DAY 120: Friday, February 5, 2010:  The dinosaurs really miss you.

Before we continue, I did something insane today by rising at 5:00 a.m. to start my writing, and just quit an hour ago, at 9:30 p.m.  I edited and uploaded 19 Chapters of this insanity onto the HarperCollins “Authonomy” site, where other authors read your work and make suggestions, etc., and one day an editor or agent may . . . just may . . . totally ignore you.  It’s all good, and so the entire thing is within roughly fifty pages of the ending on: http://www.authonomy.com/   .  Chapters have been swapped a bit (the first chapter is when Ferg loses his job, so it’s more chronological), and just a bit more streamlined, so it moves faster.  If it wasn’t very funny and went on too long, I tossed it.  Not much, but enough to cut some fat.  So here’s the daily fix continued from Day 119 . . . 

As Fiddles finally finished making secret history with himself, pushing the toothless rummy out of his car with a five dollar bill and two cans of Bud, another toothless drunk named Vera held her brand new husband tight in the back of Frenchy’s Suburban, the infamous Wilson brothers passing a big round mayonnaise jar between them, up front.

Five rusted Folgers cans clanked and bounced behind them , and “Hitched to the Bitch” was scrawled with thick shaving cream, flying in beady clumps off the rear window.

“Will ya hold me tighter?” Vera asked, matching whiskey breath with whiskey breath, Frenchy trying desperately to find a little breathing space.  “Will ya tell me that we’re soul mates?”

The lumbering truck hit a frost heave, sending sparks out like fireworks around loud, clanging cans, making a perfect little wedding celebration in their wake.

Something grabbed Frenchy’s aching genitals like that snapping turtle on Mark’s face, and he screamed bloody murder as they clanked and bounced further east, toward Ashford.

“Unrequited love,” Willy confided, his brother beaming with total and drunken abandon, sipping more magic from the fat and fuming mayonnaise jar.  “Romance times ten.”

Eee-hah!

-   -   -

They were eastbound on the highway, Fiona driving her black attack vehicle with Ferg riding shotgun; Janelle in back with her baby girl leaning close, hands clasped tightly.

“Special medication,” Ferg said, looking at Fiona.  “They gave me some very special medication to administer once we get home.  It looks like serious horse tablet sedatives.”

Fiona turned from the road for a second, arching sharp warrior eyebrows with a questioning look as Janelle grinned like the Fairy Queen in back, reading her husband’s tone.

“You know about this?” Fiona asked, looking to the rearview.  “You know what they’re giving you here, and what it’s all about?”

“It’s not for Janelle . . .” Ferg started, waiting for a punch from his sister.  “We all heard about your little game of dodge ball in the big meeting.”

“Some guy made a rude comment, and couldn’t duck my retort.”

“Good arm there, Roger Clemens.”

“I was aiming for his nose.”

Ferg turned back to face his wife, telling her how she hadn’t spoken two words since they left the hospital.

“I don’t like words much anymore,” Janelle said, kissing her daughter’s hair.  “I just love the moment, in all its physical beauty.”

“Sounds like a book on tape.”

Janelle was nodding to some kind of inner music.  “Yeah . . . so let’s go hit a drive thru and see what all this Baghdad Burger crap is about.”

“American falafels and don’t look too closely.  I love the oversized jersey, by the way.”

“Thanks, love.”

“You hated when I had the old hockey games on.”

“Padded rooms do very strange things after a while.”

“I’ve never been in a penalty box that long.”

To be continued . . .