He needed to remove the boot or somehow brace his foot in the upright position, although neither idea was something he knew how to accomplish. Going forward was not an option, not like this. Paul scooted back towards the table to catch his breath and re-think his strategy. He noted his boot did not seem so inclined to grab the carpet in that direction. He was not sure if it had to do with the pile of the carpet or if he had already pulled the carpet loops out. But at the moment, the kitchen seemed like the better option, but to what end?
“I can get a knife!” he said aloud. A cat that had been slinking closer tilted it’s head. That is, if they have fallen on the floor, he thought sourly. “At least it will be easier to slide on the linoleum.” Paul started his long migration down the coffee table and towards the kitchen. His boot did not seem to be snagging on the rug and he thanked his stars for that small fact. His right hand slipped out from under him as he splashed down onto the linoleum floor and into a puddle of an unidentifiable liquid. His shoulder and most of his lower back became soaked in the foul ammonia-laced smell.
“Cat piss,” he said disgustedly. Paul pushed himself back up with a grunt and took a longer survey of the room where he had decided to make his final stand. A small island dominated the larger than expected kitchen. Cat feces and urine covered much of the flooring. There was no clear path to the cabinets where he was headed. The cats lined up at the entryway as he sloshed his way in. Wet, warm piles of shit slogged through his splayed fingers; urine soaked his pants and burned as it came in contact with his bloody hands. As he made his way further in, the cats followed. Some jumped up on the island, others on the counter tops where they had been “shooed” by their previous master at least a hundred times. That was, until they ate her.
The ones on the counter followed Paul, step for step, as he slid below them. Paul looked up at their watchful, wary, hungry gazes. “I was wrong about you guys. I should have listened to Mike. He always said you were nothing more than rats with a ‘c’.” He finally got to the corner he had been heading for. He rested for a moment with his back against the cabinet. He tilted his head back. A cat was no more than six inches from his face, peering down at him. Paul reached up and was able to wrench it down from its high ground advantage by its ear. The cat screamed in terror as he used the momentum to throw it against the island. His grip had not been secure enough to deliver a death blow, but the supposed weakness was more than enough for the other cats to descend on it and disembowel the cat before it could muster any sort of defense.
“Can’t we all get along?” Paul panted, trying to humor himself. It worked badly. For the first time, Paul noticed the blood trail he had left coming into the kitchen. He was alarmed by the volume of it. “I don’t feel woozy,” he said aloud. “Better get moving.” Paul noticed as he spoke, the cats didn’t relent their hunt, but they did sort of hesitate. Their movements were more tentative, like they were being given a reminder of how times were. Paul turned his gaze on the cabinet he was resting against. Traditionally, corner cabinets were the biggest in the whole house and sometimes they did not even have sides. If that were the case, he thought he might be able to fit in it. He wasn’t sure what he’d do at that point, but it would buy him some time and maybe there was the off chance that a machine gun was in there next to a deluxe first aid kit and a charged cell phone with Mike on speed dial.
With some difficulty, Paul moved to the side a bit and opened the cabinet. He was not disappointed by the size. It could have been bigger, maybe large enough to fit a chaise lounge, but it was at least big enough that he could get in. He wouldn’t be in the lap of luxury, but he’d be out of immediate danger as he regrouped. He grabbed boxes of cereal and threw some at the cats as they skittered away.
“Whoa,” he told himself just as he was about to toss an unopened box of Trix. “I’m chucking food.” And then he saw some stuff that could do some real damage, cans of tuna. The force of throwing the cans pulled on his broken leg, but it was worth it when the third can cracked into the skull of one of the bigger toms that had been waiting, aloof in the background. The cat wasn’t dead, but the can had inflicted some heavy damage. The cat had fallen over and its right front and rear paws were twitching violently. It had enough sense to hiss and spit as the other cats turned to look at him and decide if he had just come on the meal plan. The cat tried desperately to pull its damaged skull up off the floor, but it was not to be. It put up a fight and took at least one eye out, maybe more, but Paul wasn’t completely watching. He was busy pulling out shelves so that he would fit in better. He wished it didn’t hurt so much to throw things or he would have tossed the heavy press board shelving into the food fight going on at the other side of the kitchen.
Paul wished he had a can opener. He thought he could just about make it to the end of days with the amount of canned food in here. But his hopes of finding anything that would further his ability to escape this house were nixed. Besides a healthy dose of cereal, canned food and Top-Ramen noodles, there were no melee weapons or meds. Paul put his hand into the cabinet and banged the back of his head on the counter top as he placed his ass inside. “Damn, that hurt!” he said, desperately wanting to rub the spot, but afraid of losing his balance and tipping over. He did not think he could stand another onrush of pain like he had earlier.
His words this time had an undesired effect. The cats were finishing their latest meal and his words pulled their lapsed attention back to him. And they understood escape. Paul was halfway in when five or six cats made a mad dash for him. Hunger outweighed the harm he could inflict. Death by the other cats was merciful in comparison to the hunger that ripped through their stomachs. Two went for his face. Paul picked up a can of corn and caught one of the cats in the chest as it launched at him. The other cat bit down hard on his cheek. Hot needles drilled through his eyes would have been less painful as the cat latched onto his neck with all four sets of claws. Paul was writhing in agony, the thrashing was setting his broken foot flailing about, but even that could not compare to the vermin adhering to his face and neck. He slammed it on the side of the face with the corn. The cat’s teeth tore through his cheek, taking a strip of meat as it was pounded away.
Blood from his neck pulsed out. It didn’t arc and he hoped the cat hadn’t gotten deep enough to do arterial damage. The other cats had gone for Paul’s damaged leg while he was distracted. He had not even felt the pressure as they dove on it, ripping at the frayed jeans, trying in desperation to get at the blood and muscle below. Now that the cat had been taken away from his face, his body and mind struggled in an effort to catch up with what was happening. Pain receptors flared to life as cat fangs sank deeply into his flesh. Paul could not even pull his leg away as more and more cats began to pounce. The accumulated weight was too much. Paul struck out with his good leg. As he kicked one away, seemingly two would take its place. They no longer feared taking damage; they had blood in their mouths now and they would not be dissuaded.
Paul’s screams filled the night as the cats tore through the denim. Ragged bloody strip after ragged bloody strip of skin, muscle and tendon were torn from his leg. Shock began to shut down nerve centers in his brain, and cognitive thought was becoming increasingly difficult. Paul hardly recognized the lower portion of his leg as two cats tore it from his body and fought viciously for the rights to eat it. Vast amounts of blood poured from the wound; cats became covered in it. Their cries of triumph were the last thing Paul heard as his head slammed back against the far end of the inside cabinet. It was three am in the world of man, but that meant little now.
Chapter Twenty-Three - Mike Journal Entry 13
Real life has a way of interceding on some of the things we would like to do from time to time. Paul and I lived in the same state, Colorado and we were actually only one town away from each other. I had not seen my best friend of close to thirty years in nearly six months. There was just always something to do, one of the kids would be having a birthday party, athletic event, just plain sick, or the car would need work, or a bathroom needed retiling. It’s just the way things work. We would have the best of intentions to get together and drink a beer or seven, but even when I would finally have a weekend night free, he would find himself in his own “real life stigma” and we would once again, promise to try to do something soon.
I missed my friend. We had literally grown up together, and shared some of the funniest times with each other, and not all of them were even drug-induced. Oh, to be sure, quite a few were, but not all. I’m sure in some of my other journals I have noted Paul’s fear of commitment; and that extended even to extracting a day in which we could get together. When I realized that my favorite group on the planet, Widespread Panic, was playing a two-day concert down in Telluride, my mind was set. I was going, and I was going to do everything in my power to nail Paul down to a promise. Might as well have grasped a Vaseline-soaked eel in my butter-slicked hand. But every once in a while, you just get lucky. I shut my eyes and swung. Paul agreed to go. Now he might be difficult to get that promise from, but once delivered, he would never pull it back. Maybe that was why he was so fearful about giving it in the first place.
I enticed another friend that I had also grown up with on the east coast and who now lived an hour away in Colorado Springs to join us for the event. Dennis was a good friend of mine, even if he was a Yankees fan. Not everyone can be perfect. I want everyone to realize I am in no way condoning the events that unfolded that weekend. I’m just trying to relate a story, so I’m covering my ass under the protection of the author umbrella. I had my Jeep Wrangler, (oh how I miss that car. I’ve actually thought a few times about going back and getting her as she sits in Vona, alone…sigh) stuffed with enough beer and booze you would have thought three times the number of people were going to this show.
Dennis sat in the shotgun seat and was in charge of the radio, Paul sat in the backseat and was responsible for the drinks. (Go back to the part where I said, I’m not condoning anything!) The show was at seven pm that night and the ride into Telluride took seven and a half hours from Denver. (Side note: I did not tell Paul or Dennis this small fact because I thought they might opt out.) We left at ten that Friday morning so that we could get down into Telluride, check in at our rental house, maybe get some food, and go to the show.
So it was before noon and we started off slow. That first Red Stripe was delicious. Now listen, I know it’s completely wrong, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say that a “driving beer” wasn’t fucking awesome. I don’t know what it is: the loud tunes on the radio, the air blowing past your face, the illegality of it, maybe everything combined. So we started with a beer, and then a second, and then Mix Master Paul set up shop in the back seat. He literally started creating mixed drinks. Some grape, cranberry, vodka concoction was damn near perfect. By the time we hit the halfway mark, I was fairly lit. We stopped for a much needed bladder release and some grub and then hit the road again.
For the entire drive, we drank, and I don’t know if anyone reading this has ever had the true fortune of visiting Telluride, but it is a lot like the Alps right here in the States (so they tell me) with the winding mountainous roads and all. It was coming up on five thirty by the time we sloshed our way into town. We were so hammered we drew straws to see who would have to go check us in. Dennis pulled the short straw. Paul and I sat in the Jeep and smoked one of those funny left-handed cigarettes, like we needed it.
I was thrilled to learn that the concert venue, a huge open field, was within walking distance of our temporary abode. I’d pushed Slush, the patron saint of dipshit drunk drivers, as far as I dared. For those of you that have gone to a concert, I’m sure you’ve come across your share of the paraphernalia Nazis that will search every nook and cranny of your being for a roach. Most won’t even take you out for dinner beforehand. Well this was nothing like that. At the opening to the field, which was about ten feet wide, there was one staff member. This I could tell because he had on a bright yellow shirt that said “Staff” on the back. He was busy talking to a group of girls that were heading in.
I had a liter of vodka shoved down the front of my pants. I guess I was drunk enough to think that nobody would guess that I was anything but well endowed in the nether regions. Between my bowlegged walk, and the extreme bulge in my pants, I shouldn’t have made it. I pulled the bottle out the moment I crossed the threshold into the park, and if anyone saw, they didn’t comment. I think we could have carried a keg in and nobody would have given a shit. I would remember that for tomorrow’s show.
Widespread came on maybe an hour later, I couldn’t tell, anything resembling timekeeping in my head had been eradicated for the evening. So there we are in this field that is more like a bowl surrounded by jagged peaks, pretty special place to see a show, when black, ominous clouds began to roll in. They were the kind that screamed “storm.” I’d occasionally steal a glance at them as they rolled over the tops of the mountains because they were that cool looking, right up until the rain started. Widespread was on the third song of the night when the heavens split open. This is no exaggeration. Are you a kid? Whether grown up or not? Or do you have a kid? Have you ever gotten a super soaker for any of the aforementioned people? Yes? Then you will know what I’m about to say. The rain was coming down in such a deluge, it was like being repeatedly nailed with a full spray from a super soaker.
Now for those of you who don’t know what a super soaker is, it is in NO way comparable to a squirt gun from the days of my youth or possibly yours. Unless you lined up about four hundred of them and just started spraying the hell out of one individual. That is the power of a super soaker. I think you could drain a pool with one in half an hour in a particularly intense water fight. So I’m roughly four to maybe five sheets to the wind, I wouldn’t have cared if it was hailing, but apparently the band had issues when the lightning began to crack overhead. They finished their third song and headed to safer parts. The crowd, my friends and I waited another hour or so. It was actually pretty cool. Some of the concert goers had the foresight to bring tarps and I found myself traveling from makeshift party tent to makeshift party tent. If you know anything about Widespread, it is, for the most part, a very laid back, Havin’-a-Good-Time type of crowd. There was not one tent where I was not offered some sort of smoke or drink for my travels, and more times than not, I partook.
The rain did not relent, and they finally called the show for the night. The mass exodus of wet, cold, hungry, wasted people began. At some point, I had taken my sneakers off and lost my socks, but the mud squishing through my toes was magical. (Hey, I’m easily entertained when I’m drunk). We more or less followed the crowd as they headed out, a fair portion over-taxing the local pizza joint, us included. Two hours later, we left with our two pizzas back to our rental. We ate like drunk people do, noisily and then divvied up the sleeping arrangements and headed off to bed. All in all, it was a pretty nice day. But the real fun was to begin on the morrow.
I awoke. One eye would not focus, no matter how much I tried, my mouth was shoved full of cotton, my head had become a blacksmith’s anvil and he was busy making horseshoes. My stomach was a churning whirlwind of undercooked pizza and a cocktail of differing brews. I had broken my own cardinal sin of mixing alcohols and was now paying the price. The one good eye squinted against the harsh sunlight that poured through the window. I rolled out of my bed and onto a wet pair of socks, I would have stopped in amazement to try and figure out how those had gotten there, but I smelled the cure-all of many a hangover. Bacon! Bacon! Bacon!
Paul was in the kitchen making scrambled eggs and bacon, and it smelled wonderful. I think if it hadn’t violated so many man-code rules, I would have kissed him. Dennis was on the couch, holding his head with one hand and a glass of what I figured to be juice in the other.
“Grab your drink on the table.” Paul said, motioning with his spatula.
“Drink? What kind of drink?” I asked, my stomach protesting at just the mere mention.
“No drink, no bacon,” he told me.
“What do you have, Dennis?” I asked.
“He told me the same thing,” Dennis wept. “And I really want some,” he finished pathetically.
“Come on, man! Food first, then whatever this devil’s brew is,” I begged Paul.
“Oh my God! This bacon is fantastic!” Paul said, tearing into a big strip.
“Ass,” I told him as I grabbed the glass off the table. I sat next to Dennis so that we could commiserate. Dennis just kept staring at his drink like he hoped it would evaporate. I’ve never been one to think before I act. “Here goes nothing,” I said to Dennis. I was trying for a wicked grin, but I’m sure that it was more of a sickly smile. I tipped the glass up and just started gulping. The cold fluid washed the cotton from my mouth and put out the fire caused from heartburn in my throat and stomach. (Don’t let anyone ever tell you getting old doesn’t suck). I don’t know if he had Alka-Seltzer in the drink also, but the roiling immediately stopped as did the hammer-smacking anvil in my skull, and immediate warmth passed through my extremities as a familiar buzz washed over me.
“Holy fuck!” I said aloud, holding up the empty glass, looking for an after trace of whatever magical ingredients had been present.
“Pretty neat trick, huh?” Paul said as he put a portion of food down on my plate and his.
“Are you kidding?” Dennis asked.
“Not at all, man,” I said. I had instantly transformed from one of the walking dead back to a fully fledged participant in the human race.
“Really?” Dennis queried, holding up his glass like I had mere moments before.
I was already heading for the table and the food, and if he didn’t hurry up I was going to eat his portion too. Dennis must have realized this because he downed his much like I had. It was pretty fun to watch his transformation as it happened.