We were sitting in a cafe on 5th avenue, when she say to me OMG that's Ethan Hawke. and it was. he was sitting there, eating a danish and reading a book. the book was by Hans Günther and Ethan looked drawn into it. I never had him down as a racial purist, but when you look upon his near perfect cheekbones in the kind of proximity that only a Starbucks affords you, you begin to see the glimmer of the master race therein. I had a vision, fleeting, of me going over and killing him, smashing his head off the table, perhaps using a chair to cleave his beautiful skull open.
"i'm having dreams where i open the door," i say to her, "and blood comes out, like in the Shining"
"You're very fucked up, " she says, and she's know. We were married for 3 years before she went mental and got locked up. It wasn't entirely my fault, as a decade of physiotherapy will attest, but it was mostly my fault. so i traversed a continent searching for her, looking for absolution. it was really an excuse to get out of Dublin and the prying of my family. Now i must return, tell them my mission is complete and sit there, like some bovine cunt, waiting for the olde dear to pop her clogs. Sit there, working in my brothers firm, not drinking or doing any drugs, lest a random drug test catch me in an inexpedient cokefuddle and nullify my birthright, the rest of teh old mans money, hidden among the petticoats of my far-too-fucking-healthy mother. i could stay here. never go back. i'd have to, eventually, get a job and work for a living. be an ordinary citizen, a joe, getting the subway to work and chilling at home with a bud on my lap, my insane wife beside me on the chaise lounge, some kids ensconced in their rooms, idly surfing porn on their laptops, the hispanic maid on her knees in the kitchen, the guy from work showing me the murdered whores head in the trunk of his 4x4 at the company picnic upstate. it could be some life.
"come back with me" i say.
she smiles and looks down at the table top, sips her coffee. The coffee is alright. Ethan Hawke gets up to leave. "YOU NAZI CUNT" i shout at him. he flinches, the clientèle flinch, the guy behind the counter drops a cup of scald on his foot. there's an eerie silence then.
"you're insane." she says.