As part of the Crossed Genres-led effort to help out Haiti by donating a bit of fiction, this story is free. All I ask is that, if you enjoyed it, you donate a few dollars to the relief efforts through Red Cross or a similar organization. Thank you!
An ancient Corvette barrels down the wrong lane. An hour before dawn, no lights, no traffic. Not here, not in the middle of West Texas. People don’t drive out here for fun. Not sane people. No one ever accused him of sanity.
He opens the window. “Motherfuckerrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr!” he screams. He sucked cheap whiskey from a bottle, whiskey mixed with vodka, nightshade, absinthe, peach schnapps, tears, laughing while he drinks. The car veers across the road and shimmies across the ridged pavement like a cheap dancer. The drop-off isn’t protected by a guardrail. Not here. One slip, he’s fucked. Or at least his car is. He likes this car though, so if he’s not going to die from it, the car isn’t going to get trashed either.
He grins, yanking the steering wheel again. The car swerves. Tires squeal. The music screams from the cranked speakers, nothing on the top forty, you can’t find it on Limewire. It’s the stuff you find in dark, dirty clubs, music played by dirty men with the stench of alcohol and sex and death on their breath. It’s music telling you to point a gun to your head and pull the trigger while you drink strychnine. He already tried that. Damned immortality. Though the bullet did wipe an entire century of memories. Bang, there goes the nineteenth century.
The fury catches up to him like a jackhammer to the skull. He hit the road to get away from it, from her, and the memories are following him. “Fucking bitch! You fucking break my heart and steal my fucking soul and sell my sword on Ebay? I’ll motherfucking sic a million starving demons on you!” Glass clanks on stained teeth as he jerks back a mouthful of alcohol. He guns the engine and runs down a rabbit, laughing at the sound of shattering bone.
Blood spatters the windshield. He looks in the mirror and there’s nothing behind him. All gone.
“Fucking mother fucking bitch whore,” he mutters. The high is wearing off. It always wears off. He’s built and blown countless fortunes on drugs, alcohol, surgeries. The high always wears off.
Depression sets in. Hands slam against the dash, his head against the headrest. Tears trickle down his dirty face. “Failure. I’m just a pathetic, lost, fucking stupid failure,” he mutters.
A sheer wall of rock looms beside the road. Blurry. Maybe the alcohol’s finally setting in. Dead ahead, full speed, faster. He should turn now. He stands on the gas pedal. He doesn’t see the lights of the oncoming semi.
It reminds him of the time he created a star, when the truck collides with his car. All bright lights, shattering heat, noise. White noise.
The Corvette is a pile of glowing slag. The truck hangs off the cliff, blazing.
“Fuck,” he whispers, and downs the last of the flaming alcohol. The truck creaks and begins the slow tumble down the bank. The forgotten god laughs, brokenly.
“Fuck, this is gonna hurt.”