With Gusto

The Girls Will Vote

I woke up this morning and did the usual stuff -- showered, put on clothes, turned on the the computer, scribbled.

I've been aware of a CSIS presence in my life of late: pizza vans across the street, helicopter dreams, snatches of static as a walkie talkie turns on (or off?). Today it was confirmed when after my scribbling. I saw the agent on my patio. He was in a Navy Blue suit with the CSIS insignia on his lapel. His hair was close cropped, brown, and parted to the side, cheek bones set, jaw a little loose around the edges. His hair and suit drifted evenly in the slight breeze. He squinted at the sun's reflection of the glass panes of the door motioned me to open the door for him. I slid it open.
"You can call me 'Dave'," he said as he made the bunny ear quotation marks signal beside his head. "You may be needing this." He handed me a revolver.
"This bitch is pretty old," I said. "Don't you have something a little more. . . automatic?"
"Victoria is a port city," Dave said. "Remember that in our time of terror. It looks like that time."
I turned to look at the clock, and it was that time. When I turned back, Dave was gone. In his place was a box of shells. I quickly loaded my new gun and slipped it behind the hole in the wall near the bed.

After that I surfed the net for a while and contemplated last evening. R, B, and I rehearsed for the first time. It went pretty damn well. At first I thought we'd be booted out of the Battle of the Bands in the first round, but I have a feeling (I have a feeling!) that we can make it to round two. We're a country band, so some Sum 41 knockoff piece of crap punk o' rama non-punk trio will blast us all away with a song about breaking up with a girl at a house party. The girls will vote.

On a final note, I need to read a really, really good-looking short story collection. Surprise me, you fucks.