The Savage Beast

Predator Press

@SnarquisdeSade

With my lawyer arriving at 2:00pm, it's with some reluctance I concede it's time to get up; even as the coffee pot gurgles, my mind struggles to find traction between the dreamworlds and reality. Good sleep is a casualty of years of hard living, and the leading edge of consciousness is always the worst.

The rarefied event of entertaining a guest has me self-conscious of the condition of my apartment; the toilet seat is up, and I correct this. Books, in widely different states of completion, are scattered about the floor, as if a small library received the full ire of an illiterate mortar team. Overnight, Phil II scattered a pile of documents -bills mostly. And were it not for the basket of neatly folded laundry, I would probably be doubting the existence of Washington Street entirely by now.

The Laundromat I went to yesterday wasn't on Google. I had learned about it from a friend, and it was considerably closer to home than the one I typically use. Shockingly blighted, the glass doors were cracked in vast spiderweb patterns. The signs were faded with age. Behind the old woman who seemed to be agelessly crocheting, the wall was covered with dusty and yellowed John Wayne memorabilia. A bulbous and antiquated tube television played seemingly endless black and white episodes of I Love Lucy. And on a bulletin board, in stark and bright white contrast, a crude brochure advertising the legal services of Thelonious Reebok Oswald Esq, PhD stood out, replete with tear-off vertical tabs at the bottom, like a skull missing teeth.

I have one of those teeth in my pocket.

The two stage act of doing laundry, as we all know, takes about an hour and a half. And once the drying stage was underway, I found myself restless. With forty-five minutes to kill, I decided to explore Washington Street. It was quaint; general stores, shoe shops, things one might associate with a receding Americana. Music I only vaguely recognized, some kind of mix of blues and jazz, thumped from across the street, subdued by nondescript walls. I wandered over to find a small sports bar. It's at this moment, as I recall, my first suspicions seethe to the surface: the laundromat, the close-by bar, the cozy and oddly functional neighborhood … it all just seemed too familiar, too convenient. And -almost playing to my rising intuition- an apartment building with a “For Rent” sign was well within view once I looked for it.


Upon entry, the dark and smoky bar required my vision to adjust. The first things to come into focus were the large flatscreen televisions, all replaying flaming car crashes from the Daytona 500. Taking the stool closest from the door I ordered a Miller Lite, discretely observing the small yet talkative crowd, while simultaneously attempting to identify the strangely familiar music.

There were perhaps six other bar patrons.

-And they all reminded me of dead people I have known. Joe was there. Billy Taylor -aged twice what Fate allowed him- was there …

It was eerily like being among old friends.

A loud knock at the door interrupts my ponderings of yesterday. I open the door to find Thelonious Reebok Oswald, Esq, Phd, standing before me. He is a black man in dreadlocks, roughly five feet tall, and wearing reflective, round sunglasses. As I mentioned I don't have many guests, and quickly blurted the first thing that came to mind in order to make him feel welcome.

“Word up, Homie!” I said enthusiastically, extending my hand in what I expected to be a complicated handshake.

Theloious Reebok Oswald, Esq, PhD just just kind of froze for a beat, with a simple gaze galvanizing me as perhaps the whitest man on Earth.

“You Michael Wolfe?” he asked finally, grinning in gold.

“Yes,” I reply. “Please come in.”

He enters, looking around in mild distaste. “My name is Thelonious Reebok Oswald, Esquire. Widely renown in legal circles as 'TRO.' And it has come to my attention that you have had a recent issue with the pigs.”

“Indeed,” I reply. “But first let me thank you for making a house call. I tried to find your office, but ...”

“Yeah,” he dismisses me, raising his hand. “I used your retainer to get the van an oil change.”

“Good thinking. I love that suit by the way. Is that Armani?”

“It's FUBU,” he shakes his head. “Says so right on the hoodie. So who the fuck we gonna sue?”

I take a deep breath. “I paid for these streets. And I won't be told when and where I will cross them.”

“The problem is,” Thelonious replies, “You is guilty as Hell of First Degree Jaywalking. As your legal counsel, I recommend you just pay the thirty dollar fine.”

“Fuck that,” I growl. “I want this to go all the way up to the Supreme Court. Terri's credit cards are no object!”

Thelonious scratches his beard thoughtfully. “Well, my office could use new upholstery after the fire.”

“Fire?”

“Never mind,” he replies. “You should try intimidating the judge, like you'll kick his ass. Try and look menacing ...”

Wild-eyed, I bear my teeth.

“Meh,” he replies. “Just walk into the courtroom, tell him to fuck off, and then pee on the podium.”

“I love this strategy,” I confess. “Which law school did you go to?”

“I never went to law school. But I saw 'Flight' four times. And if Denzel Washington doesn't get an Oscar, I'm gonna stab me some whitey!”

“Me too!” I agree.