any records? You know, from shrinks, report cards, clippings? Oh, I’ll need to take those photo albums. How ‘bout it, Trix? Any documents or reports?" I’d been sitting in Mom’s rocking chair all morning, laconic. Gene stayed outside and hit himself. "Trix?" It seemed too big an effort to talk. "I... don’t... want... the... pictures... to... leave... the house." "Growing up, you kept diaries," Hammy said. "I’ll need a look-see." "They’re personal." "I’m not interested in your love life or lack there of, Trix. Just the goods on Tim. The seeds. Where it all began. Is violence hereditary? Is it learned? Some specialists believe deviant behavior can be traced in DNA samples. It boggles the mind, Trix. There’s a neurologist in Quebec who says the violent brain has an excess of metal manganese." "I thought I’d bake a broccoli millet casserole from The Tassahara Cookbook. Would that be satisfactory?" "Make whatever you and Gene like and I’ll eat around it. Anyway, I’ve got miles of microfiche to zip through at the library. Don’t know that I’ll make it to chow." |
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