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 .   .   .   .  .   .  .   .  .   .           "Bowling for Dullards"
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  . . .  .   .   . . .  . . .  . . .              by Mel A. Noma


  . . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

        Stink hot at 5 am and the room still smelled of blood and semen.  He
 laid alone, soaked in his own sweat.  The lights were off and a small fan
 made horrid squeaking noises as it slowly oscillated on its rusty gears.
 Having been roused from slumber, he started a staring contest with the
 ceiling.  He blinked and lost.  Sweeping his tongue across his teeth he
 tasted blood.  His gums were bleeding again and he no longer cared.  It was
 too hot to get up.  He hadn't showered in 3 days and the filth coating his
 body no longer bothered him.  A box of Apple Jacks next to the bed was being
 invaded by ants.

        The phone rang, breaking the peaceful mood of this mid-afternoon
 morning.

        "Fuck," he croaked, the words barely escaping his dry mouth.
 Clearing his throat and spitting out blood filled phlem at the phone, he
 answered it.

        "Hello?"

        "Is Maria there?"

        "No, wrong number."

        Returning the phone to its broken cradle, he slumped back into bed
 and resumed staring at the faded white ceiling.

 . . . . . 

        The third time his fist came down, white sparks of pain flashed up
 his arm as his knuckles cracked together.  As he raised his hand up once
 again to bring it down on the now bloodied head of his would-be mugger, he
 paused, noticing the attacker was no longer moving.  Blood dripped down his
 finger tips and onto the newly poured cement of the sidewalk.  He stood up
 and looked at his mugger's body in the fluorescent glow of the all-night
 convenient store's neon signs.

        The blood didn't look right.  The green and pink neon obscured the
 true color of the blood, giving it a black dull color.  He always thought
 this amount blood would be more red.  A bright red.  A dazzling brilliant
 red signaling victory over his fallen prey.  He had always hoped there would
 be more of it too.  Countless times he had fantasied of beating someone
 bloody, especially a random stanger on the street.  Now disappointment took
 the place of the adrenaline spawned excitment that only seconds ago filled
 his veins.  Confusion followed.

        Call the cops?  Leave?  Kill the mugger?  He had throw his ice tea at
 the mugger's head to initate combat.  Now his drink, which was the original
 inspiration for him leaving the safe confines of his apartment at this
 ungodly hour, was a useless puddle, splattered across the street.  He
 glanced around and no one was watching, no one had seen, no one would
 believe, no one would care.

        "I care," he muttered to himself.  He walked back to his apartment,
 his hand, jacket, and jeans still splattered with blood.

        The story never made the papers, the police were never called, he
 once tried to tell a friend, but no one believed.  The mugger eventually
 forget about the time he was beaten outside a convenient store, and so did
 our hero.  In the end, no one had seen, no one believed, and no one cared.

  . . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
                                                                             
  .           anada 176                by Mel A. Noma  (c)2000 anada e'zine .
      
  . . w w w . a n a d a . n e t . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .