“You don’t have to sound so...”
“Look. Just finish it. I swear it gets...”
“Stop interrupting me.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t see this improving.”
“Then finish it and be amazed.”
“I’d rather do something productive with my time.”
“Like another bong hit.”
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Cough, cough, “Failure.”
“At least I’m trying.”
“Your face is trying.”
“That makes no sense.”
“More sense than cockknife.”
"Then you tell a story."
They hung Job from a tree on Main. He used to spin in the wind, but these days he just sort of sways in the breeze. You can’t smell him anymore, though we did get used to the odor. But there’s nothing left to slop rot off his bones. The bones are still there. Rope around the neck, odd stain in the grass right below, where his covering and innards slopped off of him. Jenny Brook used to take boys out there to play kissing games. Only the bravest would stand under Job and put lips to her. Mick Caufield claims he ate her pussy beneath the blackened corpse. It’s protruding swollen tongue inspiring the effort. But there’s never been much reason to believe Mick Caulfield. Sometimes I drive past Job on my way to work, and the wonder is always the same: why did they hang him there, or anywhere for that matter? I guess the first question really is who are ‘they,’ which is a labyrinth of liars and poker faces I don’t dare to attempt navigating. However, there are times, sitting alone in Mr. G’s pub, I can’t help spinning my gears towards some type of answer. After all, it stands to reason that there must have been a purpose, a motive to the hanging. No one likes to think that a group just got it in mind, 'Lets hang someone.' 'Who?' 'What about Job?' 'Yeah. Why not?'
"I meant tell me a fiction. Like I give a shit about that corpse in the tree."