Home On The Mange

Thanks to the food, the three more Red Bulls, and frequent slaps in the face, he made it the 100 miles he had left to get home without incident. He turned into the trailer park driveway, maneuvered around the stupid new traffic island meant to aim people into the "new" side, and stopped to get his mail on the "old" side. The occupancy rate of the park was spotty; there would be several in a row that were settled in for the long haul, with extensive landscaping and permanently strung Christmas lights, and then there would be stretches of empty, oil-stained concrete pads. The park had mange.

He pulled up to his house and backed into the driveway. His place was a dump, but the only two big trees on his street were both in his yard, so that was something, maybe. The door to the shed was swinging in the breeze. He sighed. Damn latch. Someday someone is going to rob me, he thought. I'll come home and find the ancient lawn mower gone, or the broken hedge trimmer, or the random bar stool. On second thought, maybe not. ; He turned the key, stumbled in, dropped his duffel in the center of the living room (where the cats leapt onto it, determined to leave no surface uncoated by hair), stumbled down the hall and flopped on the bed, fully dressed. He felt and heard something give way underneath in the warped bedframe, but he was beyond caring at the moment. Deliver me unto the arms of oblivion, he mused, pausing just long enough to turn on the BBC, the British voices lulling him to sleep as they did every night.

Intelligence without ambition means you know exactly how stupid you are.