Free Dead Nolte by Borne Wilder Page B

his nostrils, dislodging the oxygen
tube he loathed. “Show some fucking respect you stinkin’ sonofabitch!” He
screamed his voice sounded nasally and comical. Nolte wanted to kill something.
Mostly, he wanted to kill the shadow, but his little coward stepped forward to
save him. ‘Stop Nolte, that thing looks dangerous.’ The little guy feared the
shadow might kill them back.
    The reaper had arrived the same day as his last round of
chemo. It must have snuck in the door behind him, like a cockroach.
    The doctor had warned Nolte about taking this last round.
Doc had said, he was too weak and the drugs could give him a heart attack. He
hadn’t bothered to mention that they might give him a shadow that spewed mind
altering poison farts.
    “Maybe it’s time to face the music, Nolte.” Doc had said.
    “Well, book smart motherfuckers and morons all dance alike when
the music’s slow, Doc” Nolte could tell, the doctor had no idea how tough he
was, how special he was. People like me don’t die. He had told himself, amidst
the doctor’s warning. People like me can’t die. “Fuck it, fill ‘er up and check
the oil, Doc.” It didn’t really matter, one way or another, what the med-heads
did, he had a secret. “I will be risen, motherfuckers! On the third day he is
risen! I have a fucking nest egg.”
    Nolte either couldn’t, or wouldn’t see the withered shell
he’d become. One reason might have been that he wore well-lubricated whiskey
goggles tinted with grandeur. Another reason could have been, Nolte had a weak,
self-centered mind, riddled with self-preservation and crippling fear, which he
refused to acknowledge.
    To admit to himself that his body was failing, would be to
confess he wasn’t the man he once was. To acknowledge any sign of weakness
could be catastrophic to Nolte’s carefully constructed, emotional house of
cards. If it came crashing down, it would all go to hell in a hurry and quite
possibly result in an extended stay at the booby hatch. This is where his
‘constants’ and ‘boundaries’ came in handy.
    Although he had become a death camp poster boy, one hundred
pounds of skin draped across gristle and bone, animated by a cold heart that
had completely turned to shit, Nolte still saw it as a temporary thing. In his
mind, it was a speed bump. He would slow his roll for a while and snap back
from this glitch as good as new, in fact, better than new. He would be twirling
his dick like a watch chain in no time. He would rock out, with his cock out.
    Nolte saw himself as the man, the myth, the legend. Not the
shirtless, pot-bellied creepy guy in gym shorts, who wore white socks with
sandals.
    In Nolte’s world, the sky was a different shade of blue. In
his world, he was stylin’ and profilin’. He drove a ‘Vette, for Christ’s sake,
as long as he kept his hair combed, his teeth brushed and his dick washed; any
woman in her right mind should and would feel privileged to find herself underneath
him. Even now, naked, except for an adult diaper and flip flops, he felt he
didn’t look half bad.
    Hell, he must not be too far gone, he had been able to talk
his stepdaughter into a bit of a tug when she had stopped by to check his meds
and wash his crotch. He was pretty sure she would have sucked it too, if her
idiot husband, (goober, gomer, hickerbilly) hadn’t tagged along. Goober would
allow a tug here and there, but no pussy and nothing with the mouth.
    Nolte knew this activity was only available to him because
of their greed, but he didn’t give a shit, a tug is a tug is a tug. Besides,
watching (goober, gomer, hickerbilly) squirm was actually more fun than the
tug, itself. It wasn’t that (goober, gomer, hickerbilly) liked the idea of
sharing his wife’s hand, but at the first sign of the old man’s sickness, it
had been made clear to him that Martha’s inheritance depended on Nolte’s
happiness and Nolte’s happiness depended on the occasional tug.
    “No sex and no sucking.”