Ryan’s Room Chapters 11-14 the NEW INSTALLMENT

Chapter 11

What day was it? What date? Was he getting sick AGAIN? Body falling apart this soon?

A disease he'd never guess, or a predictable one?

Late March. 20th something.

Raffy.

Click. Click. Nothin.

2 sluggish, anonymous flies flew right into Ryan's hand to die earlier this week. He swiped and missed the new one. Both phoning it in. In a minute it landed

on the top of his head, near the front, surrendering.

The betrayals that probably never really happened.

Another single fly will take its place soon.

Sorry, Raffy!

Where was the toilet paper, brought in earlier in preparation? Just for this (not the flies)? NOW!

More ugh than eww. He turned on the light. Wobbling. Moving slow, hating standing and looking around.

Something else was found, but not the toilet paper he'd procured. The "something else" was "Bette", harsher than the very soft tp. No one knew exactly what kind of paper product she was, but she wasn't too dirty. Handy in a pinch like all good Bettes.

The less said about her the better. She had characteristics, a story.

Whatever.

"gg" typed Raffy, but no one saw it.

Chapter 12

The weekend was over.

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY!" said Jeremy, Jason, Justin, Trevor, Brandon, Kem, Queen Sugah, and Lil Sugah, a folded over, newish stack of white napkins from the nearby tacqueria.

Lil Sugah sucked and bit Queen Sugah's tits and then they started fighting. REALLY fighting.

Ryan didn't know what to do then except sit in his chair and stare and fret. He thought he'd keep sitting for awhile then get up later.

Dimly aware of how much money he had, or exactly what he'd need, or where he'd go.

To another place and room, hopefully. Probably.

But he was going. Vacating. Turned out.

While slowly suffocating here, the thought of leaving gave no comfort.

The uncertainty would flesh out, and all the little details and work and time and headaches and money and theft and loss would be as bad or worse. Nothing was worse right now than imagining it.

"I've theen MANY wild things thorry for themselves," whispered Sir Simpson, aka Pat Fisher, a thin, black, rectangular foam pad that was once seated in a box to cushion something, now buried deep in the back of the drawer.

You don't even mention drinking on days like this, but they can sense it. Dreading not only your current self, your voice, your words, but resenting your very essence and that feeble, rotted teeth feeling ocean deep halitosis acid reflux bad vibe machine. Magnetic repulsion.

The napkins calmed down and began to discuss different types of fart fields, using sporting analogies with nicknames like the Rusty Curtain, the Hail Mary, and the Penalty Box.

Sit for just a little bit longer. Yes.

Chapter 13

The napkins were very valuable. Not just those, but all of them, every type and ethnicity.

They were in and out, did their thing and bam. Later.

The right way. Sometimes even useful afterwards, as a last resort.

Speaking of farting...whoa. Not that it wasn't enjoyable, or that anyone cared, but what the hell?

Ah! The drinking.

Well, actually, Maude Blance, a tiny wire coil, that used to be connected to two tiny keys used for something (noone remembered what) DID care. She was the type of girl that did NOT like fart talk or fart jokes regardless of quality. Nothing wrong with that either.

Ryan reflected on the fart field he dropped with precision outside the room, outside the house, late last night. "Ghost to the Post". Resilient, modest, and clutch.

Kind of like the napkins but quieter, and offensive. Different tools with different roles. Good people.

Classic Cartoon Dog Cop, the part of the undercarpet right below Ryan's Door screamed and made a comical, futile arrest attempt on Ryan who cut and tore the undercarpet outside the door off  him.

It was on.

Chapter 14

Air of expectancy.

Heightened drama. Something poignant. High hopes for a meaningful conclusion that would tie everything together somehow on all the different levels. Instead just worry and no good stories. Nothing.

Where was that bottlecap, whatshisname?

He was needed, in the inside corner of the open triangle single slice cardboard pizza box , the new guy, Jersey Reality Lovin Piece of Shit Tiny Coward Dude. As a stopgap. Like, now!

Maybe he hadn't been there awhile and it was some anonymous pill bottle cap instead.

Whatever.

Anyway, they sat there, waiting waiting.

The yellowed smoke stain of the pillow cover leaned up against the wall, on the bed off the pillow. Johnny Fucker Faster. Like he should have a toothpick in his mouth, real cocksure and smilin leanin back.

"New place clean slate comin up. A whooole new Ryan. Yessssir."

"Haw Haw Haw" laughed his lackey, the thread on the cuff of the pillowcase.

"Oh they ain't no doubt is it? Big, big plans. Spreadsheets and headstands and tertiary workout goals."

"Lotsa raw veggies hawhaw!"

They kept yukkin it up till ol' Cobweb O'Shamnet, a corner to corner, dirty little strand of web near the ceiling, above the trashcan asked if everyone remembered the Juggalos attack on Tila Tequila. After awhile a few said yeah, they thought they could recall it.

He went on about how the Insane Clown Posse denounced the violence, and the direct quotes he used were so clear and strongly worded no one in the room thought ICP deserved any blame after he was done. He kept talking about them for awhile, about the time he met the fat one who was totally cool, and that he didn't bother him long or anything.