Snake’s head came up from the coffee table. “Fuckin’ commies,” he declared. “Motherfuckin’ commies.”
Freaky John belched. “You got some white shit around your nostrils.”
Snake wiped his nose and reached for his beer. “It’s the goddamn, motherfuckin’ commies, is what it is.”
“Unbelievable,” Freak mumbled, leaning down to put the rolled-up bill in his nose.
Snake’s fist came down on the tabletop, causing the neat rows of white dust to scatter. “They don’t want you to know, but shit, man, the truth is staring you right in the face.”
Freak sneezed and immediately regretted it. “Aw, fuck, man, gimme a piece of paper or something to clean this up with!”
“Face it, man. Superbowl is a national holiday,” Snake continued, grabbing a book from the end table and throwing it on the table. White powder flew up in a little cloud from the impact. “It’s the commies that don’t want you to know it.”
“Un-fuckin’-believable. You’re getting it all over the place.” Freak used the book’s edge to scrape the whiteness back into neat lines and leaned forward to examine his handiwork.
“Think about it. Banks are closed. No postal service.”
Freak extricated a hair from one of the lines. “You’re a fuckin’ idiot.”
“That’s just what they want you to think, man.”
Freak glared up at Snake. “Who’s they?”
“The commies, dickhead!”
“What commies?”
“The ones who don’t want you to know it’s a fuckin’ holiday!”
“It’s not!”
Snake stroked his goatee wisely. “No banks. No mail. Lots of businesses close early. Families get together and eat in front of the TV. Now, what the fuck would you call it?”
Freaky John shook his head. “If it was a holiday, it’d be on a Monday. Like Labor Day.”
“Arbor Day.”
“What?”
Snake tossed his hair back. “Arbor Day. That’s its real name, genius. It’s what Labor Day used to be, before somebody made a typo.”
Freak considered this. “No shit?”
Snake leaned back and put his hands behind his head. “I shit you not.”
“Man, that’s fucked up.”
“Yep.” Snake’s boot hit the coffee table. White powder flew up into the air. “Dude. You got a dustbuster?”
Copyright 2006 Amy Frushour Kelly. All rights reserved.
Reproduction by any means prohibited without prior written consent.