Mama May Have (Blogophilia 41.7)

Them that's got shall have…Them that's not shall lose…So the Bible said and it still is news…

Contralto voice drifting from the car speakers, full of pain and suffering, Jeremy’s considered the lyrics.  It wasn’t the version of the song usually heard, but an older version. One he hadn’t heard before. The singer was baring her very soul, one full of pain and suffering. Something he was far too familiar with.

Mama may have… And Papa may have… But God bless the child that has its own…

He wasn’t planning on going back to the farm house so soon, but the plan had solidified in his head. Seeing piece at the bar made him realize the Pigs would be on high alert for any activity in the area. Why not give them a reason to jump?  A smile came across his face.

One bomb was ready, but he wanted to build a couple of more for back up. He had seen an old truck in the barn. He wondered if it would start.  If it does, he’ll need to steal a license plate to get it to the spot. That won’t be hard. 

Yes, the strong get more…While the weak ones fade…Empty pockets don’t ever make the grade…

Where could he find one of these “La Paloma” whores for bait? He had never used a prostitute before. He guessed he would just pull up next to one and ask if she was available. It shouldn’t be hard. Most of them had drug habits biting at them. The purpose of the transaction was bigger than a random blow job.  He was going to make her a star. Downstage center and exposed to an audience of uniforms.  

The car began to pick up speed.

What will she smell like? Old sweat and drugs, maybe with a hard perfume to try to mask it? 

He eyes begin wander.

A warm feeling came over him as he thought about preparing his new protégé. Would she laugh when she realized his parts didn’t work? First her giggling as she worked with it, dark hands sliding up and down. Rage would be triggered, necessary rage.  He imagined her horror when he slapped her and took charge. 

His breathing increased. 

His pale hands would circle the sienna neck, clamping down. He could almost hear the gargled scream. She would squirm and struggle under him as his hands squeezed the life out. Pinning the skinny legs under his knees, hands tight enough where only squeaks and grunts would come out, tighter and tighter until the corpse releases in its ultimate defeat.  

A washboard noise filled his ears as the car drifted on to the shoulder of the road.  Quickly coming to his senses, Jeremy jerked the wheel back on the road and stopped the car. Gasping for air, he very slowly relaxed. As his heart rate began to slow, he thought: Was that what sex felt like? Total release? He couldn’t wait.

He couldn’t do it in the car though. The smell would never go away and could lead back to him. He remembered that from Mother. It would need to be done in another spot near where center stage would be. He could work those details out later. Grabbing a used napkin off the console, he wiped the sweat off his face and started the car. A new song began to play.

Sunday is gloomy…My hours are slumberless…Dearest, the shadows…I live with are numberless…

Sounds like the same lady. He didn’t catch her name. Gloomy Sunday? Yeah, that fits. Her voice reminded him of church. They didn’t go very often. The brown and grey stones had no warmth and he would resist when it was suggested. Mother would get the belt out and that would end the argument. 

They would sit in a pew in the balcony, hoping not to be noticed, while the Organist would play his waltzing voluntaries. Jeremy would watch as the man juggled between the four keyboards, feet running a base line on the pedals under the bench, a choreographed ballet of hands and feet. This project reminded him of that. Keeping the pieces, like the melodies and harmonies, together until it was a single entity, ready for the delight of the audience.  

Communion seemed to always be served when they went. Then they would go get their lagniappe from God, organ whistling along with pageant. Men in funny robes would march along in time, handing out wafers and offering drinks. The cannibalistic nature of the “blood” and “body” did leave him a bit of a thrill. Something, anything was better than the nothing he got with the bitch he was with. It was all he wanted just to be accepted as he was. Since he wasn’t, he made sure the world knew he wasn’t very accepting of it.  

The lights of the diner were coming up on the right. He was a little bit hungry. But he didn’t want to deal with the blue haired waitress right now.  He had work to do. On to the farm house.

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Topic-Christine Wichman

Pic-Michael Todd

Pic Guesses: Organist (in blog), Waltzing (in blog) Voluntary, Minuet, C Major, Chart, Bass and Treble,