Day Twenty-Six – The Epic and Sudden Fall of the Gant Family
I estimate one thousand degrees, give or take.
My rear-view mirror sags in the heat, and as I drive I see only my hand gripping the gear stick. My car has become a death trap–-every inch a study in the surface temperature of Mercury.
I look at the empty pill bottle in the only cupholder not filled with Dum-Dum wrappers, and momentarily I notice the brain-zaps starting again.
The clearance section is a wasteland of garbage. I hate romance. I hate historical fiction and self-help books. I despise cheap fiction, loose sci-fi, vague fantasy–-these shelves are overflowing with the discarded volumes that fit the bill of “shit I wouldn’t waste time touching”.
The aisle is cramped. There are fat people crowding me, pawing at Crichton for a dollar, Brown for three quarters, Sperry’s magical Texas gardening phantasmagoria for your soul, a three dollar copy of Gray’s…
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