Note:

Kim Possible and all related characters with in this work of fan fiction belong to Disney. This Story is Set a good time after 'So the Drama'.

Bueno Nacho…

Two a.m. finds me wedged between the cushions of a Buena Nacho north of Middleton. It's October, cold as hell to be precise, and the weather compliments my temper. My eyes hug my chest and bounce down to the pressed linoleum table…it looks like it could use a good scrubbing. A vacuum motor buzzes behind me while the hideous wait staff sizes me up. It's like looking double at those two women. Nether is attractive in any way, just a collection of arms and legs soldered together with fat. They where young once, but time has bent them, melted them, made them barely recognizable to the human eye. It's a good thing that people who eat hear aren't really looking at anybody or anything. They sit at their little table and gulping down a mixture of animal byproducts and industrial grease, all of which leave the mouth in agony. No body comes to this place to get a good meal, much less people who arrive from the cold at two in the morning. Bueno Nacho's aren't meant to be pleasurable, they're meant for service. It's similar to getting the oil changed on your car, a quick procedure that sucks you're fluids out, fills you with new ones and charges to much for the trouble. People come here to repair the soul, or get away from whatever alcohol and drugs can't hide. There was a time that I loved these restaurants, loved the food, loved this world…but all of that's been tainted, ruined by transgressions dealt to me. The waitress comes over, every roll in her fat fascinates and nauseates in the same moment. It's like watching a trash bag filled with cottage cheese walk. Her voice is neither male nor female as is the rest of her; save for the unlikelihood I'd peg her as a horribly malfunctioning Synthodrone.

"Welcome to Bueno Nacho All Night, how may I take your order?" Her words are meaning less. She doesn't welcome me…in fact I'm doubtful she'd care if I spontaneously burst into flame right in front of her. She's more dead then alive, just another face to feed and buck to be made. She'll go home when the sun rises and finder her fat husband still in bed, just another day in a trailer/house/apartment. I focus my swollen eyes on her big beefy chin still rocking with momentum. I can't help but wonder what God would let this thing exist.

"I'll have the Temprano Mierda Mañana, please." I make my voice kindly just for the sake of tradition. It doesn't really matter, she forgot what kindly sounded like along time ago. Fat little digits dig a pencil into a note pad, perhaps the most emotional part of this person. She looks at me, but she doesn't see me.

"Coke dear?" Why is she calling me dear? I don't know her and she doesn't know me. I want to yell at her…tell her I don't buy her bull shit. Then again it isn't her bullshit…that little word is probably her last connection to being human. Her life sucks…mine sucks…but not quite as much.

"Yes," I reply. She bends over to get my menu, all that fat rolling forward onto me. She smells of greese and some bargain store perfume. I hear the dull thud of cigarettes in her apron. 'My god woman, how you must have needed those.' Denial is only denial when you don't except it's killing you. I bet she prays for death.

Shuffling feet carry her behind the counter and leave me to my own. I stare now into the ink black skies that show threw grease stained floor to ceiling windows. I breathe deep the oddly intoxicating aroma of burnt cheese and urine. I watch a roach climb the pealing wall in front of me. I feel my eyes fill up with tears again.

I'm so tired of the feeling that it actually makes me sick. What do snow, urine and roaches have to do with her? Why does every single crack and crevice on the sidewalk remind me of Kim? I'm so freakin' tired of crying. My hands cradle burning cheeks, tears slip between my fingers to my wrists. If I weren't such a coward I might just slash those wrists. Part of me knows that my little troubles aren't really all that bad. There are children in Africa a quarter my age that have seen and felt more pain. Still this is my world, the only world I know and though my imagination is rather good…I chose to focus only on my reality. I shift my wait letting some gas escape. I smile to myself…If Kim was here she'd probably reprimand me at the top of her voice. I don't care. Meaningless, that's how I feel, meaningless. The bright banter of a telephone breaks my misery. What a loud piece of Japanese crap. Those echoes seem to fill my skull. Why won't somebody answer the phone? It continues to ring, as those trilobites do nothing to stop it. Please answer the phone. It keeps ringing. Answer the phone for the love of God. Still it echoes on. I have to catch my self from screaming as the frog woman who had my order finally picks up.

"Buena Nacho, Grace speaking…we don't close sir, we're open all night…thank you good buy." She hangs up the phone. Grace, her name is grace…what irony. If her parent's fifty years ago could have seen her now…they might think twice about naming her that. God that's mean. I'm such an Jerk. No…I'm not…and that's why I'm sitting in a waffle house on this cold October morning. If I were an jerk all my problems would evaporate…just like they do for every body else. Now a days every body seems to be a freaking jerk off or a pathetic mooch…and look how happy they are. Maybe I should take a page out of the book of sleaze. Perhaps Draken and Shego had it right all along, It could be that shivery is dead, or at least bleeding on the edge of some turnpike.

Maybe my problem is I can't say no. It's probably from my father's side of the gene pool; my mother has no problem with that word. I give and give and give, just for the selfish pride of giving. I don't want to give any more. Every bone in my body aches from alcohol, just another hangover. The beer fest at my dormitory lent some new experiences, much to the chagrin of my so called friends. Are they friends…I really can't tell. I feel like a clown, just a buffoon who dances for the enjoyment of humanity. I remember what it felt like to have friends…Damn I wish Rufus was still alive.

Grace slams a plate down in front of me. I stare at the food and then at her as a cup of diet crap is placed beside it.

"Thanks." What else can I say, even if it is a lie? The old toad smiles before she turns and returns to her post. Can a smile really be that meaningless? I can't believe how shallow her gesture was. I feel almost betrayed, as if I've been done wrong in some way. Her smile is akin to giving me a hug and then stabbing me in the back. Grace doesn't like me, never had, does or will. She's just another person who gives me comfort for a price…in her case six dollars and twenty-three cents. Why does every body seem to want something from me? Do I really have any friends? Or am I just a fool who every body sucks off of until they have just what their heart desires. I want to believe they like me…But I doubt they do.

The headlamps of a passing car burn their florescent glory into the back of my eyes. There's a moment of blindness snapping me back to the tasks at hand…time to eat. Is this eating? The fork slides into the slop with an uneasy swiftness. The consistency of Bondo putty or perhaps decaying flesh is neither appetizing nor terribly exciting at two in the morning. How did I ever find this appetizing? It doesn't really matter though. I've burned away most of my taste buds, so the palatability frankly doesn't matter. When morning comes this meal will add just another wonderful after effect, playing off the hang over like Simon and Garfunkle. Who where they again…oh well I'm sure they tie together some way. I gingerly place the stuff in my mouth and begin to chew. Several thoughts come to mind…raw sewage and dead fish mostly. A cast Iron stomach is no match for this and I seriously doubt they'd feed prisoners this grade of chow. My mind begins to wander again as my hands pantomime the efforts of feeding.

It's easy to wander, let your mind walk aimlessly threw the backyard of your head. Maybe I'll dig a hole and hide in it a while…maybe I'll climb the hazerdos ladder up to my old tree house and bask in her glory…bask in the memory that is. I can't really tell what's real or not any longer, the days meld into each other with little notice of the one before. Life was simple and long once, suddenly it's all hit the fan, shattering into thousands of pieces I can't nor want to glue back together. Aimless and alone, my little pity parade's banner seems to stand in recognition to my own losses. Rejection from what you love is never easy or kind, it always seems to leave the taste of anger in your mouth. Maybe that's just burrito though. I can still hear all the explanations, a tired voice attempting to tell me why I'm such a nice guy…but just not right. I plug every vowel and consonant together hoping I'll find my own answer, but her words translate into nothing. I still can't believe I find it hard to blame her for our split…but turning my back on what I placed on a pedestal has proven hard. I crossed no boundaries, let her do just what she wanted, and ended up shanked for my kindness. Four months on though and I'm still trying to find what I did wrong.

Maybe I wasn't mean enough, maybe I was too supportive, maybe I should have run around on her like she did me. Perhaps I should have let my dick lead me around like a show dog, thinking up ways to extricate my soul for pleasure.

I can still see them laying there in our bed…the soft purr of her sleeping breath, mixed with the dull rumble of his. No matter how much alcohol I imbibe they're always there, burnt forever into the back of my scull. I tense again and set my fork down on the filthy table. The faint whistling of some damn truck driver doesn't improve my temper. I've waited so long to snap…perhaps tonight is the time.

I stand resolute and bare down on the hapless old man, tearing him apart for the sake of my own issues. I hold no ill for him just a powerful urge to destroy something for no reason. All the training she showed me comes into play as I wail away with my heart and soul. I beat at him, beat away at my self, just trying killing the parts that have gotten me hurt before. The sweet rolls down my chin, I can feel him shudder, feel him break…which only drives me on. Between my frantic swings and the man's confused groans I hear grace yelling into the phone. I know what she's doing and I expected her to do so. A siren chirp build behind me as a squad car jets into the parking lot lit like Christmas. I continue to beat on the man, like a gorilla on Samsonite, venting frustration on what I can't comprehend. I grab the man's scull and begin to squeeze, squeeze until his voice starts making interesting sounds. I wonder if I could play him like a bagpipe, eat you're heart out Duff. A yell calls to me from behind, the click of a holster, the screams frightened dinners. I turn to face the man in black leaving a forty-five at my head. I drop the whistling trucker and make towards the cop. I watch his finger tense on the trigger, feel the wind escape his lungs, feel the impact of steel and flesh. Check.

"Check," Grace grunts as a yellow ticket is laid before me. I shift my gaze up to the old gargoyle and give a faint nod. The man's whistle still carries on ward, no cruiser sits in the parking lot, I'm not lying dead on the gun gray carpet. I used to fantasies about far of vistas, of places that I've never been…now I fantasies about beating old men. Where is my mind? What's happened to me? How have I let her do this to me? I want to cry…but I can't. There's no reason left to cry.

I look down at my meal; a faint desire to vomit makes me smile. I'm done with this meal…just like I'm done with this relationship. I know I've only eaten half of it…that if I had just a little more I might feel better, but that doesn't change the fact that it over. I could go crawling back to her, tell her I want to try, that I trust her…that I love her, but I don't. What I feel is the memory of love, lyrics to a song I can't remember anymore. It was so sweet that ever inch of me tries to recall it…but the radio has gone off the air. And in this moment, in this second…all of it passes away. All of the hurt, all of the anger, everything seems to fade like a bad dream at sunrise. Sunrise.

In four hours the sun will peak it's head back over this city bringing with it the clarity of day. This night will close like every night before it and take all of the refuse from me. I no longer want to know that every thing will be all right, because I know it won't. There will be times when I hurt so damn much I can barley breath…but I'll still be breathing. I've lost something that I loved, but everything gets lost eventually. From shoes to grandparents, we all loose track of what we once held.

I pull out my wallet and lay a crumpled ten on the check. Keep the change Grace…and get home to that fat husband who loves you. I walk to the door and glance back at the crud-covered table of my epiphany. How many before me have sat on the same thoughts there? How many times has this yellow sign illuminated a broken man's spirit? How many more will come here on a cold October night, to find piece of mind? I bow my head to this place, to my temple of realization as I walk out into the night. As I head out the door I catch the faint glimmer of gold from the corner of my eye. Sitting alone in apparent misery is a face I haven't seen since high school.

Cold air greats our lungs, the smell of electric snow is about us I exhale to the warmth of euphoria and hope. All is not lost, and to believe it was…an insult to existence. I'm just a speck in a galaxy of matter, no more special then the blades of dead grass below my feet. I'll hurt for a while...but only a while, and hurt makes pleasure all the better. Maybe something will happen between me and the girl standing by my side, maybe there was something waiting all along. I know then you have to fall down to get back up, to appreciate what it means to stand under your own power. For so long I relied on Kim to lift me up, to save me, to guide me home…maybe it's time I let somebody else do that. More or less it's all just guesswork, but I think I might have guessed right this time. There's always another day, another moment, and another time to find happiness where you can. Silly little humans running around in a hormone blitz, that's what we are. 21 Years pass so quickly…It seems like yesterday I first met her…but those memories do nothing but hurt. I gotta' keep that special Ronness…that eternal Ronshine going, if not for Kim then maybe for someone else.

Well…that's my first piece on Sorry It's not your average narative...but I think the first person 'shot gun' layout works better. I went over this peice a few dozen times trying to find all my errors, but I have a nasty feeling I missed some...if not alot.

Flame me if you please…but remember cruelty to dumb animals is frowned upon by most people.

Criticism and other forms of personal character attacks are also welcome.

Have fun ripping me apart…