Peeping Bomb

Thus, in honor of her, I created something called the “Abigail Cocktail.” I wish you could smell it. Picture a pan of fresh lasagna steaming on your kitchen table, then pour at least a gallon of gasoline on it. A witch’s brew of hydrochloric acid, black powder, nitro, and uranium. That last part came courtesy of an old friend who retired from the service to be a nuclear physicist. It was a trace amount, of course. No one in their right mind would remove whole pellets from a live reactor. These were the equivalent of “shavings” like the metal flecks when you strike a flint. Harmless by itself. But get it in the hands of a master of the KABOOM and we have the secret ingredient to the Abigail Cocktail. When it’s all nice and rancid smelling, I pour the contents into my favorite Scooby thermos.

I’ve had it since I was five. The blue and green colors have long since faded but the head of that lovable Great Dane remains there to smile at me every morning. My mother gave it to me for Christmas, right before she went outside and lay down in front of a snow blower.

“I’m going out for more whiskey,” were her last words.

We were the only house on the block with red snow that day. When my father got home, stinking of fresh asphalt and liquor, his first question was not “What happened?” or “How did it come to this?” His question was “Why aren’t you crying?”

I had no answer. Every time he asked, all I could give him was a blank stare. He complained that I must not have any tear ducts. “I have juss ze remedy,” he said. “A son should cry for his mudder.”

He got out his old tattoo artist kit and pinned me on the floor of our house. As I tried to plead or kick him off, he began drilling the needle gun into both my cheeks, scratching at the skin over and over under my eyes. He didn’t realize there was no ink in the gun. He drew in several raggedy circles trying to make two tears. When he saw that the needle had carved the desired shapes into my flesh, he nodded and collapsed on the kitchen floor. The entire time I hadn’t realized I’d been holding the thermos to my chest. So you see it holds a very dear place in my heart.

About me

This is me: home-writer, book-reader, dog-lover and occasional poet. I make this website to share my and my friends texts with You, dear Reader. Please: read carefully, don't be scary, upgrade your mood and be king and leave your comment. :)