Chapter Two: Chick
Cheque book was under the toaster. Why the fuck did I put it there? Oh yeah, can't make toast without a toaster, and you can't have toast without writing a cheque out first. But hey, Clementine'll be at the agency, maybe I could ask her out.
:::No you couldn't.:::
(Yes, I could. What's wrong with that? We're two respectable people, who might be attracted to one another.)
:::Respectable? Respectable my ass.:::
(Just cos there's a murdering psychopath locked inside my head doesn't mean that I'm not respectable.) I get a can out of the fridge.
:::What if she got a boyfriend?:::
(Then she'll say no, ok Shooter? Have you got a problem with me being happy at all? Do you have to outdo yourself, every day, to make sure I'm miserable?)
:::Yup.:::
(Well alright then.) I pull on jeans and a black shirt. Nope, can't wear that, wore that yesterday and apart from being caked in mud she'll think I never wash my clothes.
:::You don't.:::
(She doesn't need to know that. Just like she doesn't need to know you, so go fuck off somewhere.) I find a cream shirt, that's better, and a pair of black jeans.
At the agency I ask for her. She comes out of her office, and I give her the cheque, I wonder when she's next having her legs done?
"Clementine?" I ask her.
"Mr. Rainey?" she replies.
"Mort, please. I was, just wondering, if you fancied going out some time?"
"With you?"
:::No, with Jesus Christ.:::
"Yeah, with me."
"I'd love to Mr. Rainey!"
"Are you, free tonight?
"Yes. I'll drive up to yours at seven."
"Twenty first century chick."
Why did I say chick? Why couldn't I have said girl? Why did I have to say chick?
:::Why did you have to say anything?:::
"I'll see you Mort."
:::So, you've asked the pretty literacy girl out on a date. Where you gonna go?:::
(I have no idea.)
Movie. No, not enough talking. Restaurant. Maybe. Boating on the lake.
:::It's fucking February asshole.:::
(I was only saying.)
Restaurant it is.
"Clementine, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"It's just, don't take this the wrong way or anything, but, you must know that I'm a psychopathic mass-murderer," I joke. Should I joke about this? Ah, why not? "So, I was just wondering why you don't seem scared about me."
"Well," she puts down her fork. Damn, I just ruined everything. "On the TV they said you had split personalities. A friend of mine has that, she just, flips out, you know? One minute she'll be ok, and then the next she's some weird lady who beats up her husband. Her hubby's alright now, she just put him in hospital for two weeks, could have been worse. But she gets these drugs from the drugstore and she's fine. You're taking drugs, right?"
"Oh, yeah, course." They're taste like shit and are under the filing cabinet, of course I take them regularly.
"Before she got those, she couldn't control this other woman, so I assume it's similar with you, you didn't kill those people, your other personality did."
"He's called Shooter." Why does she want to know that?
:::Because Mr. Rainey, sooner of later she's gonna be introduced to me.:::
(No she's not, why are you even here? God, it's not like I can even give you fifty bucks and tell you not to be back until tomorrow.)
"Shooter."
"Yeah, he's from Mississippi, he's a dairy farmer. He wears a big black hat, and likes playing with the rim of it. So, if you see him anytime, just run away."
The evening went quite well. And then she invited herself back up to my place. And I couldn't turn her down, she was very pretty, midnight blue dress, plenty of cleavage, how could I have turned that down? Anyway, we go back up to mine, and sit down with a beer each.
"So, Mr. Rainey. Mort," she slurs, in a state of semi-drunkenness. "Did you make this house?"
If I said yes would she believe me?
"No, I didn't make the house." She gets up and goes into the kitchen, looking around in the cupboards. God knows why. She gets another beer and sits back down. The cat comes and sits on the table.
"What's your cat called?"
"Eeek." She strokes the cat.
"You seem like a dog person."
"I, had a dog."
"Did he die?" Tears well up in her eyes.
"Yes, he did. So I thought I'd get a cat instead."
"Oh Mr. Mort. I'm sorry your dog died."
"It was a few years back now, I'm ok about it." She snuggles up inside my arms. Should I really do this when she's drunk? Do I stoop that low?
:::Yes you do, Mr. Rainey.:::
(Thanks for your subtlety Shooter.)
:::You're welcome, Mr. Rainey.:::
No, I don't. Not when she's drunk. I'll let her pass out on the sofa, and take her home in the morning. But for now, I think I'll do what I do best.
:::Sleep?:::
(No, write. Actually, I'll look for those split personality drug things. Then I'll show you where you can piss off to.)
Cheque book was under the toaster. Why the fuck did I put it there? Oh yeah, can't make toast without a toaster, and you can't have toast without writing a cheque out first. But hey, Clementine'll be at the agency, maybe I could ask her out.
:::No you couldn't.:::
(Yes, I could. What's wrong with that? We're two respectable people, who might be attracted to one another.)
:::Respectable? Respectable my ass.:::
(Just cos there's a murdering psychopath locked inside my head doesn't mean that I'm not respectable.) I get a can out of the fridge.
:::What if she got a boyfriend?:::
(Then she'll say no, ok Shooter? Have you got a problem with me being happy at all? Do you have to outdo yourself, every day, to make sure I'm miserable?)
:::Yup.:::
(Well alright then.) I pull on jeans and a black shirt. Nope, can't wear that, wore that yesterday and apart from being caked in mud she'll think I never wash my clothes.
:::You don't.:::
(She doesn't need to know that. Just like she doesn't need to know you, so go fuck off somewhere.) I find a cream shirt, that's better, and a pair of black jeans.
At the agency I ask for her. She comes out of her office, and I give her the cheque, I wonder when she's next having her legs done?
"Clementine?" I ask her.
"Mr. Rainey?" she replies.
"Mort, please. I was, just wondering, if you fancied going out some time?"
"With you?"
:::No, with Jesus Christ.:::
"Yeah, with me."
"I'd love to Mr. Rainey!"
"Are you, free tonight?
"Yes. I'll drive up to yours at seven."
"Twenty first century chick."
Why did I say chick? Why couldn't I have said girl? Why did I have to say chick?
:::Why did you have to say anything?:::
"I'll see you Mort."
:::So, you've asked the pretty literacy girl out on a date. Where you gonna go?:::
(I have no idea.)
Movie. No, not enough talking. Restaurant. Maybe. Boating on the lake.
:::It's fucking February asshole.:::
(I was only saying.)
Restaurant it is.
"Clementine, can I ask you a question?"
"Sure."
"It's just, don't take this the wrong way or anything, but, you must know that I'm a psychopathic mass-murderer," I joke. Should I joke about this? Ah, why not? "So, I was just wondering why you don't seem scared about me."
"Well," she puts down her fork. Damn, I just ruined everything. "On the TV they said you had split personalities. A friend of mine has that, she just, flips out, you know? One minute she'll be ok, and then the next she's some weird lady who beats up her husband. Her hubby's alright now, she just put him in hospital for two weeks, could have been worse. But she gets these drugs from the drugstore and she's fine. You're taking drugs, right?"
"Oh, yeah, course." They're taste like shit and are under the filing cabinet, of course I take them regularly.
"Before she got those, she couldn't control this other woman, so I assume it's similar with you, you didn't kill those people, your other personality did."
"He's called Shooter." Why does she want to know that?
:::Because Mr. Rainey, sooner of later she's gonna be introduced to me.:::
(No she's not, why are you even here? God, it's not like I can even give you fifty bucks and tell you not to be back until tomorrow.)
"Shooter."
"Yeah, he's from Mississippi, he's a dairy farmer. He wears a big black hat, and likes playing with the rim of it. So, if you see him anytime, just run away."
The evening went quite well. And then she invited herself back up to my place. And I couldn't turn her down, she was very pretty, midnight blue dress, plenty of cleavage, how could I have turned that down? Anyway, we go back up to mine, and sit down with a beer each.
"So, Mr. Rainey. Mort," she slurs, in a state of semi-drunkenness. "Did you make this house?"
If I said yes would she believe me?
"No, I didn't make the house." She gets up and goes into the kitchen, looking around in the cupboards. God knows why. She gets another beer and sits back down. The cat comes and sits on the table.
"What's your cat called?"
"Eeek." She strokes the cat.
"You seem like a dog person."
"I, had a dog."
"Did he die?" Tears well up in her eyes.
"Yes, he did. So I thought I'd get a cat instead."
"Oh Mr. Mort. I'm sorry your dog died."
"It was a few years back now, I'm ok about it." She snuggles up inside my arms. Should I really do this when she's drunk? Do I stoop that low?
:::Yes you do, Mr. Rainey.:::
(Thanks for your subtlety Shooter.)
:::You're welcome, Mr. Rainey.:::
No, I don't. Not when she's drunk. I'll let her pass out on the sofa, and take her home in the morning. But for now, I think I'll do what I do best.
:::Sleep?:::
(No, write. Actually, I'll look for those split personality drug things. Then I'll show you where you can piss off to.)