Free Hair of the Bitch - A Twisted Suspense Thriller by Jeff Menapace Page B

fairly sure I didn’t. Doesn’t mean someone didn’t see me though. Shit.
    “Well what do you want me to do?” Margaret asked, not even trying to hide her contempt.
    “Tell them I’m very sick and very sorry, and I will gladly work on them for free if they reschedule.”
    “And your clients after that? Will you be alright in an hour?”
    “No, Margaret, I don’t think I will be miraculously healed in the span of an hour. Would you please call and tell them the same thing?”
    She huffed then agreed. I hung up, and was back to sleep in less than a minute.
     
    * * *
     
    No alarm this time, just the incessant nagging of an alpha feline. Enough of this sleeping shit; give me some attention his headbutts into my shoulder said.
    “Alright!”
    I sat up in bed. Pele made a beeline for my face, rubbing his jowls against my chin, letting me know that he did indeed care for me, despite the fact that I was under the absurd illusion I was his master.
    As I lay there and allowed him to finish patronizing me, I began to try and piece together the previous night’s events. Some of it was a blur and some of it was clear. I’m sure I was hammered; the grenades going off in my head confirmed that. I’m also sure Paul and I had chatted up some ladies and…
    Oh shit.
    My face and ears started to burn as I remembered what I’d said to one of those ladies. The one I was getting friendly with. Paul knew too. Did I tell Paul anything about Angela? About the mess I was in? I don’t think I did. Did I? God, I’m a fucking idiot.
    I kicked the covers off and swung my legs over the side of the bed. As my one leg flopped against the rim of the mattress it felt like someone had touched a lit match to my calf. I grimaced, looked down and saw the wound I’d inflicted on myself.
    I then remembered everything.
    The images were hazy, but the content was all there. I had managed to keep everything from Paul. All the crazy shit that was said to the girl (and she was a mere blur and a nice smell at this point) could easily be written off as stupid, drunken behavior. God knows he was used to that. I breathed a very temporary sigh of relief.
     
    * * *
     
    An hour later, Pele was fed, and I had showered and attended to my calf. It was 1:30 in the afternoon, and since I had called out sick for work and my car was still in the parking lot of the bar, I was officially stranded. Good old suburbia. No car; you’re fucked.
    I wondered when I would be hearing from Angela. She had spared me last night, but the more I thought about it, I suppose she really didn’t. She was there, in my head the whole time—my wounded calf and macabre gift of the gab towards the fairer sex was proof enough of that. And then there was my conscience. Lately the fucker just wouldn’t shut up. The excessive drinking and whatnot I can understand, but all this crazy talk about Fantasy World…I didn’t get it.
    How is that possible? My conscience is me. I’M talking about Fantasy World. Why can’t I understand my own thoughts?
    ( Denial. )
    And like a cock-blocker when you’re with a honey, he’s there.
    ( You’re too kind. )
    How is it possible that I’m in denial about something I don’t even understand?
    ( You understand—being in denial is just an attempt at burying your comprehension. Some might call it suppression. )
    I know what suppression is, fuck stick. But how can I suppress something I can’t comprehend?
    ( Same way a bad memory from childhood can be suppressed and forgotten. )
    I just said I know what suppression means. I’m not talking about trying to forget when Father O’Malley made me touch his thing; I’m asking how I can suppress something I don’t understand. All your stupid metaphors about football, and being in the game, and flights to Fantasy World…
    ( A priest made you touch his dick? I don’t remember that. )
    Because it didn’t happen, stupid. I was using it as an example.
    ( I’m not going to explain anything to you. I won’t