21st Century Freedom Part 2 by Tristan Drue Rogers

Mr. All Righty

The phone, which seemed to be a deadlier amount further away than earlier, rang.

 I answered it, “I’m free.”

     “What? Hey, bro, you’re late. Get the hell up and be here.”

     “I’m free.”

     “Yeah, me, too. Be here. This is the big one. Later.” Beatman hangs up.

     My left hand threw the cell to the bed, “Damn.” I got some brightness on my newly washed comforter.

     “Where is Mister All Righty?” I screamed maniacally with a dense amount of half empty honesty. I seemed to have lost my limb in the dimness of my situation. 

     Dimness? No, very matter-of-fact, I have not been so relieved in years. A lot of weight was off of my shoulders so to speak.

     The incessant phone rang and I walked out of my room looking to clean my wound and bandage it. Yes, bandage, of course. But first, I boiled a skillet—waited ten minutes of leveling in and out—and placed it readily upon the nub. Perhaps I should have numbed it first, but how would one want to lose such living joy!

     The phone continued to ring as I enjoyed the home cooked meal I’ve made of myself, “I can bring this here or there! Anywhere!” I hummed along into the bedroom to find the phone with skillet in hand onto hand.

     “Ahh,” with my left hand occupied I reached for the phone with my right. Awkward laughs indeed available. I recalibrated, “Hello?”

     “Hello? Hello. Okay, where are you?” He seemed irritated. I do wonder if he is in need of a proper cleavering.

     “I’ve had an accident.”

     “Oh, really? Like what Mac? Gettin’ lazy on me or how about just not wanting to see me anymore? Pick any excuse or whatever you like and I’ll be—” I must interrupt his sour breathe, even on the phone it brought about a smell, “— I think I chopped my right hand off …” Silence evoked more noise from my lips, “… And now I can’t find it. Will you help me find it?”

     I heard a big breathe of one-two-three before he spoke clearly, “Are you serious or is this a cry for—” I hung up. He’ll figure it out, I’m almost sure.

     An overcooked steak-like taste filled my bedroom into the hallway. I shan’t forget to eat in such times; with my bedroom no longer amusing me with its mundane appreciation for bright colors, I carried the skillet back to the kitchen. The stove was lit with an attempt to place the skillet atop. The glue of my scabbed residue had fused with the metal I notice.

     “Hmm,” butter is an item that popped its existence into my blood flow. Untastily, butter had not been a recurring addition of my diet in quite some time.

     Next door to my home is a young married couple of three or four years. They should have what I need. I believed this to be factual as the woman of the two had unknowingly brought on my envy of such sloth lifestyles as opposed to mine.

     I stepped outside after throwing a robe around myself, the difficulty of fastening the belt loop I had not imagined beforehand.

     The door blocking my entry did not block out my view. Before my sight was one of those metallic-framed screen doors usually intended as the first layer of a flimsy defense. Not even in need of a knock as the man of the two residents spotted me and approached. “Hey Mac, what can I do ya for?” He’s in a white wife-beater and boxers. His skin doesn’t convey the ability for a second helping of any dish, no matter the protein or fat intake, which I can only describe as having a skeletal figure reaching out within to all who would pay attention. I did not envy this man.

     “Yo, what up dude?” Dammit, what’s his name? “I was just wondering if you have an extra T-bone—or yeah—lyin’ around?”  

     Guy tilted his head, “Normally it’s a sugar request, right? But you have helped my babe with deals on extra protein so lemme ask if it’s okay with her. We’re watching this countdown on the highest level IQ scores of reality stars. It’s a damn hoot and—”

     “—15 Seconds of Intelligence?”

     “Yessir!” He pointed and smiled.

     “Didn’t know that was today, lemme know how it goes.”

     “Oh, for sure. Be right back.” He sidestepped away through the hallway, it being the only room visible at my vantage point.

     A framed picture of Porky Pig was on the wall. Looking torn from a calendar, it’s got that shiny plastic look.

     I realized a little too late that the smell of my flesh had brought cooked meats into my mind over original want, “Hey, bro! Second thought, I just need some butter!” I hollered through the maze; likely I had beef over at the house regardless.

     No reaction or reply to my words sent my eyes into an antsy frenzy until I caught a whiff of popcorn. Nothing at all is more entertaining than the viewing of it; popcorn and butter go so well together. My left hand smacked its invisible brother at the behest of a bite. Many bites actually, apparently gnats as well as mosquitoes have taken both a notice and a liking to my current handicap. If only insects weren’t always so fearless as my movements accounted for a few dodges only to have them readily jet to the same location before.

     I heard laughs coming from the inside of the living room with occasional inhales for chewing.

     A commercial welcomed a silence before footsteps began to lead an image more near to me.


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