(((Dreamscape #16)))

There was going to be a brawl between some Democrats and Republicans. I suppose I had nothing better to do so I ended up lumping myself in with the Democrats. Boredom can drive a person to do strange things in order to get through it and safely out the other side. This was one of those things. There wasn’t any dedication to any of the conflicting ideals, I wasn’t fighting for any beliefs, I was simply without anything better to do.
The fight took place in a shipping container, a faded rust red, paint eaten away by a lifetime of trans-Atlantic cruises, full of illegal immigrants, gold doubloons and cheap electronics. I only remember 2 faces from the 20 or so people that were going to battle. One was an old man, long white beard, clutching a walking stick that he was going to utilize to inflict disastrous injuries on whomever he lined up in his myopic sights. I squared up against a woman who turned out to be Dolly Parton. Her breasts had been reduced, but it was still obviously her–she had that big country girl hair, teased and solidified with secret Appalachian formulas, far out-sizing her heavily made up yet still strangely beautiful pea-head. Her size 2 waist was also a give away. One wondered how she supported those abusive implants with such a tiny middle. Maybe she had a surgical steel spine transplant as well to keep her from folding in half. The world will never know.
She was spitting and raring for a fight and I didn’t really feel like hitting her so I grabbed her by the waist to steer her out of my way to find someone more formidable to battle. One hand on each side of her waist and my fingers touched at her back, she was way too small. The feel of a woman’s waist in my hands was soothing and kind sexy, her rib knitted shirt like a narcotic in my hands and made me even lees want to have to punch her for no real reason.
She wasn’t having it and took a swipe at me with her talon-like nails. I pulled back quickly but not quick enough and she grazed my left cheek and earlobe, leaving moody pink plow marks across my face, but not deep enough to break the skin. That changed my mind quick enough about fighting. If someone takes a swing at you, man or woman, then social etiquette is no longer a factor. I took sloppy, heavy-handed swings at her head with fists that were like lead wiffle balls.
“I’ve had relations with a woman before,” she said in a sexy yet taunting voice. This was designed to distract me, which it did momentarily and she took the opportunity to punch me in the lip. It was a surprisingly powerful blow from a woman whose hair clearly outweighed her entire body. I swung back and hit her in the side of the neck. She shook off the blow with great speed and said, “You can have me, take me from behind, but you can’t look inside me.” Though this invitation was one of the most out of left field, confounding, and intriguing things I had ever heard in a fight situation, or any other situation for that matter, I knew that it was just a ruse and took a pathetically advertised swing at her that was easily dodged and laughed at. We disintegrated into a mess of sloppy and hysterical girl slaps that faded into a lazy mob scene of old people attacking each other with canes, walkers and arthritic hands, liver spotted and blue veins bulging.
–P. Royale
1/6/2006