The Life and Times of Innis E. Coxman by R. P. Lester Page A

with
her insanity. After plucking a pre-rolled joint from the stash in my
nightstand, I grabbed my keys and plaid blue coat and headed out the door. She
followed me, yelling that if I left right then I’d, “regret it!” I gave no ear.
    The
sight of me strolling blithely around the hood of my stylish Ford Escort was
too much for her. From the open carport door, she threatened to halt my
departure by harpooning her Buick into the foyer. I thought she was blowing off
steam, but when I opened the door to my car, she sprinted to her monstrous
Regal, got in, turned the ignition, and revved the engine loud enough to rival
stampeding buffalo. She threw it in reverse and backed out of the driveway
toward the street. Such was my desire to avoid a gaping hole accenting the
fireplace, I ran to the driver’s side of her battering ram and attempted to
make sweet, hasty amends.
    “You crazy cunt! You drive that fuckin’ thing in the
house and I’ll tell your mother you stole her speed!”
    She
rolled down the window. “Fuck you! Tell her, you cheating cocksucker! Just
don’t be surprised if I do some remodeling while you’re gone! Remember those
French doors you wouldn't let me have? Well I’m about to get ‘em for free, dickhead!” She capped her declaration with a whiiiiiiiiiiiir of the V6.
    I
didn’t think she’d do it. Then again, I’d had no reason to suspect she’d douse
every article of clothing we owned with flammable liquid.
    It
was imperative that I stop Raptious from wrecking our home with that car. I
would achieve this by slamming a fist into her windshield.
    I
ran to the passenger side and raised my clenched right hand, bringing it down
with gusto— crunch! —to form huge fissures running in every direction with
a fist imprint at the center. From behind the steering wheel, Raptious drew a
breath, held it, her eyes widening to fury as she stared at the injury her new
vehicle had sustained. I pried my bloody knuckles from the windshield and shook
the shards from my flesh, satisfied that I’d prevented her shenanigans from
advancing any further. I crammed my torn hand into my jean pocket to retrieve a
pack of Marlboro Reds. Tapped one out and lit it. I eyed her for a moment
through the fractured glass before strolling to my hatchback, confident that my
action was in no way about to have an imminent consequence.
    Smoke
blew from the tires when she reversed it farther down the driveway.
    I
halted and turned around. I was fed up with her bullshit and called her bluff,
bellowing the threat of a man with more heart than sense. In the wake of this
incident, I’ve concluded that the words were poorly chosen, having rehearsed
them in my head to the point of mental fatigue, certain that if I could revisit
the event I’d pick a phrase more apt to soothe the savage beast than inflame the
ire:  
    “I FUCKING DARE YOU!”
    It
was obvious that I’d disparaged her grit; the motor roared with extreme passion
and batshittery.
    A
loud clu-chunk! belched from under the hood;a transmission thrown into drive as it drowned my pleas for sanity.
    When
the Buick raced toward me, I was pinned at the knees to the designer plywood of
our carport, proving once again I am built for power instead of speed.
(Cat-like reflexes were sacrificed for a great story. You’re welcome.)
    I
opened my eyes and took stock. I was alive. The next order of business was to
thank God for keeping me whole. After a brief exchange with The Almighty, I
focused on the stinging sensation in my legs, electric shocks of pain surging
to every receptor in the brain. And how fortuitous! None of my receptors were
doing a goddamn thing right then so they were all available to
tell me that it was fucking excruciating!
    In
the middle of our fracas, I had an epiphany: without my legs, I was never going
to have the pleasure of sinking my foot in her ass once I was freed.
    I
beseeched Raptious to release the gas, or at least put it in park. Her dementia
refused to comply