“Damn it, Hugh, the cigarette lighter, where did you leave the G-d damned cigarette lighter?”
Phillip thrust his hands in his back pockets, “Damn it, Hugh, never mind!”
Phillip lit up a packaged cigarette, grabbed the TV remote and joined a Law and Order: SVU marathon, despite not being predispositioned to join anything.
“Damn it, this shit again” he mumbled, fusing further into his roommate’s coach and settling in for a long run of sitting and passive crime solving. He always figured out the culprit, but never said it out loud. It was always the damn white guy who got cold feet, cold blood or a cold heart. Phillip knew it was a thinly-vieled attempt by the network to come off as post-racial — like those damn college brochures he gets in the mail with one person of each race.
“Hugh! This is the episode where Jackson gets killed! Damn glorious! If only this would happen in real life, then maybe I wouldn’t be the damn black sheep anymore.”
Hugh stumbles down the stairs, hacking up a handful of phlegm.
“We’ve had the conversation a dozen times, Phil, you’re a brilliant graphic designer — you’re going to leave your bro in the dust. He’s just a background actor, not some Peter O’Toole genius shit. I can hack into his IMDB profile, it’s all bullshit anyway.”
“Want an omelet?”
Phillip nods and watches Jackson’s scene on loop. Fake blood spews out of his body in the flash back, in the present his body should be motionless, but Phil still could sense that his brother was breathing. Phil begins to breath heavily, blowing out his cigarette.
I’m a little bit apprehensive of sharing a full one, but here is a third of a short story. Hope everyone enjoyed their weekend. Also, my team, Spaceman’s Promise, has a show on Tuesday at 10:30 PM at The Neon Venus in Hollywood. We would be excited to have ya!