Free Thomas Prescott Superpack by Nick Pirog Page A

with ten burners, four of which were occupied and simmering away.
    I ran my hand over one of the cherry wood cabinet doors and said, “Nice place you got here.” (This comment is only said when either the person saying it is uncomfortable, or they are impressed with the other person’s digs. I was both, so I wasn’t sure where that put me.)
    After turning one of the dials on burner one, three, five, seven, or nine, Alex said, “Can you make us some drinks?”
    I wasn’t sure if she was asking if I wanted to make drinks or if I were capable. She gave me instructions to the bar and put in her order for whatever I was having. I set the bottle of Cab on the countertop and exited the kitchen, finding myself in a spacious living room with a long oak bar at back. There were two paintings, one on both the east and west walls, respectively, and I knew immediately both were Winslow Homers. There was a small couch facing a mammoth flat screen television and the bar in the dim left corner was nearly invisible.
     I meandered behind the high bar and fumbled through Alex’s array of liquor bottles. I made two stiff gin and tonics and made my way back to the kitchen. Alex tossed two thick salmon filets on the grill splitting the island, inciting a cacophony of smells.
    At the present moment I was leaning back against one of her marble counters, markedly uncomfortable both physically and conversationally, and hauled myself up with both hands. As I let my weight down on the counter a searing pain tore through my right butt cheek, and I heaved myself up and off the marble. The sound of my gasping began to fade and was soon barely audible beneath the rumbling laughter emitting from Miss Tooms.
    I mustered the strength to look back over my shoulder and took in the sight. There were three corncob holders sticking out of my back right pant pocket. I pulled one out slowly. The blade was about an inch long and about a quarter of an inch thick, covered in a light red film, aka, my fucking blood.
    As I pulled the remaining two corncob holders out, the composing Alex said, “You can keep those as souvenirs. I don’t think I want them touching my corn.”
    I smiled meekly, then walked—no, make that hobbled—out of the kitchen, and directly across the hall to the sparse bathroom. It took me a couple seconds to get my pants unbuckled and my red boxer briefs peeled from the flesh, which I might add, were white when I bought them. If you are under the impression wounds of the butt don’t bleed, let me be the first to tell you otherwise.
    I cleaned up the wounds with toilet paper and warm water, then scavenged the bathroom cabinet for some Band-Aids. There weren’t any Band-Aids but I did stumble on a box of maxi-pads. Hmmm.
    I took three pads from the box, unwrapped them, and smacked them down, securing the wings down tightly on the rosy flesh. Then I flushed the wrappers down the toilet, pulled my pants up, and then flushed twice more for good measure.
    Let’s take a minute and reflect on the night so far, shall we. I’d stripped my passenger side mirror, kicked off my front bumper, ripped off Alex’s doorknocker, sat on a set of corncobs holders, and now had three maxi-pads stuck to my ass. Holy shit, maybe I should call it quits before I burned Alex’s house down and put in a tampon.

Chapter 11
     
     
    The ‘Ol brothers, Alcoh and Tylen, were starting to get along and when Alex said dinner was on, I didn’t feel half bad. I followed her into the living room and saw the bar was set rather than the table. I thought about this for a moment and decided the bar was at the most desirable height for my present situation. The two of us sidled up to opposite sides of the bar, Alex playing bartender and me in the role of drunken patron, or soon to be drunken patron, that is.
    I took in the food, it looked amazing. There was a medley of grilled vegetables: mushrooms, baby tomatoes, green peppers, red peppers, and onions, surrounding a steaming