Burnt

There were two magnets on the 'fridge. One said "Whisker Likker" and the other was the number for the hermaphrodite hotline. Ah, home sweet home. Rambo sat watching the 9-inch black and white. There wasn't anything good on. Just some game show, then a talk show. He ate the last bite of hash browns with ketchup and sopped up his egg yolk with a stale biscuit. He wiped his fingers on his shorts, got up and put his paper plate in the trash. His head felt like a bowling ball on the end of a skinny spring. And he was out of bacon. He had the weekend off from the farmwork. Home wasn't looking all that special since he'd seen that farmer's wife shaking her butt in the kitchen. His plan was to gain room and board as well as the small wage the farmer paid him. A nice bedroom upstairs with a window overlooking the field. If he closed his eyes he could even imagine the smell of perfumed soap in the bathroom. A nice hot bath would be nice. His shower head was full of gunk and only gave a trickle of water. The drain was starting to smell like an old gas station bathroom. He wasn't much for cleaning up. Women were good for more than just waxing your wick. Rent was due in two weeks. By then he'd be ready to move to the glamour of the farmer's upstairs extra room. "Yes, Rambo, ole boy; yer movin' up alright. Ma, ye got no more reason to kick my ass about bein a no-count." There was no reason to shave today. He dug the lint out of his belly button and flicked it onto the floor, grabbed his keys and went out the door to the truck. May as well get some beer, too. And some hamburger and liverworst. Maybe a loaf of bread. Mustard.