Free Big Maria by Shaw Johnny

drunk, but he was stealing the cheapest booze known to man. If he was going to steal, why hadn’t he stolen some of the top shelf, instead of headache in a bottle? Harry remembered the one and only time he drank Cisco. It tasted like a Tootsie Pop dipped in antifreeze. It killed the necessary brain cells but made his fingers go numb.
    “Poor kid,” Harry said to himself as he walked his beer home.

ELEVEN
    T hey had given Frank a fishing magazine. Probably thought all Indians liked fishing. The last fish Frank had caught was in the frozen section at Albertsons.
    He couldn’t get past the first sentence. Some article titled “The One That Didn’t Get Away.” He read the sentence a dozen times. His eyes saw the words, but their meaning never stuck, sliding along the surface of his comprehension. Like he was trying to translate a language he didn’t know.
    Whether you prefer a baited hook or dry fly, the Desert Southwest offers plenty of wonderful opportunities for catching a boatload of tilapia, also known as “St. Peter’s Fish.”
    Frank read to relax while he received his chemo treatment, but relaxation was near impossible. The thin fabric of the once-plush Barcalounger chafed where his shirt had lifted up. The cold bags on his hands and feet made him shiver uncontrollably. They said they’d keep his nails from falling out, but that didn’t make it more pleasant. On top of all that, the treatment gave him the shits, so he was forced to clench his ass muscles for the length of the therapy.
    Whether you prefer a baited hook or dry fly, the Desert Southwest offers plenty of wonderful opportunities for catching a boatload of tilapia, also known as “St. Peter’s Fish.”
    He wasn’t completely convinced that the old woman in the chair across from him was alive until she threw up on herself.
    Whether you prefer a baited hook or dry fly, the Desert Southwest offers plenty of wonderful opportunities for catching a boatload of tilapia, also known as “St. Peter’s Fish.”
    The nurses were pleasant but impersonal. It reminded Frank of when he had worked at the dairy, the same indifferent attitude as putting the milking machines onto the cows. You didn’t hate the cows, but you didn’t really care about them either.
    Whether you prefer a baited hook or dry fly, the Desert Southwest offers plenty of wonderful opportunities for catching a boatload of tilapia, also known as “St. Peter’s Fish.”
    He strained his eyes and brain in an attempt to focus, but that second sentence was as far away as his youth.
    Whether you prefer a baited hook or a dry fly…
    “Isn’t there a cigar store you should be standing in front of?”
    Frank looked up to see Harry standing over him. He closed the fishing magazine, its spell broken.
    “Find a seat,” Frank said, nodding toward a few folding chairs against the wall. After Harry pulled the chair next to him, he handed Frank a brown paper bag.
    “Didn’t know what to get you, but thought it was right ’cause you’re sick, you know, to get a present.”
    “What is it?” Frank asked, feeling the bag’s weight.
    “Couple of
Playboys
, a joke book, a flask of mezcal. And a box of Swishers.”
    Frank glanced inside the bag. “My daughter finds me with any of this, except maybe the joke book, I’m going to catch hell.”
    “What’re you, a teenager? You’re scared of your own daughter?”
    “Damn right. Built like an angry bowling pin.”
    “You’re old. That gives you—what do they call it—‘cart blanch’? You can walk down the street with your johnson in your hands whizzing all over the place. Cops catch you, they’ll drive you home. Me, I ain’t old enough yet. I’d get arrested after they gave me a blanket party.”
    “Maybe I’ll try that.” Frank laughed. “Thanks for the stuff. It’s the thought, yeah?”
    “What I would’ve wanted.”
    “You put some thought into it. That means something. Could’ve just grabbed some shit at the gift