after Chris Erickson
Tristan Funicular fell asleep not long after dawn. His teeth were on wrong and his bong was full of something less like water and more like moss. He was lost. His stress level was Jurassic. His panics were unlearned.
This was a mere hours before Tristan’s door was kicked down by the scholar Parlor Hallelujah who demanded her dues. You see, Parlor Hallelujah was a crooked academic, a well-known non-peasant, an aggressive lecturer, a stirrer of sins. The hushed business she conducted was equal parts consultation and intimidation. She lived off the wisdom she gave to others. Hundreds of dollars at a time. Crisp unmarked bills. She had that glad killer in her pupils. She was ruthless. She left no open ends.
Tristan Funicular, God bless him, was six hours overdue with making his payment when Parlor Hallelujah stormed into his room. Used Kleenex. Wrecked VHS. A mess of cans and shitty first drafts.
Parlor Hallelujah, she wore a sledgehammer and a dagger. Tristan was not happy to see her. He reached for his bong. Parlor crushed it with her toes. She did not flinch when the glass entered her calloused heels. Tristan began to cry. Parlor opened his wallet and found some oddly folded ones. Tristan knew and Parlor knew how this story would go. You now know, too.
With one pulling the other down the third-floor hallway. Her biceps bulging through the cashmere and tweed. She, showing the frightened man his tightening balcony view. The ashtray full of roached jays. The stained seat bleached from the Cleveland sun.
With both arms, Parlor tipped Tristan. Tipped him over slowly, so slowly. His morning screams blended magnificently with that of the rooster’s down the street. The healthier rooster of the two. The one with only one eye.