The Deer from The Protocols of the Elders of Tralfamadore

What an emotion is caused by knowing the worst is over. As the fever breaks, the sweating begins. Little dots on the nose and forehead. He still was not quite up to par, could not do any distance running or juggle six oranges and a hacksaw, but perhaps it is the contrast. It’s like black and white, the same as everything else.

It had been maybe an hour, and Gandy's sweat-soaked T-shirt clung tightly to him, begging for some small breeze to blow through the open window. No breeze tonight, simple stillness.

This weekend was not that much different than he had hoped it would have been. All but for the sickness and the delusions, but even they had been enjoyable to an extent. He had stayed home Friday and taken up residence on the couch although the worn, short-backed sofa offered little comfort. Gandy's neck worked hard to hold up his head. Thin in the middle, thick on the sides,
the cushion now showed the extent of his sitting.

He reached over and clicked the lamp switch once for a dim light. Time had passed slowly, a good time for time to act that way. He twisted the life out of a cigarette in the nearly full ashtray and quickly lit up another. Deep draw. He had imagined elaborate scenarios, picking out bits of truth to build upon so, ultimately, it might be believed. Plausible. Flick. Deep draw, slow exhale.

Interesting what the mind can create with only a seed. He’d never really thought about it before. That guy had gotten all worked up the other day –“Why are you such a jackass?”

With a stab and a twist the cigarette found death among his brothers. Gandy leaned forward, rested his face on the fingertips of his right hand, closed his eyes, and giggled. Why am I such a jackass? Fuck off.