Mike Bossa Nova

when i used my sledgehammer to make holes in the bar’s walls of pastel grey, paint flaked off in a flurry of rainbow glitter.

daniel sat close by, like a lump in a chair, and watched me make a mess of this new spot while people ordered drinks. i looked out the porthole window down onto the street below, and told daniel, ‘i don’t give a shit about this place anymore.’

the streets were dark and slick with water. white lights hung from the pretty lattice fences on the street’s restaurants, illuminating the puddles. i was sullen, walking with my face toward the ground when i bumped into Mike Bossa Nova at the garbage can on the corner.

it was not suspicious for him to offer me ‘the icing on the cake,’ and i took it, whatever it was, without asking for details, and without turning my head away from the ground.

when i returned to the spot, daniel was still slumped over in his uncomfortable chair. the ‘molly’ fell from it’s baggie, and i got on my hands and knees, finally locating a golden screen wrapped around a purple crystal the size of pencil eraser.

mike bossa nova’s other baggie contained a lifeless spider. when i opened it and shook the spider out, it transformed into an annoying fat kid, writhing on the ground, muttering incantations unsafe for daniel’s ears. i wrestled him back into the bag, his fat stomach spilling out from under his messy school uniform. he was finally, magically, dragged back into the baggie when i placed his thumb inside, where he resembled a scorpion that clouded the baggie with condensation, as if it just got out of the shower.