Angel’s Left


"Doggy, dear," says Kari Moore, "fetch mommy up another

"Make it two," says Deb Trigaboff.

"Three," says Marguerite Mauvoisin.

"Five," says Tristram le Brun, the wickedest of the wicked wives
Kari has grounded her stepson Doug—aka Dougie, then Doggy, Mutt and
Biatch and variables thereof and beyond as the day grinds on—on general
grounds of his "being a homo," so he is designated bartender/driver/gopher
today. He fills four glasses with milk, then counts to five in each with
doses of Aquanet hair spray (pink can). Kari has moved in and watches
the boy closely. "Put a little more in mommy's," she says, tapping
her nails on the counter and blowing ditch weed smoke in his eyes.

"Tell Snoop Doggy Muttface to hurry the fuck up," says Tris.


The husbands—Gray Moore, Jedediah Trigaboff, Saul Mauvoisin and Rooster
le Brun—are eight miles outside of town, tall on alien sex fiend, dig-dig-digging
an irrigation ditch for a new golf course called Twilight Ranch. The temperature
is triple-digits and rising. Phantom hills have appeared beyond the heat
rippled walls by which the men are surrounded. If the subcontractor refuses
the free lifetime memberships they plan on asking for after lunch today,
they have decided, they will kill-kill-kill the bastard with their shovels
tomorrow. They are wishing they'd paid more attention in school.

"Ever notice how some guys are always getting lucky," says Gray.

"They're not lucky," says Saul. "They're smart."

"Still, if a bunch of good ole boys like us had the millions we'd
show 'em how to have a good time," says Gray.

"We sure would," says Rooster.

"We sure would," repeats Jed, wistfully.


Highway 15 goes road, road, road, sky, sky, sky, for tens of miles from
either direction before you reach the Shell station at the head of Main
Street, Good Year, Montana. And once you've reached the Shell station—aka
"the Pump"—you've reached Good Year. Because, as anyone from
there will tell you, if they can be bothered: there ain't much else in
Good Year but the Pump. It's the town center, the meeting spot, the packaged
liquor store and market all rolled into one twenty-four hour Mecca. They
don't get bored in Good Year though, they get loaded. Almost everyone
over the age of thirteen either is, or is about to be, drunk, high, engaged
in sexual acts or all of the above from sun-up to sun-down every day,
including, and especially, Sunday. If someone happens to tire of the high
life, they find god. Ezbekia Gardens, a bible-thumping haven for burned
out Good Yearnians, may well be the last holiest place this side of Heaven.

Today at the Pump, the girls of grades eight through ten are slinking
about barefoot in bikinis, chucking soapy sponges at each other and thrusting
"Free Car Wash" signs at passersby. If you aren't from Good
Year and you have a nice truck, you could find a nice new daughter, wife,
sex slave, or what-have-you down at the Pump today. These girls are soaring
on some pills that Minette Trigaboff found in her mother's purse. Since
her mother hasn't been home in weeks, there's no worry. They call the
pills "make-up," and after "putting it on" washing
cars is about the only thing to do. Amy O'Brien can't get her mind off
Minette Trigaboff's ass. Angel McBride may or may not sacrifice herself
to the Maquereau brothers tonight. She's not bored with Hugh Mackey, it's
just that the Maquereau brothers are two and Hugh is only one. Among the
younger girls, there is, as always, talk of what they will do after robbing
and burning down the Pump. Kathryn Pokolitow swears this sucker's going
to burn. Aura Twersky thinks she might puke if she doesn't get a beer
first, so Kathryn and she enter the station to flirt with pimply John
Up on the roof across the street, Hugh Mackey and brothers Rooster and
Snaps Maquereau are wasted on Red Bull, tequila and mushrooms.

Rooster is trying to convince Snaps that by repeatedly sitting and quickly
standing his buzz will become far more intense. The speakers in Mackey's
apartment are faced out the window and the whole town is becoming well
acquainted with Ludacris, a young rapper from Chicago. "I've got
hoes, in different area codes," hums Angel. "Hoes, hoes, in
different area codes."
Wally Deal and his clever little sister Cokie are driving east on 15 in
his dad's Studebaker half-ton. They are not on drugs. They are not looking
for god. They are just flat-out leaving. "Où est la bibliothèque?"
says Jacques, their French tutor on tape. "Où est la bibliothèque?"
they repeat earnestly.

"À Paris, mon frère," says Cokie.


"Where's the rain?" asks Tristram.

"What rain?" replies Marguerite. "Are we supposed to get
rain today? I think I left the roof down on the LeBaron."

"How do you like that car?" asks Deb.

"I love it," says Marguerite. "The color is that weird
aqua that you don't see too often, and it took a lot for me to get used
to, though. And would you believe they make a car without cup holders?
I've spilled more shit…"

"You're right Tris," says Kari. "It hasn't rained."

"It's rained every day around noon for the last month," says

"I didn't even notice," says Marguerite.

"Neither did I," says Deb. "But now that you bring it up,
something does feel funny. Is it hot in here?"

"It's humid," says Kari. "It's fucking choking me it's
so humid."

"I can't see," says Marguerite. "I can't see!"

"I can't see either," says Kari.

"Whoop… hey… blind," says Deb. "Blind… me…
right here."

"Sightless," says Tris, laughing hysterically. "Flip us
over. We're done."

"Dogface! Are you messin' with us?" calls Kari.

"Nope," says Doug.

"Can you see?" she asks.

"Nothing," he replies.

"Then who just grabbed my ass?" says Tris, still laughing.

"I can't even feel my ass!" Marguerite goes to say, but cannot
form the words. "Wait a second," she thinks. "What the
fuck? Hello? Hello? Am I making noise? Do I exist? How could I tell? I
can't feel my body. Maybe I'm in a coma."

"I smell bacon," says Deb. "Does anyone else smell bacon?"


Joe Blow happens to have a nice truck, and he is not from Good Year.
He is on his way to close on a house in Missoula when he sees the signs
for the carwash. Let's not move into a fresh house with this old dirt
on my truck. Let's show off a little for the neighbors. He's got his penis
so far down Aura's throat that the unusual taste of Angel's left tit doesn't
concern him until it's too late. And by then, well, it's too late. Welcome
to Good Year. Have a nice day.

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