This week, the prompts were: "... has arisen..." or use: lamb, soul, redemption or use ham in an interesting way or "You have no faith to lose and you know it..." or use chocolate or use a church in some way or "Family values? Your family wouldn't know values if..."
I used the "... has arisen...", but in an entirely different way than I had imagined. Enjoy! Don't forget to see what the other Wednesday Briefers have come up with! Their links follow my tale!
The sour scent of stale sex smelled as rancid as a filthy grease trap. Lionel wrinkled his nose in disgust. He hadn’t really noticed before. Mainly because everyone else smelled just as horrible. He’d been cooped up with the band members so long, it had become too familiar to stand out. But now he was home, and in the cool, fresh South Carolina air, he even offended himself.
Priscilla would have a cow, and he knew it. His sister could be a real stickler for things. Like cleanliness. And personal hygiene. How could he make her understand that not washing because he was too busy partying—getting high, drinking everything in sight, including a bottle of cough syrup, banging every girl that would let him inside her pants, and maybe a couple of guys—was a cheap price to pay for nirvana.
So what if the cabbie had sprayed the interior of his hack with fabric spray as soon as Lionel stumbled inside? Nothing personal, right? More of a tribute to his pride of ownership. And if the driver was offended, the generous tip Lionel gave him before he crawled out of the vehicle in front of his house ensured that his luggage would be treated with some semblance of respect as it was tossed onto the lawn, right next to where Lionel had tripped and fallen.
He thought he heard the driver mumble something about a sewer. The slam of the cab door reverberated through Lionel’s skull. “Do you have to be so loud?” But he was talking to himself and he knew it. And didn’t care.
Goddamn, that had been fun. Touring with the Midlife Crisis. Six states in two weeks. The tour bus had careened like a drunken sailor through the deep South, from one venue to the next. Faceless crowds filled with adoring fans. Not his, of course. Lionel wasn’t a member of the bad. Technically, he might be considered a groupie. Personally, he referred to himself as a muse. An inspiration for the band. They thrived on his excesses and encouraged them to the nth degree.
Whiskey and grits. Morning noon and night grits. He’d eaten so many he’d even shat the damn things.
Was it worth it? Hell yeah. He’d even endure Priscilla’s sanctimonious nagging. The memories of his experience—at least the ones he retained—would last a good long while. Perhaps until the next tour he was invited on. And there was no doubt in Lionel’s mind that he would be invited. He’d been the fucking life of the party, hadn’t he? Didn’t the fun begin and end with him? Hell to the yeah. Priscilla’s words would die out long before the glow of this trip.
He fumbled in his pocket for the house key. What was that? He looked into his palm. A book of matches, a half a roach, a few coins. Not what he was looking for. He plunged them back inside and plumbed the depths of his other pocket. This time he struck pay dirt. “Eureka!” he cried, then dropped his voice to a loud stage whisper and repeated, “Eureka!” He held the key proudly before him, as though he’d just won a Grammy.
They should have Grammies for muses. He would suggest that next time he saw the band.
He got the door open in one try, flung the suitcase inside ahead of him and closed the door as quietly as he could. No sense in waking the slumbering beast any sooner than necessary.
“Shhh, I’m hunting wabbit.” He was torn between going to the kitchen to get a drink and heading upstairs to strip and shower. Common sense won out. He could drink out of the tap before he got into the shower. Kill two birds with one stone. The thought made Lionel giggle.
The house was as silent as a tomb. Priscilla must be asleep. Well, good for her. A hot shower, something to wet his whistle, he’d fall into bed and grab some shut-eye himself. He had to look good tonight. His peeps hadn’t seen him for weeks. He needed to prepare himself for them.
It wasn’t until he began to ascend the main staircase that opened directly from the foyer up to the living quarters he shared with his sister that he noticed the runner was wet. He’d tripped and fallen onto his hands. Damn! They sank into the squishy carpet.
Oh, there’d be hell to pay. Priscilla was probably having two kinds of kittens. Must be the damn bathtub, not draining properly. Again. He tried to tell her, but she’d insisted on the heavy claw foot tub and he’d not bothered to argue. It never did any good anyway.
He could just imagine the hell she would put him through. She’d insist on calling a plumber. That wouldn’t be cheap. She’d blame him, of course. She always did. Even though he hadn’t been there, it would still be his fault.
The words to one of the Midlife Crisis’ best-loved songs echoed in his head as he awkwardly rose to his knees, the water soaking through his pants. He regained his feet, only swaying slightly, and wiped his moist hands on his trousers. “The devil you know is the devil you love, ‘cause when Satan has arisen, there’ll be sunny skies above. Oh baby, what’s happened to our love?”
The lyrics failed to cheer him up. He kept picturing the recriminations that were no doubt in store for him. Maybe his best course was to turn around now and flee the scene? At least until his sister had a chance to handle the crisis herself?
Hell, the carpet on the second floor was saturated too, and stunk to high hell. What was she using in the bath these days, eau de skunk? Phew!
He fell heavily against the bathroom door. It crashed open and he stumbled inside, almost falling into the overflowing bathtub ... where his sister’s body lay.
And then he fainted.
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Until next time, take care!