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Weekly Contest #288
Three AM and I was sweating like a feral hog in a sauna. Kansas in August can be like another day in the bowels of hell, except in hell the help is nicer, and the head honcho has some style. You won’t see any three hundred-pound dipshits wearing dirty overalls strolling the flaming streets of purgatory. I was somewhere over the Oklahoma-Kansas border sitting at a window table in Aunt Daisy’s Café. The dusty Formica table had one leg propped up by what looked like a petrified muskrat. Aunt Daisy smelled of diesel and piss. At least ...
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