Sucking on a sawed-off and wundrin where it went wrong—there’s always someone else and Andromeda’s been long gone. Jake held the weapon in hand and screamed and fussed and whimpered and felt his phone vibrate. One last time.
He removed his thumb from the trigger and barrel from his mouth to reach for his phone. Ron Drip.
“What up,” said Ron when Jake answered. “You got a minute?”
“I think,” replied Jake as he set down the shotgun.
Ron continued. “Fight Kyova is throwing an amateur card. We should sign up.”
“The fuck you mean sign up?” replied Jake with one askew eyebrow.
“Sign up and give it a go,” said Ron. “Find out what you’re made of.”
Jake was made of star matter, as Ron had once told him. He didn’t know himself beyond that but he looked up at the mirror for the first time in weeks and saw red and howled like every Ozzy song.
“That’s my dawg,” said Ron with a grin. “I knew you had it in ya.”
“Do you think I have a chance?” asked Jake. He weighed in at 187 pounds the morning prior, and Ron wanted to fight in the lightweight division.
“Not at all,” said Ron. “But you need this.”
“Maybe you’re right,” replied Jake.
“It’ll wake you up.”
Jake pondered for a moment. “I’m gonna do it.”
“That’s my fucking brother,” said Ron as he shuffled his phone. “I’ll talk more later. Jim’s down my back about tickets.”
Jake hung up the phone and hung up his gun on his living room rack with a bottle of Jack, and he cracked that motherfucker open and took a swig and coughed and threw up. Ron had a stronger stomach.
Jake walked out the front storm door and looked at his hometown with paranoid eyes and a newfound dilemma. Andi ran off in a hurry from Jake and determined to make him a weasel, but Jake’s newfound purpose lingered in his mind.
One last time.
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