Eric Dimbleby - White Out

I find a liquor cabinet and a pool table. The pool table is pretty fuckin’ B-O-S-S. Looks like it’s brand new, or at least like it was never used much. I turn on the overhead lights so I can jimmy open the liquor cabinet with my knife. It takes a few minutes, but finally, I get into that bitch.

Schnapps. Bloody fuckin’ hell.

Fifteen different kinds of schnapps. Not a drop of whiskey. Not a drop of vodka. Not a drop of gin. Fucking schnapps—peach, peppermint, and root beer. A sugary waste of alcohol. With that, I know I can’t possibly stay here, not with this kind of selection. Sure, Teddy kept good grub in the pantry (lots of Pop Tarts— boy oh boy do I love me some Pop Tarts) and had a pretty swanky looking bed, but I can’t support this bitchy cabinet of schnapps.

I go back upstairs, picking the watermelon schnapps as I walk away, just about to cry like a baby, though part of me wants to smash the bottle on the ground. Come on, Teddy! He seemed better than this nasty swill, but I guess not. I hope Teddy is in hell.

I turn on the television and they are talking about a big old storm that they are seein’, but ain’t exactly believin’, and it’s coming all over, as in every inch of the dang country. Fuckin’ hell, I think. I guess I might have to hunker down after all. I slug on the schnapps and I bite back the urge to vomit. If I drink enough of it, I’ll feel all right. Even though Teddy had terrible taste in his drinkies, the fucker knew how to keep an ample supply. I decide I’ll drink it until I puke, need be.

I look out the window. I can see one of the neighbors shoveling. She looks like she’s about to keel over from workin’ so damn hard. Stupid suburban assholes—always trimming their lawns and shoveling their driveways, and for what? So they can do it all again the next time? Just let it be, I say. Toss your kick-ass boots off ( have I mentioned my boots yet? ), watch some television ‘bout some ridiculous bullshit that makes you feel like you live on Mars, and drink some… well, don’t drink watermelon schnapps. Drink something better than that, ‘cause you only got so long before you go to meet Jesus, standin’ on his pedestal, tossing all them sinners off the clouds, throwing them back down to Earth to drown in the snow.

The snow is comin’ down hard.

“Hey, Teddy,” I call out. He doesn’t respond. “Hey, Teddy, where you keep the stogies and matches? I could use a smoke. If I go rootin’ around and find one of those goddamned electronic cigarettes or a big fuckin’ dildo, I’m gonna stomp it out in your eye, right after I shove this watermelon schnapps bottle up your ass,” I shout. I snicker to myself, addin’, “But I bet you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

Teddy just got zinged .

Dear fuckin’ diary: I’m bored as all hell.

This is what happens to wanderin’ men. This is why we take to wanderin’. What did you think would happen, huh? You think I’d just get all-cozy and shit—make a home here? You think I’m gonna start goin’ to the gym, trying to make myself look like some fuckin’ model? Think I’m gonna start buying some ass-grabbing angel paintings and drinking schnapps? You think I’m gonna start shopping for minivans with low interest rates? Open a bank account? Get a cell phone? Play in a softball league with my best buds?

Fuck that noise.

This is what I do. I take what’s rightly mine and then I enjoy it for a spell. You know what I mean… I get my eat on. I get my drink on. I enjoy the fruits of my labor and then I hit the gravel. I never know just where I’m goin’ next, cause I hafta wait for it to show itself to me. Jesus puts a little bug in my brain, ya’ see here, and then I know where I’m supposed to head next. Real simple.

I just don’t know where that place is yet, cause Jesus been quiet lately. Much obliged , and I reckon , and all that fancy talk aside, Jesus gonna be here real soon. He already knows m’plan, he just ain’t shared it with me yet. He’s got a plan for all of us I think, and it’s all got to do with this damn snow pilin’ up all around me. It’s a shitty plan, not his best work. My way’ll show itself when the time is right. This snow ain’t no accident. When Jesus is at the wheel, ain’t nothin’ an accident.

The television is out now, which is a real pain in the dick. I think it’s on account of the wind outside… and the snow. Everything is icin’ over real nasty. The power lines out in the street look like they about to snap in half! Wish I was back in Florida or something. It’s only been a few days, but I’m pretty sure that this storm is just getting started with kickin’ our asses. Somebody on that weather television station was talking about how this sucker is setting records left and right, and they was talkin’ about somethin’ real strange-like, somethin’ that they still can’t explain.

According to all them Doppler radars and shit, there’s no signs of a storm. All their instruments aren’t detecting shit, like they’re all on the fritz or somethin’, like they all got broken at the same time. One weather fella was spoutin’ on some theory that the weather patterns don’t even exist, that we’ve all just gone crazy and that our eyes are trickin’ us. They took him off the air when he started saying that—they cut away to one of them car commercials, the one with the candy-ass action star from Europe standing on top of a couple of trucks like some sort of cunty show-off.

They sayin’ they can’t say for sure when the snow is gonna stop. Mostly because they can’t even see it, ‘cept when they look out the window. I guess seein’ is believin’.

Ain’t that a bitch and a half?

They can’t predict nothing. I think Jesus is pullin’ the wool over our eyes, so I’m mighty glad that I’m on the right side with him, ya’ know? I heard somebody on one of them morning talk shows (before the fuckin’ television went out) say some things about God and how this is his reckonin’. They didn’t cut away from that like they did with the kooky weatherman, but she got into a real toss-up with the guy that sits next to her. They was really rippin’ into each other’s asses. She was saying that this is for all the sin that we done created; all the hate and abortions and all the pollution and all the evil people doing evil things to each other. I can’t speak much on that noise, but I think this is something a whole lot nastier than just a storm.

It’s makin’ people crazy.

Like there’s a drug in the snow and we all breathin’ it in, gettin’ batty as all shit.

I can feel it inside me, I swears it. I feel different, like something mean is comin’ alive inside my belly. I ain’t felt like this since I was real little, before I started wanderin’ and all that. Always been a mean son of a bitch but never all that crazy.

Hell, who am I fooling? I’ve always been crazy , so maybe the world is just bending in my direction now. Halle-freakin’-lujah. My uncle once told me that a man with one eye is a king in a world of blind assholes. Maybe I can be a king. The King of the Snowmen, right? Can’t you see me like that? Old Edgar, the king with the bad-boy cowboy boots and the ten-inch dick, standing on a mountain of snow, waiting for all the dumb cunts to come worship me.

I drank all the schnapps and I ate all the food. What’s His Name kept mostly frozen meals in the freezer, which was all a-okay by me, but when the electric started getting funky—flickerin’ on and off like it couldn’t make up its fuckin’ mind—I couldn’t figure for sure when I could use the microwave next. So I cooked them all at once and left them all over the countertops. Whenever I got hungry, I’d go pickin’ at one. Now, those are all gone, so I’m eating fruit snacks and potato chips. I found a nice stash in the basement, in the boiler room of all places. They were those hippie kind of potato chips, the ones that are actually good for you, but they tasted alright. A hungry man can’t go off complaining too much or Jesus’ll start tossin’ lightning bolts at his ass. Don’t want none of that.